Power Pros Forum

June 8, 2006

Imagine this: you’re seventeen years old, just a week out of high school, and you get a call from a Major League Baseball team telling you they’ve just drafted you, can you come down and sign your contract?

Imagine if that team was your hometown team. The team you’ve been rooting for your whole life. The team whose ballpark you’ve sat in hundreds of times, first as a little kid being dragged there by his parents, then as an eager young fan, finally as a high schooler hanging out with his friends in the cheap seats — imagine if that team, of all the teams, drafted you.

Imagine that they think so highly of you that they immediately offer you a big signing bonus, even though you’re a 34th-round pick, and assign you to their Single-A affiliate, even though most rookies start off in Rookie League — they didn’t name it that for no reason, after all — and certainly most high school draftees aren’t considered ready for that level of play.

Welcome to my world.

My name is Matthew Price, and I’m 17 years old. I was drafted in the 34th round by my hometown Texas Rangers. I remember it like it was yesterday, in fact…

I was sitting at home watching MLB Network, with my family and a few friends surrounding me. I didn’t expect to go very highly, if at all, and if I didn’t get drafted or I didn’t want to sign, I always had the option of playing in college — I had committed to TCU in the spring, and had every intention of attending school if I wasn’t absolutely thrilled with what was being put on the table for me in the Draft.

A $25,000 bonus and a few words of confidence were more than enough to convince me to sign with the team I had dreamed of playing for one day. Little did I know how soon those dreams would come true.

Imagine Bartolo Colon pitched in the all star game

MLB Network didn't exist in 2006... Lol doesn't matter, good to see some MLB Life logs on here.

March 1, 2008

“Your attention please. Now coming in to pitch for the Texas Rangers, number 88, Matthew Price.”

I was still in shock as I began my trot out of the bullpen and toward the mound at Surprise Stadium. The eyes of a few thousand fans were upon me as I ran through my mind what the manager had told me before the game: if I managed to make it through my four Spring Training games without allowing any runs, any walks, any HBPs, and less than four hits, I would be on the Opening Day roster. I knew there was no way that was going to happen, as I was just a 19-year-old fresh off a shaky season in Double-A, so I decided to just have some fun with my first appearance.

Facing the Padres, I entered in the top of the seventh inning with a 2-0 lead.

The first batter up was an outfielder named Jody Gerut, who I got to ground out. Next up was Brian Giles, who I struck out looking. Jim Edmonds, the great center fielder, was up after that, and I somehow got him to ground out, ending the inning.

I knew my magic wouldn’t work forever — there’s only so much an 85-mph fastball can do on its own, and I wasn’t going to start messing with a breaking ball anytime soon — so I was a little surprised that the coaches left me in for another inning. The first batter, Khalil Greene, lined out, but I lost control and walked two of the next three batters (sandwiched around a base hit) before striking out Colt Morton.

“Good job. Hit the showers, kid,” said the manager as he relieved me on the mound. Brandon McCarthy jogged in from the bullpen, and allowed one of the runners to score before getting the third out.

“Dammit!” I swore as I walked into the dugout. A couple guys tried to console me, but they mostly left me alone to deal with my own problems.

After the game, I was informed that I had been reassigned to minor-league camp, just as I had suspected.

I called my oldest brother, Zach, on the drive back to Texas (they didn’t even give me a plane ticket!) and told him the bad news.

“I got reassigned,” I told Zach, choking up.
“Dude, you knew it was coming. Don’t stress out about it,” Zach told me.
“Yeah but… I didn’t know it would be this hard.”
“Just work hard in the minors, you’ll get your chance soon.”
“Thanks.”

I continued to drive down the interstate with the radio on blast.

The drive from Surprise to Arlington was a 16-hour one, and I only made it four hours before I had to pull over for the night. I checked into a Motel 6 for the night, and didn’t even shower or change before I passed out from exhaustion.

Imagine if MLB Network existed in 2006

July 17, 2000

The last time I stayed in a Motel 6 was the summer after seventh grade. My dad had made an impulse decision to take all seven of us on a road trip to California for two weeks, and the drive there was even longer than the one to Arizona, and we ended up having to stop halfway through to get some rest.

