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 The first time I seen Lefty, I
knew he was special. It was six years ago this May, a game between St.
Steve’s and Bishop Pierce. I go to tons of games. I’m always on
the lookout – you gotta throw a lot of stones before you kill a bird.
I’ve
been in baseball all my life. Spent three years at Double A, which is the
second highest minor league, and one in Triple A. Twice went to spring
training. But I never made the Bigs, not even for coffee. All the teams got
guys like me–bird dogs, guys who, for beer money and tickets, keep an
eye out for talent. Then, if I do sign a kid, I get a bonus. Not much, something.
But money’s not why we do it. We love the game and scouting’s a
way to stay in it. And to be honest, you’re a big kind of fish.
Everybody knows you: the coaches, players, guys from the paper.
Parents’ll whisper when you’re in the stands. It tickles me when
they’re watching, trying to see what I’m writing, because
sometimes I’m making out my grocery list.
I signed a
half-dozen kids before Lefty but only one makes it and he don’t make it
big. He was the Cubs’ back-up catcher for a couple years. My others are
like nineteen out of twenty––they top out somewhere in the
minors, stay with it ‘til they’re sick of living on what you make
flipping burgers. That’s how baseball is: when it rains, it’s a
downpour. The ones who make it, make it big. But most guys in the
game––the scouts, the minor leaguers, even some of the ones in
the front office––get paid like flunkies and work like a Husky.
Anyways,
back to Lefty. He’s 15, a sophomore at Bishop Pierce, the Pirates of
Bishop Pierce. It’s a Tuesday. It’s funny how you remember little
things. I’m late ‘cause I have to work some OT. Joey
DiSteffano’s sick and I have to cover part of his route. I drive a
bread truck. I drive from four until noon. But that day I don’t quit
‘til almost three. So by the time I get there, it’s bottom of the
first. St. Steve’s got a southpaw too, a little kid with a curve ball.
But the Pirates are hitting him; they score three in their half. Then
it’s top of the second and out comes this tall, skinny, dark brown
string bean of a kid with his game face on. He’s over six feet but
weighs 140, 145 tops. Gawky, he’s grown so fast, his body’s not
coordinated, it ain’t caught up to the rest of him. And he don’t
know a thing about pitching. He’s a slinger––herky-jerky,
all arms and legs and elbows and feet. But can he bring it! Just hearing him
makes me sit up. Wham-O! I don’t have my radar gun but just by the
sound, I know he’s in the 80s. When he’s 15! When he fills out
and with good mechanics, he’ll be in the nineties easy, maybe the high
nineties. Which is what we clocked him at once: ninety-nine miles an hour.
And he was still growing.
You can
teach a kid a lot about baseball: about hitting, pitching, how to play the
game. But you can’t teach three things: to hit for power, to run fast,
or to throw hard. Those are gifts from the Lord. You either get ‘em or
you don’t.
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