2064.13 - “He Spelled His Name Wrong, But the Slider’s Filthy”

[jleddy]

The whiteboard gleamed in the corner of Joe Lederer’s office, ten names written in thick marker like commandments. The Jimmies' general manager sat at the head of the table, a laptop open with three different spreadsheets running and a fourth tab showing a simulation model. Assistant GM Dennis French, all broad shoulders and quiet amusement, leaned back with arms crossed, watching like a man still adjusting to front-office life. King Bishop, the college scouting director, had a tablet and spoke in decimals. Trace McGill, the high school guru, had a yellow legal pad and spoke in adjectives. Oil and water, sitting side by side.

“Top ten’s just an exercise,” Lederer started, twirling his pen. “None of these guys are getting to us at thirty-three. But if you don’t build the dream board, you don’t know what you’re missing when reality comes knocking, so let’s start at the top.”

Bishop didn't need to glance at the board. “Guillermo Gonzalez. Twenty years old, throwing a hundred like it’s no big deal. He's got three elite pitches, and he spots them like a big-league vet. Kid’s got ace stamped on his forehead.”

McGill snorted. “Five-foot-nine. Looks like the batboy. Ball’s hot, sure, but he’s not reaching the top shelf at the grocery store. You draft him, you better hope physics doesn’t catch up.”

French grinned from his chair. “Size never struck anybody out. Gonzalez will mow through hitters today if you let him.”

Lederer nodded. “Yeah, if he’s not number one overall, somebody’s asleep. He’s special.”

They slid naturally into the next name. “Mercado,” Bishop said, swiping his tablet. “Nineteen. Future batting champ. Baseball instincts off the charts, could live at second base for a decade.”

“Slap hitter,” McGill barked. “Slap hitters don’t put butts in seats.”

French leaned forward. “Slap hitters win games. Doubles, triples, pressure on defenses. Don’t discount that.”

Bartolo Fernandez’s name sparked debate almost immediately. “Man among boys,” McGill said with a grin. “Looks like he should be in the NFL. Twenty-one, scary presence. You want intimidation? That’s the guy.”

“DH waiting to happen,” Bishop countered. “Speed for days, but the glove limits him. More outfielder in theory than in practice.”

“Zimmer-caliber at first,” Lederer said. “If he sticks, you’ve got an asset. If not, bat will play anyway.”

From there, Bishop brought up David Lopez, his tone reverent. “Switch-hitting catcher. Potential for thirty bombs, a hundred walks. Athletic enough to bounce all over the field. The bat’s so good, you make the lineup fit him.”

McGill shook his head. “Raw as hell. Could bust faster than you can say ‘nine million signing bonus.’”

Lederer grinned. “Boom or bust, sure. But if it booms, you’ve got a franchise bat.”

They rolled through seamlessly to Sigit Subagja. “Swiss army knife,” Bishop said. “Second, third, maybe short. Bat-to-ball skills that’ll drive pitchers nuts. Interviews? Off the charts. He’s a leader.”

“Leaders don’t hit curveballs,” McGill said flatly.

“You draft character,” Bishop shot back. “Without it, you implode.”

Lederer jotted on a sticky note No way Cape Fear passes on the kid from North Carolina

When Bob Farthing's name came up, McGill made a face. “Soft stuff. Average across the board. What’s to like?”

“Deception,” Bishop said sharply. “Spots pitches an half-an-inch off the plate and makes hitters chase. That’s rare.”

“Not sexy,” French admitted. “But thirty quality starts a year ain’t sexy either, and you still need it.”

Lederer nodded. “Boring wins divisions. Write it down.”

Norm Kissel got less enthusiasm. “Safe,” Bishop said. “.280 bat, good glove, not flashy.”

McGill shrugged. “Safe keeps you employed. Doesn’t win you parades.”

“Every team needs a Norm,” Lederer quipped. “Just don’t expect jerseys to fly off the racks.”

Then came Vic Gordon. “Fastball-breaking ball combo is filthy,” Bishop said. “Strikeouts on demand.”

“Dumb as a rock,” McGill interjected. “Kid spelled his own name wrong at the combine, but the slider is filthy, I'll give you that.”

“Don’t care if he signs with finger paint,” Lederer said. “If hitters can’t square him, he’s worth it.”

Roderick Hochstetler got a more respectful tone. “Elite glove at third,” Bishop said. “Nearly major-league ready, good contact, average pop.”

“Knows who he is,” McGill added. “That counts for something.”

“Plug him in tomorrow,” Lederer agreed. “Someone’s getting a steady pro.”

Finally, Tony Morales closed the loop. “Captain of his college team,” Bishop said. “Southpaw, commands the zone, groundball machine. Back-end starter, no frills.”

“Doesn’t scare a soul,” McGill muttered.

“Batters can dig in all they want,” French said. “Still won’t square him up.”

The room sat back, ten names sketched out, none of them likely to survive thirty-two picks. But the ritual was the point: knowing what you loved, what you hated, and what you’d risk your reputation for.

Bishop scrolled to the next set of names. “Okay, enough fantasy. Who’s actually on the board when we’re up at thirty-three?”

Lederer leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Heyer.”

That got the room’s attention.

“Six-six, just turned eighteen,” Bishop said. “Fastball already sharp, change-up inconsistent but flashes lethal. He’s got a cutter and a curve that show promise, but both need polish.”

“What I love,” Lederer added, “is his command of the strike zone. He throws like he's been in the leagues for five years already. If we get him into our system, I can see the velocity climbing to ninety-six, easy.”

McGill squinted. “Tall kids like that? Sometimes their mechanics fall apart. You sure he’s not another project who’ll spend four years in the minors learning to stay upright?”

Bishop didn’t blink. “Character’s off the charts. I’ve got two reports from area scouts...one said Heyer stayed after a rainout to throw bullpens with the JV team just to ‘keep sharp.’ The other said he turned down a prom date because he had a morning lift scheduled. You can’t fake that.”

French finally spoke, his voice quiet but cutting. “I faced plenty of guys with stuff. The ones who scared you weren’t just throwing gas, they were the ones who lived in the zone, never rattled, made you beat them. If Heyer’s that type, I’m in.”

The group murmured their approval. The big righty was circled.

But then Lederer tilted his screen. “And then there’s Raul Castro.”

“Six-one, lean, switch-hitter,” Bishop rattled off. “Sideburns like Luke Perry. The kid just looks like a ballplayer.”

McGill grinned. “Finally. Somebody who passes the eye test.”

“Bat won’t wow you,” Bishop said, ignoring him. “But double-digit homers, decent average, steals bases, piles up doubles. He’s a left-field profile, should make plenty of plays there.”

French nodded slowly. “He’s got that spark. You can tell when a kid has the kind of instincts that make the game slow down. Raul plays like he’s been here before.”

Lederer’s pen tapped the table. “If Heyer’s gone, Castro’s my guy. Legs, switch bat, everyday attitude. And I’ll be damned if he doesn’t look like he belongs on a baseball card already.”

The four men sat back, big board now a blur of impossible dreams and realistic targets. Bishop and McGill were already bristling at each other over cross-checking assignments, while French smiled faintly, like he could see both sides of the debate and still trusted his gut.

“Get with your area scouts,” the Charm City GM said at last. “Keep building the board. We’re going twenty rounds. I don’t want us to fall asleep after the third. This is the foundation, gentlemen. Let’s make it count.”

[Krathan]

Castro and Pablo Garcia were two of the top guys I was considering with my pick.