The boys at the park were arguing about the new signing, all that money going out, and I was shuffling the worn deck — the one my son brought home from his first job. It reminded me of when a young lad in our village bought a drone for the cotton field; everyone said it was a foolish expense, but he knew the plants better than the experts. You see, we forget that a team, like a farm, is not built on a single big name but on the slow, patient work of knowing every leaf and every root. My worry is always the same: we rush for the showy flower, but who is minding the pump in the quiet afternoon?