The room we checked into had only two beds, which meant that three of us had to sleep on the floor. Mom and Dad took one of the beds, and my oldest brothers Zach and Jackson called dibs on the other bed, leaving me and my two other brothers (Tommy, who was 27, and Alex, who was 22) to find room on the floor to sleep. Being the youngest, I also got last dibs on the shower, meaning I had to stay up far past my regular bedtime to get cleaned off and changed into my pajamas. I ended up sleeping curled up into the fetal position in one corner of the room, with only a single blanket (and no pillow) to cover me.

The next morning, we hit the road before I could even eat or get ready, and I was practically thrown into the car, still wearing my pajamas from the night before.

When we finally got to California, my dad drove us to the hotel — a Residence Inn, far nicer than the ratty motel — where I immediately bolted for the restroom with my backpack in hand. I took the longest and most relaxing shower of my life, changed into clean clothes, and even brushed my teeth and hair. By the time I came out of the restroom, I actually looked halfway decent.

While I did not enjoy getting tossed around by my grown-up brothers, the rest of the impromptu vacation was quite fun. None of us had packed much (as our dad had only told us to pack enough for one night), so our first stop was at the mall, where Tommy announced that he had gotten a big raise at his job and would buy us all a bunch of new clothes. I ran through the aisles of the department stores, dashed through the name-brand stores that I knew so well. There was Hollister and Abercrombie and Aeropostale and American Eagle, and if I wanted to score popularity points at school I would load up on all four. And I did.

Zach, at the time, was 35 years old, twelve years removed from his one and only major-league appearance. He had been called up by the Twins for a spot start — coincidentally, on my birthday — and had given up five runs in four innings, earning him his outright release the next day. He was pretty bummed by getting cut, but had quickly latched on in the minor leagues with the Orioles’ organization and spent another few years in their system before getting cut again and deciding to retire.

Jackson, who was 31 at the time, had been a manager for the TCU baseball team for four years before going into the field of IT. He had played baseball in high school, but was easily the least athletically gifted of my entire family.

Tommy was then 27 years old, and had been playing semi-pro ball for the better half of the last five years after playing at a small D-III school close to home. He also worked in sales to make ends meet.

Alex was 22. He, too, had played ball in college, but only for one year as he had found both his athletic life and his academics too challenging and decided to drop out. He was working at a fast-food chain, and while he had his own place, I highly doubted that he would be able to get much further than that in life, as he never seemed to have much motivation to do anything.

My dad was a former minor-league catcher, who had played in the Athletics’ system for three years before retiring and becoming the head coach at Arlington High, where all four of my brothers had played and where I, too, would one day star on and off the field.

My mom had played baseball at her high school, becoming the first girl to do so, before playing softball at Texas A&M on scholarship. She batted .202 in her college career, and later became an activist for a movement centered around letting girls play baseball if they wanted, rather than forcing them to play softball.

And then there was me. At the time, I was just 12 years old, a skinny little boy with a big smile and a bigger heart. I was very popular at school, winning the office of class president two years running, and I was also one of the best baseball players in town. Despite the lack of meat on my bones, I could throw harder than almost anyone else in my grade. My dad still wouldn’t let me throw a breaking ball, but I was able to blow my fastball past most hitters anyways.

March 31, 2008

This is it. My first start in Triple-A. Thankfully, Seattle doesn’t have very many good hitters in the minors, and I should be able to dominate today…

I started off on the wrong foot, walking the leadoff batter. “Shit!” I yelled into my glove as my catcher tossed the ball back to me.

I continued to try to push my fastball past everyone I faced. It had worked for me in middle school, it had worked in high school, I had even had some success in the low minors just blowing the heater by everybody I faced. It surprised me a bit, given that I wasn’t even throwing that hard, but I shrugged and continued doing what had worked.

Unfortunately for me, that didn’t seem to be a very effective strategy against Triple-A caliber hitters. The next batter up lined a single to center field, which was followed by a base hit over the head of my second baseman that scored a run. Greg Norton, one of the few players I had heard of, hit another single after that, but I managed to settle down after a visit from my pitching coach and got out of the inning.

