Frontier League Tryout (3)
Rick Hernandez clenched both fists, anxiety locked tight in his grip.
Please. Just leave me one player worth a damn.
"Skip, we should head to the conference room."
The second test was already over. When the head coach pressed him to get moving, Rick Hernandez pried his heavy frame out of the chair and rose, slow.
Once the second round of testing had fully wrapped, the managers and coaching staffs of all sixteen Frontier League clubs gathered in the conference room, one after another. On the table lay the paperwork—every participant's final numbers, compiled and waiting.
A short meeting came and went, and the draft itself began at once.
"We'll select Michael Miller."
The first pick was exercised the moment the draft opened. The name belonged to the fireballer who had thrown a hundred-mile-an-hour four-seam fastball at the tryout. Question marks still hung over his command and his off-speed stuff, but at the independent-league level, overwhelming velocity alone was more than enough to get outs. Just as everyone had expected, he was the prize most likely to go first overall in Round 1.
"We'll select Jake Williams."
Right behind him came Jake Williams, the slugger who had hit fifteen home runs in Single-A. He had fallen apart miserably against Kang Moo-baek, but the excellent work he'd shown afterward had earned him a high grade.
Up front, the real talent started vanishing without mercy, one name after another. Rick Hernandez bit down on his lip, restless.
This is bad. We're sliding straight into the worst-case scenario.
The clubs picking ahead of them swept up every remaining top-tier name. Before long, with last year's champions—the Schaumburg Boomers—still waiting, every other Round 1 selection was done.
"All right. Schaumburg Boomers, make your selection."
The league director's voice carried through the room. Cold sweat slid down Rick Hernandez's forehead. He could scour that list until his eyes caught fire; every arm he could actually throw into a game tomorrow was already gone.
Fuck! We finished first last year, and this is the thanks we get? Fucking draft order.
The clock kept eating what time he had left. Rick Hernandez stood, jaw set, like a man who had already made up his mind.
With a Round 1 card, he had just drafted a knuckleball pitcher. A ticking time bomb.
The pick made, Rick Hernandez dropped heavily into his chair. The head coach beside him watched him, unable to keep the unease off his face.
It's fine. If Kang Moo-baek gives us even what he showed today, that'll be enough. The catcher... we'll drill somebody until the battery clicks. Somehow.
In truth, finding a catcher at the independent-league level who could receive a knuckleball of that caliber was close to impossible. Even Colton Burns, the starting catcher who had taken Kang Moo-baek's pitches in the live session, had managed little more than desperate blocks—how many times had the ball skipped his mitt entirely? In the end there was only one option: train like mad, and force the battery to sync as fast as humanly possible.
We'll see what spring camp gives us.
An independent-league club capped out at a twenty-five-man roster. If this camp didn't produce something you could see, there would be no choice but to cut him without delay.
I don't want to throw away a first-round pick... but there's no helping it. One way forward. Work him as hard as we can, and see what he gives us.
The evening before the Schaumburg Boomers' spring camp, I was in my apartment with the phone pressed to my ear, on a call with my mother.
"No, listen. There's a baseball league called the Frontier League. I signed with a team there—the Schaumburg Boomers."
"Over here, once you're eighteen, you're legally an adult. I can sign the whole contract on my own."
Her voice trembled. The worry in it was impossible to miss.
"Not yet. I have to look good at spring camp and make the final twenty-five-man roster. That's when I actually become a real ballplayer."
I switched the phone to my other ear, wearing a look of pure disbelief.
"Mom. The knuckleball. I explained it last time, over dinner back home. How incredible the knuckleball is—"
Graduation.
American high schools usually hold commencement sometime between late May and early June. Now that I'd signed with an independent-league club, making the final roster would take care of the rest—showing up for class afterward wouldn't be a problem.
Even an independent league counts as official work, so the absences get excused. I already sat down with my homeroom teacher and got all of that handled.
Still, I wanted to be there. I didn't have many good memories of school—I'd never made the high school team—but a high school graduation only happens once.
