Chapter 56

Brock spent three hours before the last preseason game with John Milton in left field. Milton gave him a crash course on fielding balls that hit the wall and caromed back – something Brock had never considered. A player had to take a different route depending upon where the ball was hit. The angles of the wall produced deflections in varying directions and the outfielder had to be aware of them. The first hour was spent with a batting coach slapping balls off the wall at various points so his new outfielder could get a look at what to expect before the game was on the line.

The next two hours were spent fielding fly balls and learning who was supposed to cut off throws. Brock knew where the shortstop and second baseman would be on balls hit to left field but he really had no firm concept of where the first and third baseman might be stationed.

"You have to know," Milton advised. "You can't field the ball, look up and make the throw. Know where they are supposed to be and throw to that spot. If they're not there, it's their fault, not yours."

"I'll still be the one who looks like an ass," Brock said with a smile. Milton had chewed him out the year before when Brock was slow to arrive at his cutoff position and the outfielder's throw had wound up in the dugout. To the world, it looked like Milton had fucked up the play. But those who knew baseball understood it was the shortstop that was out of position.

"Well, yeah," Milton said, returning the smile. "You're looking pretty good out here, actually. I'm impressed."

"You should be," Brock related. "I spent half the night going over tapes of our games. I watched how you set yourself for the throw and how you position yourself. I'm trying to do it just like you would."

"Damn," Milton replied. "I thought it looked familiar. I gotta tell you. You ain't as handsome as I am."

"No one is, John," Brock replied. "So you think this has a chance of working?"

"A good one," Milton said with a nod. "You're a good athlete. That helps. You get a good jump on the ball. I noticed that when you were in the infield. That's the hardest thing, picking up the ball off the bat. It's real hard during afternoon games. You have a bunch of shadows that screw up your vision. That's why I have you out here now. Our first two games are in the daylight. You'll be fine at night. Players are going to try to run on you. You can't hesitate. The infielder will be telling you where the play is. Listen to them. Now, one more thing: deep fly balls. You have to listen for DeLeon. He will call out the wall when you're near it. Sure, there is the warning track but if you wait until you feel it under your feet to figure out the wall is coming, you're already screwed. It's only seven more feet until you crash. Dude, you do not want to hit a wall at full speed. It will fuck you up in ways you don't even want to consider.

"At home games, the fans will help you out. On the road, you're on your own. You have to be able to pick DeLeon's voice out of a crowd. You have to trust him. If he yells, 'Wall, ' you stop. You don't have enough experience to jump up and pull one back. Skip would probably skin you alive if you tried. Just stop and play the carom."

Brock frowned, which his teacher noticed.

"Dude, do you know how many times I've pulled a home run ball back?" Milton asked. Then he answered his own question. "Twice. Once in rookie ball and once two years ago. Do you know how many times I've bruised my ribs or dinged up my elbow trying it? A dozen. In our situation, the risk isn't worth the reward. Yeah, if you find yourself out here in the seventh game of the World Series, give her hell. Until then, play the carom. If it goes over, it goes over. But unless you're standing still and can jump without running, do not try it. We'll work on it as the year goes along – maybe."

"Yeah, makes sense," Brock said grudgingly, realizing he was perhaps the team's last option in the outfield for eight more weeks.

"OK, I saved the most important lesson for last because I think you'll understand it best," Milton said.

Brock nodded and waited.

"Every ball hit into the air belongs to the centerfielder as soon as it leaves the bat," Milton said firmly. "I don't care if it is in the infield or 20 rows into the seats behind home plate. It belongs to him. If he calls you off, you stop. I don't care if you think you have a better read on it. I don't care if you have a better angle for a throw. I don't care if you are already standing underneath. If he calls the ball it is his to catch. We have a system here. He will yell 'I go' if he is going to make a play on it. He will not yell anything if he wants it to be caught by someone else.

"You do not yell anything unless an infielder is coming out. If you want him to make the play, you stay silent. If you are going to make an attempt, you yell, 'I go.' We have not had an outfield collision in four years, Brock. Al put this system in place after he and I hit head-on one afternoon in Chicago. I wound up with a concussion and missed half a year. One player makes the decision. As you know, infielders may call off other infielders but not an outfielder. If you call off Josh or Matt, go get it. Trust they'll be out of your way. If DeLeon calls you off, trust he will get it. Stay out of his way. Got it?"

"Got it," Brock nodded. "Believe me; I do not want a full-speed collision with Josh or Driesbach. I would get the worst of that deal."

"Josh is who you'll have to worry about," Milton said. "He wants to prove he can be a good defensive third baseman. He will chase any ball down that he can get to. I had the same problem with you last year. Driesbach? Well, his range isn't that great. I doubt he'll try for many pop ups that are in question."

Brock frowned but again nodded his agreement.

