The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [57]
“That’s the average,” Henry said. “But high school guys usually get more than college guys. Maybe I’d get two-fifty.”
“A premium for a lack of education? That’s the most ridiculous news yet.” Owen was getting worked up; it made him enunciate better.
“The high school guys have more leverage,” Henry explained. “They can refuse to sign and go to college instead.”
“Bah! Two can play that game. We’ll sign you up for the GRE, threaten to send you to grad school. They’ll crack. Oh, they’ll crack so fast…”
“Hang on a sec?” Henry said. “We’ve got another call.” He clicked over.
“Henry? This is Dwight Rogner. I’m an area scout with the St. Louis Cardinals. Great game yesterday. I was freezing my butt off, so I cut out a little early. But I heard you tied Aparicio’s record. Congratulations.”
“Um… thanks.”
“I’ll level with you, Henry. I saw you play last year, and I was impressed, but I figured you were a couple years away. Another of our guys saw you over the summer, and he said the same. Our attitude was, wait and see.”
“Right,” Henry said. “Wait and see.”
“Then last week I started hearing it from our scout in Florida. ‘Dwight, where you been hiding this Skrimshander kid? He’s better than Vance White.’ ” Vance White, Henry knew, was the University of Miami’s all-American shortstop. “You’ve made huge strides since last season, Henry. Huge. You just turned twenty, right?”
“In December.”
“Heck, you’re a baby. A lot of guys straight out of high school are nineteen. That’s great. It gives you time to develop. Now mind you, it’s still early, and a lot could happen before the draft. But you’re shooting up our board. We’d love to see you in a St. Louis uniform. Too bad we’ve already retired your number.”
“I know.” And Dwight knew that he knew. That was why he wore number 3—because Aparicio had worn it for the Cards for eighteen seasons.
“Have you signed with an agent?” Dwight asked.
“No.”
“Well, I’m technically not allowed to talk about stuff like this. But you should know, just between us, that our front office likes you a lot, and we’re looking for signable players in the early rounds—guys who aren’t looking to break the bank. So you should keep that in mind when choosing an agent. A hyperaggressive agent—your Scott Borases, your Miranda Szabos—can really hurt your draftability. If you know what I’m saying.”
“Sure.”
“It’s not uncommon,” Dwight went on, “for a team and a player to come to an informal agreement before the draft. For instance, we might come to you and say, Henry, we’ll agree to take you in the first round, with our number twenty-six pick, if you’ll agree to sign for reasonable money. Say, six hundred thousand or whatever.”
The call-waiting was beeping again, Owen calling back, but Henry wasn’t going anywhere. “First round?” he said softly.
“That’s just between you and me,” said Dwight. “But yes. First round.”
“Wow.”
“It’s a lot to take in,” Dwight said. “And it’s a bit premature. Lots of time till the draft, lots of things could happen. But our GM wanted me to open up a dialogue.
“This is the perfect place for you, Henry. With the right support you could become the next Aparicio. Personally, I think everyone involved—you, me, the front office—should do everything possible to make sure you wind up wearing a St. Louis Cardinals cap.”
Henry reached up and touched his brim. “I’m wearing one right now.”
18
Schwartz sprawled on the couch in his boxer shorts and cracked his second forty of Crazy Horse. He never drank during the season, especially on the eve of a game, but today was a special day. The Day of Not Getting In. His penis slipped through the slit of his boxers into the open air. He flipped it speculatively from side to side a few times, but it felt insensate, like something