“This is the first I’m hearing about the kid. Do you have a scouting report?”
I tilt my head at him in mock offense and scoff. “Who exactly do you think you’re talking to?” I ask, and then lowering the pitch of my voice as much as I can in a terrible imitation of him, “Do I have a scouting report?”
Pulling it up on my phone, I show him a video our player development people pulled together, which Charlie watches carefully, brow furrowed thoughtfully as he zooms in and then slows the video down before starting it from the beginning again.
“How many strike outs did he have last season?”
“Thirty-three in over five hundred plate appearances, most of which were at the beginning of the season.”
“Shit,” he says, sitting back in his seat with a heavy breath. “That’s . . .”
“It’s some kind of ghost of Tony Gwynn stuff.”
“And his power numbers?”
“OPSof 1.245.”
“You’re right. He’s ready. There’s some stuff we can work on with his pitch framing, but he’s ready. How does he handle a staff?”
“He can handle Esposito and, like I said, Esposito’s . . . quirky, to say the least. I think he’ll be okay, but you’ll be there to help him.”
“Yeah, yeah, I will. Kid’s young enough to be my kid. All of them are.”
“You would have been averyyoung dad to Nakamura.”
“We still haven’t signed him and, even if we do, you know what they’re going to say, right? Relying on four kids barely old enough to buy a beer.”
“I don’t care what they say.”
“What, really?”
“You think I managed to become one of the few femaleexecutives in this game by caring what unqualified men have to say about me?”
“Actually, I think that’s exactly how you did it. Baseball’s a game of perception, especially in the front office. You had to make them believe in you to get where you are.”
I just stare at him, more annoyed than I should be by how insightful that particular thought is.
“What? Nothing to say to that?”
“Sometimes I forget you’re not just a dumb jock with a pretty face.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
“I think you know very well exactly what you look like,” I say, half wishing now I’d ordered something with alcohol in it to take the edge off. It’s hard to keep my focus when he’s looking at me like that, like he knows exactly where my mind really is.
“You grew up a Dodgers fan, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“And you’re what? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Really? Huh, you look younger.”
“Where is this going, exactly?”
“Just trying to do some math. You’re five years younger than me.”