"I'm going to pull both of those clowns aside and read them the Riot Act," Milton said. "In fact, I'm going to tell Josh that if he hears you call him off, I want him to head straight for the fucking dugout. I saw a guy last year who stopped when the outfielder called for the ball. Unfortunately, he stopped right where the ball was coming down. The outfielder hit the guy like a blitzing safety hits a stationary quarterback. There were broken bones and lost teeth all around."

"Shit," Brock said. "I didn't see that."

"It was in Double-A," Milton said, offering a smile. "I get some sort of perverse kick out of watching that shit. I Google 'Outfield collisions' probably 30 times a year. Come on, let's get back inside. We've done all we can do for today and I want you to rest a while."

Brock didn't bother to shower before the game. He knew some guys who showered after batting practice before they put on their game jersey. Brock just stripped out of his practice gear and pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He had two hours before the game started and the players wouldn't arrive for another 30 minutes or so.

He was thinking about slipping up to the stadium level to see if he could convince one of the vendors to fix him a hot dog when a head poked through the doorway next to the manager's office.

He recognized the woman as one of Steve Morris' staff. He had only met her once before and he didn't know her name.

"Hey, I heard you were down here," she said. "Got a minute?"

"Sure," Brock answered.

"Out here," she said. "I don't want to be overheard."

Brock walked through the doorway and into the hallway that led to the team's executive offices.

"What's up?" he asked.

"I wanted to talk to you about your contract," she began.

"My agent is handling that," Brock cut her off.

"I know but this is private," the woman began again. "Just hear me out. Please? I'm taking a big risk here."

"I can't discuss particulars," Brock said.

"And we won't," the woman said. "I'm Julie Archer. I work in the GM's office."

"I remember," Brock replied.

"OK, good," Julie said, looking around nervously. "I know the sticking point is a no-trade clause and I know it's causing some hard feelings. Don't let it."

"Julie, this is getting close to discussing particulars," Brock pointed out.

"I know it and that is as close as I'm going to get," she said. "In February, you'd have had a no-trade clause. At the end of the season, we'll add one without hesitation. But there are reasons we can't do it at this point."

"Reasons?" Brock asked. "Like what?"

"I can't tell you," Julie admitted. "Look, we have a written and stated policy that we do not discuss riders or addendums to contracts. We took a lot of crap for paying for Cerutti's mistress to accompany him on road trips. So I can't tell you specifically why it can't happen now. I can only tell you that we can't in good conscience put that in your deal at this point. Steve has been tearing himself apart over this. He can't violate our club policy though."

"So he sent you?" Brock asked.

"God no," Julie replied. "I'd probably be fired if he knew I was here."

"Are you trying to trade me?" Brock wondered.

"Not even listening to offers," Julie said, shaking her head. "We've got some. When we got Driesbach – when there were rumors you wanted to leave – we got some doozies. Pittsburgh offered us half their minor leagues, I think. They offered their top two prospects and the No. 2 pick in the draft last year as a player to be named. He can't be traded until June. We turned them down. We'd turn them down tomorrow if they offered even more."

"Then I'm still not sure I see the problem," Brock admitted.

Julie nodded.

"We have taken on a rather unique contract in the past few months," she said. "There is a clause that says if any player on the team is given a no-trade clause; he gets one too, along with a two-year vested option. That means he can decide to come back here and we have to pay him $18 million a year. His former team does not give no-trade deals. They refuse and they refused him when he insisted. This was their way of placating him. But now we have that contract and we do not plan to bring him back again. But we'll have to if we give you what you want and what we want you to have."

"Seriously?" Brock asked. He had never heard of a rider like this but he wasn't a contract lawyer by any stretch of the imagination.

"Seriously," Julie confirmed. "When the season ends, we'll do it your way. The numbers work for us – well, most of us. Steve thought you'd come in lower than you did. I probably shouldn't say this but I'm already in deep enough. If you want me fired, all you have to do is say the word so I might as well tell you everything. We were thrilled when we got your numbers. We had figured you'd only want a short-term deal, maybe three years but no longer. When we saw you were looking for six years at a reasonable amount, we signed off on it immediately. The kicker was the no-trade. We just couldn't do it, not without screwing our budget for two seasons. If we gave you the no-trade, we'd probably lose Wade and Cesar after next season. We'd surely lose one of them."

"The numbers work though?" Brock asked. "I was never sure. Stan said the front office came back with something that wasn't workable."

"We wanted to keep the negotiations going," Julie admitted. "We didn't think you'd give us a drop-dead offer. Truthfully, now that Jim seems to think he can simply play you anywhere in the field, we'll probably have to raise our deal. You're more valuable to us now than even after you agreed to play second base for a season. You saw how the fans treated your replacement."

"I thought it was a little much," Brock said with a frown.

Julie offered a half shrug.

"It shows you how popular you are with our fans," she said. "You should also know that Steve and Jim got into a screaming match this afternoon. Steve about had a coronary when he saw you in left field last night. I was pretty sure I was going to have to get the defibrillator out when Jim told him you thought it might be a ploy to lower your value. I decided then that I would find a moment to explain this to you – even if it cost me my job."

Brock's frown deepened.

