Chapter 7: What Gerald Sutton Saw
Gerald Sutton stood at the field-level railing on Thursday afternoon and watched for forty-five minutes without introducing himself to anyone.
He watched Jordan take lead-offs against Chase behind the plate and Rafael on the mound.
Rafael was not going easy.
Gerald had seen Rafael throw at game speed before.
He was throwing at game speed now.
Three attempts.
Three reads.
Three correct breaks.
On the fourth, Rafael changed his approach — cross-body delivery, slower tempo, exaggerated pause at the set position.
The kind of thing a smart pitcher does when he knows someone is reading him.
Jordan waited.
He did not break early.
He waited half a count longer than the drill required.
Then he went.
Chase's throw was on time and accurate.
Jordan slid.
His hand found the corner of the bag where the throw couldn't reach it cleanly.
Dennis walked over and crouched in the dirt and looked at the mark.
"Safe," he said, as he always did.
Quietly.
Rafael stood on the mound with his hands on his hips.
"He adjusted for my adjustment," Rafael said to no one in particular.
Gerald walked down to field level.
Dennis saw him first.
He nodded.
Gerald nodded back.
They had known each other for twelve years.
Chase introduced himself out of habit, then recognized the man and stopped talking.
Gerald walked up to Jordan.
"Gerald Sutton," he said.
"Director of player development."
Jordan shook his hand.
"Jordan Price."
"I know who you are." Gerald looked at him for a moment the way people look at something when they are trying to confirm a memory.
"I also know who your father was.
I worked in this organization when Marcus Price was in Single-A.
I watched him play.
Four times.
I remember every one of them."
Jordan's expression shifted.
Barely.
Just a small change around the eyes.
"What do you remember about him?" Jordan asked.
"I remember thinking he had the cleanest lead-off read I had ever seen.
He didn't guess.
He waited until the last possible moment and then he was already moving." Gerald paused.
"I also remember arguing with two people above me about what we were going to do when his knee went.
I lost that argument.
That's something I've lived with."
The field was very quiet.
"I'm sorry about that," Gerald said.
"I'm sorry it happened and I'm sorry I didn't fight harder."
Jordan looked at him steadily.
He didn't say it was all right, because it wasn't.
He didn't say it didn't matter, because it did.
He simply nodded once, the way a person nods when they receive something they've been waiting for without knowing they were waiting for it.
Gerald turned to Dennis.
"What's your recommendation?"
"Full program," Dennis said.
"Starting next fall when he turns fifteen.
Training days, conditioning, game reading, full curriculum."
"School?"
"He stays in school," Dennis said.
"Non-negotiable.
I already told him.
His mother already agreed."
Gerald looked at Chase.
"And you?"
Chase crossed his arms.
"I think he's the most naturally gifted baserunning reader I've ever seen.
And I've caught for seventeen of the best in the game." He paused.
"I also think we owe this family something.
This organization owes them something."
Gerald looked back at Jordan.
"How do you feel about all of this?"
Jordan considered the question seriously, the way he considered most things.
"I feel like I want to earn it," he said.
"I don't want it handed to me because of my dad.
I want it because I'm good enough."
"You think you're good enough?"
"Not yet," Jordan said.
"That's why I need the program."
Gerald was quiet for a moment.
Then he looked at Dennis and said, "Draw up the full proposal.
I'll have it reviewed by end of month."
He shook Jordan's hand again.
Started toward the tunnel.
Halfway there he stopped without turning around.
"Price," he called.
Jordan looked up.
"Your father's record is still in the book.
Thirty-one for thirty-three.
It's been there fourteen years." A pause.
"I'd like to see what you do with it."
He walked into the tunnel.
Rafael had not moved from the mound.
He waited until Gerald was gone, then looked at Jordan.
"How does it feel?" he asked.
Jordan stood on the infield dirt in his old cleats with the black tape on both heels and thought about his father working double shifts and a bad knee and a library book about pitching mechanics and a stopwatch in the backyard.
"Strange," he said.
"Good strange."
"That's the right kind," Rafael said.
Dennis was already walking toward the office.
He had a proposal to write.
But before he reached the tunnel entrance, he stopped and looked back at the field.
At the boy standing on the infield dirt.
At the footprints around second base that were still visible from that first afternoon.
He had been coaching for twenty-three years.
He had known, he thought, what it looked like when a player had something real.
He had not known what it looked like when a player had something that only came along once in a very long time.
May you like
He knew now.
He went to write the proposal.