"Of course I'm going. The club said they'd let me off for the ceremony. You and Dad are both coming, right?"
"All right. I'll see you at graduation, then."
I hung up and killed the screen.
Graduation... not exactly the thing that matters right now.
What mattered was spring camp. Starting tomorrow, the whole squad would dive into team workouts, gearing up for the season to open.
I have to look good out there. Miss the twenty-five-man roster and I'm released on the spot.
In the minors, or in affiliated pro ball, failing to make a roster meant a demotion to a lower level, not a release. Independent ball cut you loose without a second thought.
Not that I'm actually worried. No way my knuckleball doesn't play. Heh.
The next day, the first morning of the Schaumburg Boomers' spring camp broke clear. Players began filtering into the clubhouse one by one, and I got there early and walked straight in.
My name was written on one of the lockers.
M. KANG
Inside, a navy training shirt and pants the club had issued hung neat on the hanger.
Why is the workout gear this color?
A dull shade that put me in mind of a military uniform. Not my style.
I changed into the new gear and looked around. The clubhouse had split cleanly in two. The veterans who'd been with the club since last year were joking and chatting like they didn't have a care in the world.
They don't look it, but they can't be all that comfortable either. Those guys have to make the twenty-five-man roster to survive, same as the rest of us.
On the other side stood the newcomers, like me, brought in through this tryout, faces set and stiff. In that awkward, strange quiet, once everyone had gathered, a man shoved the clubhouse door open with a bang.
"Hey! Good to see everybody. Some faces I know, some I don't. I'm Sam Holden, team operations manager. Just call me Sam."
A young white guy, mid-twenties by the look of him.
"Skip'll be here any minute. After he says his piece, I'll walk you through the facilities. Guys who've already been here don't need the tour—head straight out to the field."
Sam Holden ran through the basics we needed to know—how the club operated, the ground rules—clean and to the point. The moment his short briefing ended, the clubhouse door opened again, right on cue.
Through the gap stepped a white man in his sixties.
Saw him when I signed the contract. Rick Hernandez, manager of the Schaumburg Boomers.
The moment he walked in, the noisy room went dead quiet.
"Eyes up."
The manager's low, heavy voice filled the clubhouse.
"First off, welcome to the Boomers. You all worked hard to get here. But you know it's too early to celebrate, right? What you're wearing right now is exactly what it looks like—workout gear. Not the club's official uniform. For the next two weeks, it's nothing but temporary practice clothes."
Rick Hernandez tapped the player list posted on the wall.
There wasn't a trace of warmth in his eyes or his voice.
"Over spring camp, prove yourselves. Do whatever it takes to survive. First team workout is at 9:15. Until then, Sam will show you around. That's all."
When Rick Hernandez left the clubhouse, Sam Holden, who had been listening quietly behind him, stepped forward.
"Today's bullpen order and the live-BP groups are posted on the wall—check 'em. Veterans, get out to the field and start warming up. New guys, follow me."
I got up and fell in behind Sam Holden. He led us through every corner of the building, pointing out the facilities as we went: the training room and the cafeteria, where the players' bodies were looked after; the weight room for strength work; the laundry; and the rest. The moment the tour ended, we headed straight for the practice field.
A week had passed since spring camp began.
When Rick Hernandez, manager of the Schaumburg Boomers, stepped into the conference room, the coaches and the data analysts were already seated and waiting. The moment he took the chair at the head of the table, the meeting began in earnest.
"It's already been a week since camp opened. The roster's starting to take shape, so let's begin with the training reports."
At his word, the coaches of each unit began reporting the players' workout numbers in turn. The data analysts followed, adding detailed breakdowns drawn from everything accumulated over the week. Rick Hernandez scanned the documents in front of him, listened carefully, and sketched the team's direction in his head as he went.
"All right. We'll wrap the hitting reports there. Next is the pitching staff... and first, I want to take a look at Kang Moo-baek."
The moment he said the name, the pitching coach spoke up, as if he'd been waiting for it.