"Can I tell Stan?" he asked. "You know, my agent. He's in the same spot as Steve. This has become more stressful for him than he thought it would be."

"Obviously, I'd prefer you don't tell him where you got the information," Julie said. "But if you do, you do. I knew what I was risking by coming down here. I decided to come anyway."

"I'll keep your name out of it," Brock said. "I'll just tell him I heard a rumor. He can probably confirm it with a call to Seattle."

"Thanks," Julie said, not bothering to deny where the unusual contract had originated.

"Thank you," Brock replied. "This takes a lot off my mind."

"That was the main reason I did it," Julie said. "Now if I can find a way to get Steve to relax before he keels over."

"I've never heard of such a thing," Stan said when Brock called him to fill him in. "Where did you hear this?"

"Just a rumor," Brock said. "It's pretty reliable though."

"Did your friend Tara pick it up in Chile?" Stan wondered. "I know there are a couple of players on the National Team with ties to baseball."

"I can't say," Brock insisted. "Can you check it out? I know you have a couple of guys on the Mariners."

"I'll try but they wouldn't want word of this getting around," Stan said. "God, what a stupid clause. The Blue Jays once signed a deal with a guy that made them send a limo to Maryland to bring his family up eight times a year. I thought that was the dumbest thing I'd ever heard. This one tops it – a no-trade and a vesting clause."

"I don't think I've been lied to," Brock said.

"No," Stan agreed. "It makes sense. When we first started to talk with them, I didn't think anything we wanted would be an issue. You probably could have had the team pay to pick up a random family in Maryland and drive them to Toronto eight times a year. Then when it got to brass tacks it was messy. Really, the offer they came back with was insulting."

"I've been told the numbers weren't the problem," Brock replied. "It was just a matter of keeping us at the table until they could figure a way out of the mess they found themselves in."

"I'll bet it was a day or two before legal gave them the news," Stan agreed. "OK, I buy it. If they're screwing with us, what have we lost? We can always let arbitration set the standard. I'll call Steve tomorrow and tell him we're still very interested in a long-term deal but we'd rather table things until later in the season."

"Tell him it has nothing to do with the position switch," Brock added. "Just let him know that we understand he has bigger things on his plate right now. Tell him we'll still be here when he has the bigger problems straightened out."

"That's a good plan," Stan agreed. "OK, I'll keep you informed."

"Nah," Brock said. "Just do what you think is best. I'm going to be spending a lot of free time with John Milton over the next couple of days. Plus, we've got the World Cup final on our off day. We're planning a big party. J.C. is opening in Anaheim this year. He's coming. We're off that day. You and your wife should come out."

"I've got two college football players with their pro day that morning," Stan lamented. "I'd rather be there. I can tell you that. But these kids didn't get much press. I'll have to be in Boston instead."

"Well, if you change your mind," Brock said.

He closed the call and headed back into the locker room. The place was starting to fill up, guys getting their ankles taped or just sitting back and thinking of the upcoming game (or not).

"Miller!" Jim LaCross yelled. "My office."

Brock rolled his eyes when he saw Wade and Josh give him the "naughty, naughty" signal.

"Hey, Skip," Brock said when he came in.

LaCross looked at him over the reading glasses he wore when working on the lineup. Brock stood there waiting for the man to speak but LaCross just looked at him.

"What?" Brock asked. "Do I have a booger?"

"This outfield thing," LaCross said. "Now's your chance to get anything you want to say off your chest."

"Uh, OK," Brock told him. "I guess it's going OK. John and I worked on angles this afternoon and taking correct routes to pop ups. I went over some film last night of him playing the position. Most of the fundamentals aren't any different than anywhere else. Is that what you're looking for?"

"So you're not pissed that I'm yanking you all over the field?" LaCross asked. "You're not going to hold a press conference or some shit like that?"

"I hadn't planned on it," Brock said. "Sure, in an ideal situation, I'd be back at shortstop. Guerra wouldn't have been shot. Al and John would be healthy. Cerutti won't have been an asshole and world hunger would end. It's not an ideal situation so we do the best we can. That's what we're doing, isn't it? I know you'd probably rather have someone out there with a little more skill. Right now, you can't find him. So I'm it. I'm good with it."

"I haven't scuttled the team's plans for a long-term deal with you?" LaCross asked. "I was accused of that this very afternoon. In fact, I was told that if I had, I would probably be looking for a new job next year – if not sooner."

"No, Skip," Brock said. "This won't affect that in any way. If things don't work out with us this year, we'll try again. You're stuck with me for at least four more years anyway. We have plenty of time to deal with a contract. Right now, we need to focus on winning games. Hell, if I suck out there, we might both be looking for work in November."

Jim shook his head.

"Steve is worn to a frazzle," he said. "He does OK when things are good. But he's coming unglued right now. The press is battering him for shipping our only Show-ready prospect for a No. 3 starter. The owners are upset because of some unique language in Driesbach's contract. Now he's worried that his plans for the next six or seven years are screwed because of the deals he's made."