2063.41 - The Dev Lab Chronicles: Ctrl+Alt+Improve

[Graham]

The Golden Palace wasn’t loud. No crowd noise, no fireworks, no suspicious smoke wafting from the left-field concession stand. Instead, down in the scouting offices, a long conference table hummed with chatter featuring buzzwords like "swing plane," "tunneling," and "spin rates," disposable paper cups filled with caffeine and low-grade anxiety.

On the whiteboard, in thick black marker, it read: THE DEVELOPMENT LAB – 2064 EDITION

Everyone was here: General Manager Graham Luna, Assistant GM Fernando Rosario, manager Alberto Sanchez, pitching coach Ken Hicks, hitting coach Claudio Est, plus a caravan of minor-league coaches who looked like they’d flown in on redeye flights powered by trail mix. Mal, the intern, had been bribed into silence with a plate of croissants and the warning: “Not a single TikTok.” She’d nodded solemnly, as if agreeing to testify before Congress.

They started with the pitchers.

Hicks, already on his third coffee, slapped Fabiao Marcha’s file onto the table. “The cutter’s already filthy. We sharpen it, and hitters are going to start filing HR complaints with the league office.”

Rosario raised an eyebrow. “Or with my cardiologist. Pretty sure he took two years off my lifespan during the postseason.”

“Worth it,” Hicks said. “Give him two legit pitches and he’s a closer in waiting.”

Graham leaned back in his chair. “If we can make him both effective and predictable enough that I don’t have to explain WHIP fluctuations to ownership every week, I’ll name my next bonsai after him.”

The room shifted to Mario Torrigiani.

Lee Morales, his pitching coach in Triple-A Durban, tapped the file with the air of a man who’d had this speech rehearsed since August.

“Mario’s got the stuff. Mid-90s fastball, late break on the slider. But his control right now? Think shopping cart with a broken wheel. You can get where you’re going, but you’re apologizing the whole way.”

Hicks nodded, arms folded. “He doesn’t need to be Shinsui Hasegawa. Just give me league-average command and suddenly he’s a late-inning guy instead of the reason Rosario carries antacids.”

Rosario groaned. “Last month, he threw a 3–0 slider to a guy batting .192. I had to physically leave the room before I broke a chair.”

Morales grinned. “But here’s the thing: his K rate is real, and he keeps the ball in the park. If we iron out the walks, he’s not a middle reliever. He’s a weapon.”

Graham, without looking up, muttered, “If he throws strikes, we’ll build a statue. If not, we’ll build a net.”

That got a few chuckles, though no one seemed entirely sure Graham was joking.

Next up was Thiago Cana. Hicks flipped the folder like a blackjack dealer. “Big leap last year. Nine wins in AAA. The stuff works. But his movement’s flatter than an airport omelet. We get that ball dancing, he’s a mid-rotation option by summer.”

Morales chimed in. “He’s sharp, too. Spent half the bus ride last week explaining the formula for FIP to his Uber driver.”

Graham nodded. “And the driver?”

“Gave him five stars. Might’ve just been to end the ride.”

The table chuckled.

Then came Hanahoulani Isaia, and the laughter faded. Nineteen years old, five pitches, the kind of raw talent you didn’t joke about.

“He’s electric,” Rick Ward, the AA pitching coach, said reverently. “But he’s gassed by the fifth inning. Stamina’s the project. If we can get him past six, we’re looking at a potential big league starter. If not—” he paused—“long reliever. And I’ll need a hug.”

“Noted,” Graham said, scribbling in his notebook. “Step one: order a BowFlex. Step two: hug Rick.”

Finally, the curiosity of the day: Amardit Trikha. Just seventeen years old, signed out of India on a whim from a scout who got lost to a professional cricket game.

“The splitter’s already mean,” Hicks explained, “but his fastball’s a batting-practice pitch. Topping out at 88. We’re talking full biomechanics overhaul. Hip-shoulder separation, glove-side pull, the works. If we can add three or four miles per hour, suddenly his splitter plays like murder.”

With the pitchers done, they turned the page to hitters.

Claudio Est slapped down Emilio Cordero’s folder like it was top-secret intel. “Rookie of the Year candidate. Twenty-three bombs. Hit .290. But now we want his singles to turn into doubles. Gap power. Line drives that make outfielders question their career choices.”

Rosario smirked. “So, the kind of hits that ruin a reliever’s arbitration case.”

“Exactly,” Est said.

Then came Joel Carruth. “Raw power like you wouldn’t believe,” Est continued, “but if he keeps chasing sliders, he’ll lead the league in pop-ups to the catcher. Quality of contact training, teach him patience. Probably something he wasn't being taught with London. But now that we have him...”

Sanchez chuckled. “He’s nineteen. Good luck teaching patience. We tried once with a draftee a few years ago, and he stole second base before I even finished the sentence.”

Salesi Tuati, Graham's first ever first-round pick this past draft, was next. Gabriel Perez, Hiroshima's hitting coach, nearly leaned across the table in his enthusiasm. “Tuati’s a unicorn. Switch-hitting skyscraper playing second base. But his swing’s longer than this meeting. We shorten it, add batspeed, and pitchers are going to need therapy.”

Rosario whispered, “Imagine him and Carruth back-to-back. That’s a lineup that comes with a side of nightmares.”

Then Geressu Ajagbe, the defensive wizard behind the plate. Brock Fowler, the AAA hitting coach, spoke up. “Best pop-time in the system. With the bat, though…he’s more of a polite guest than a regular. Doesn’t stay long.”

“If we can get him from a .220 hitter to a .240 hitter with some extra base power,” Graham added, “suddenly he’s the guy who sticks around after the party and eats the leftover wings. That’s what I want.”

Finally, Nokrashy Mbingu. Fowler didn’t mince words. “The glove’s already big-league. The bat isn’t. Plate discipline is the ticket. Right now, he bunts if you cough too loudly.”

Graham tapped his pen. “.250 with more walks and we’re talking real depth. Otherwise he’s just a utility glove. With Rozinov extended, we have time to develop the kid.”

The table fell quiet, all eyes on Graham. He closed his notebook slowly, the faintest grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“If even half these programs click,” Sanchez said, breaking the silence, “our window for contending just got two, maybe three years longer.”

“Contending sells tickets,” Rosario added.

“Contending keeps me employed,” Graham deadpanned.

From the end of the table, Mal chimed in softly, “Contending gets retweets.”

The meeting broke up in a shuffle of coffee cups and tired laughter. Outside, the Golden Palace sat empty, its seats glinting in the sun like they were waiting for someone to announce the season hadn’t actually ended.

Because in Johannesburg, winter wasn’t downtime. It was the next inning. And the game never really stopped.

[BaseClogger]

You are so fucking good at this and so much fun to read, but it is a chore not knowing any of these GBC players. So ready for you to have a BBA team so I can get full enjoyment out of yer writing.