“Three rookies: feels like one of those things your computer would say is too risky. Not enough data to form a conclusion? Does not compute,” he finishes, in an awful robot voice.
“You haven’t met them yet. They’re special and they’re mostly special because of each other.”
“What?”
“You don’t recognize the names?”
“Should I?”
“They’re sort of famous. All from the same town, played in the Little League World Series together, won it together and then won the California high-school state championship together. So, we drafted themtogether. Figured, what could it hurt, maybe they’ll be able to recreate some magic at the pro level. And they did, won the rookie ball championship two years ago. Davis and Greene were a little further along in their development than Esposito, and he struggled without them, but once we promoted him to Double A, it was like someone flicked a switch, gave up five total runs in his final fifty innings pitched of the season.”
He lets out a low whistle, like he’s impressed. He should be.
“Like I said, they’re special – the whole greater than the sum of its parts, and the parts are pretty damn good.”
“And you really think it translates to the major league level?”
“I know it does. The skill sets are there, but I want you to see for yourself and, if you think I’m right, then we fly back to New York tonight and, first thing Monday morning, I go in andpitch it. Nakamura’s going to post soon and I can’t waste any more time. Our focus has to be on signing him and making his transition to the States as smooth as humanly possible.”
“Okay then,” he says, as we step out into a dry but blistering Arizona morning, “let’s go take a look at the kids.”
The ballpark is small, but intimate, in the way that minor league stadiums tend to be, with local sponsors splashed along the outfield walls, scoreboards from twenty years ago or more with lightbulbs still serving to indicate balls and strikes instead of the flashy screens you see in the majors. There’s no upper deck, just one level lined with concessions up behind the seats on the concourse.
There’s a charm to it, almost like going back in time.
Actually, for me and definitely for Charlie, it does feel like we’ve stepped into the past. Camelback Ranch isalsothe spring training home for the Dodgers, once they moved their off-season operations from Florida to Arizona. It’s a state-of-the-art facility where every winter dozens of ballplayers converge to prepare for the major league season ahead.
The teams are already on the field doing their last preparations before the game begins, playing catch, stretching out, waiting for the umpires to emerge from their changing room and start it up.
“Being back here is weird,” I say, giving Charlie an opening and he takes it.
“Fucking surreal is more like it,” he says. “Never thought I’d be back, honestly.”
“You didn’t think about coaching for the Dodgers?”
“Nah, I would have been a distraction for the current guys for sure. Besides, I needed to get out ofLA. It was . . . time.”
“You needed to get out of the city that adores you?”
“It’s complicated. Why did you leave? Hometown girl and all that.”
“Stew made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Bull, they would have matched it. They loved you over there.”
“It’s complicated,” I hedge, not really feeling the need to unload my stupid divorce sob story in the middle of a ballpark.
It’s late in the fall league’s schedule and with a win today, their temporary team, the Glendale Desert Dogs, will be headed to a short playoff round.
“Do you want to talk to them beforehand?” I ask. “I can get a message down to the dugout if you want.”
Charlie shakes his head almost immediately. “Nah, I’d rather they didn’t know I was here. Let’s grab seats down at baseline and we’ll,” he stops at a vendor and points to a Desert Dogs hat, black and orange with a howling dog at the center, motioning that he’ll take two, “go incognito.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about anyone recognizing me,” I say with a laugh, but I pull my hair up into a ponytail and slide it through the back of the hat so it sits comfortably on my head.
He clicks his tongue like he disagrees as we find our section, up the third base line, a few rows above the dugout with a perfect view inside the first-base dugout. That’s where our boys will emerge from in a few minutes. It’ll give us a chance to see how they interact with each other and with their teammates during the game.
“This field isn’t that big,” he says, as he allows me to precede him into the row, settling down beside me and gesturing around us.
