Zero Game Read Online Free Page B

is actually spent: by four staffers sitting around a well-lit conference table without a Congressman in sight. Your tax dollars at work. Like Harris always says: The real shadow government is staff.
    My pager again vibrates in my lap. Harris’s message is simple:
Panic.
    I take another look at the TV. One hundred seventy-two yeas, sixty-four nays.
    Sixty-four? I don’t believe it. They’re over halfway there.
    How?
I type back.
    Maybe they have the votes,
Harris replies almost instantly.
    Can’t be,
I send back.
    For the next two minutes, Trish lectures about why seven million dollars is far too much to spend on Yellowstone National Park. I barely register a word. On C-SPAN, the nays go from sixty-four to eighty-one. It’s impossible.
    “. . . don’t you agree, Matthew?” Trish asks.
    I stay locked on C-SPAN.
    “Matthew!” Trish calls out. “You with us or not?”
    “Wha?” I say, finally turning toward her.
    Tracing my gaze back to its last location, Trish looks over her shoulder and spots the TV. “That’s what you’re so caught up in?” she asks. “Some lame vote for baseball?”
    She doesn’t get it. Sure, it’s a vote for baseball, but it isn’t just any vote. It actually dates back to 1922, when the Supreme Court ruled that baseball was a sport—not a business—and therefore was allowed a special exemption from antitrust rules. Football, basketball, all the rest have to comply—but baseball, the Supreme Court decided, was special. Today, Congress is trying to strengthen that exemption, giving owners more control over how big the league gets. For Congress, it’s a relatively simple vote: If you’re from a state with a baseball team, you vote for baseball (even the Reps from rural New York don’t dare vote against the Yankees). If you’re from a state without a team—or from a district that wants a team, like Charlotte or Jacksonville—you vote against it.
    When you do the math—and account for political favors by powerful owners—that leaves a clear majority voting for the bill, and a maximum of 100 Members voting against it—105 if they’re lucky. But right now, there’s someone in the Capitol who thinks he can get 110 nays. There’s no way, Harris and I decided. That’s why we bet against it.
    “We all ready to hit some issues?” Trish asks, still plowing her way through the Conference list. In the next ten minutes, we allocate three million to repair the seawall on Ellis Island, two and a half million to renovate the steps on the Jefferson Memorial, and thirteen million to do a structural upgrade on the bicycle trail and recreation area next to the Golden Gate Bridge. No one puts up much of a fight. Like baseball—you don’t vote against the good stuff.
    My pager once again dances in my pocket. Like before, I read it under the table.
97,
Harris’s message says.
    I can’t believe they’re getting this far. Of course, that’s the fun of playing the game.
    In fact, as Harris explained it when he first extended the invitation, the game itself started years ago as a practical joke. As the story goes, a junior Senate staffer was bitching about picking up a Senator’s dry cleaning, so to make him feel better, his buddy on staff snuck the words
dry cleaning
into a draft of the Senator’s next speech: . . .
although sometimes regarded as dry, cleaning our environment should clearly be a top priority . . .
It was always meant to be a cheap gag—something that’d be taken out before the speech was given. Then one of the staffers dared the other to keep it in.
    “I’ll do it,” the staffer threatened.
    “No, you won’t,” his friend shot back.
    “Wanna bet?”
    Right there, the game was born. And that afternoon, the distinguished Senator strolled onto C-SPAN and told the entire nation about the importance of “dry, cleaning.”
    In the beginning, they always kept it to small stuff: hidden phrases in an op-ed, an acronym in a commencement speech. Then it got bigger. A few