In the second inning, I went back out and again walked the leadoff batter. Following a flyout, I began to feel fatigue. I was no longer pumping in my fastball at 82 or 83 miles per hour; it was now only traveling at 78 or 79. I was lucky if I could get it up to 80, and the next two batters pounced on this for two more singles before I was mercifully pulled from the game.

I spent the next three innings swearing to myself in the clubhouse before I finally worked up the courage to go back into the dugout, where I spent most of the rest of the game going over my pitch charts with Ethan Oakley, another pitcher the same age as me.

After the game, I went back into the clubhouse and quickly showered and got dressed in my street clothes — a long-sleeve shirt and some jeans — trying to sneak out early. But the manager caught me on my way out and told me he wanted a word with me outside.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” he said, “you were terrible today. Give me a little more effort next time out. I’ve told Matt to text you about your approach for your next start.”

Matt, of course, was Matt Johnson, the team’s pitching coach. As the manager had told me, I got a text from him later that evening asking if I wanted to talk now or later. I told him to go ahead and give me his thoughts.

“Your game plan today was garbage,” Matt texted me. “You may have been able to get away with that in high school, maybe even in Double-A, but this is the big time now, or as close as you may ever get to it. You’ve got to really go in with a clear focus, a clear mindset every time you step on the mound.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. My whole life, I had just been able to throw my fastball as hard as I could every time, and that had been enough to get outs.

After a brief delay, Matt texted me again. “It looks like you’re just trying to blow your fastball past everyone. You have no control, no change of speed, you’re just chucking it up there and hoping they don’t hit it.”

“That’s kind of what I’m going for,” I reply after taking a deep breath.

“Well, that’s *(censored)* stupid. You need a new approach.”

I hurled my phone across the room. It bounced on the floor with a muted thud. I left it there as I got ready for bed, then made only a cursory glance at it as I plugged it in to charge overnight.

Does this hothead have any off speed pitches or

technically he has a level 1 SLD, but he doesn't like throwing it

How do you know he doesn't like throwing it? You can't just assume stuff nowaday. It makes you look stupid.

ok so I don't feel like writing any more updates on this, maybe eventually I will but for now this log is dead/on hiatus

here's what happened in the following starts for Price.

4/4 (@ LAA AAA): 3.2 IP, 45 PT, 2 H, 2 R, 1 ER, 1 BB, 0 K, 0 HR -- again all fastballs, but location/effort was varied
4/8 (BAL AAA): 9 IP, 66 PT, 6 H, 1 R, 1 ER, 0 BB, 1 K, 1 HR -- again all fastballs, throwing with less effort. took the loss for 3rd straight start despite the CG
4/12 (TOR AAA): 5.1 IP, 54 PT, 4 H, 1 R, 1 ER, 0 BB, 1 K, 0 HR -- 100% fastballs! surprise! changed locations and speeds again. TOP SPD +1, STAM +1
4/16 (@ TOR AAA): 9 IP, 75 PT, 4 H, 0 R, 0 ER, 0 BB, 0 K, 0 HR -- I finally threw some sliders! 11 of them to be exact, batters were 0-5 against it. kept the ball down, finally got a *(censored)* WIN
4/20 (lmao) (@ BOS AAA): 6.1 IP, 58 PT, 5 H, 2 R, 2 ER, 2 BB, 1 K, 0 HR -- got high with Oakley before the game, randomly threw a bunch of stuff down the middle. 8 sliders, 0-3 against. CTRL +1
4/24 (@ DET AAA): 6 IP, 46 PT, 9 H, 2 R, 2 ER, 0 BB, 0 K, 2 HR -- *(censored)*, everything down the middle. 4 sliders. zero in play, two whiffs though (not strikeouts lol I never get those).
4/29 (KC AAA): 5.1 IP, 38 PT, 9 H, 1 R, 1 ER, 0 BB, 0 K, 1 HR -- finally gave up a hit on the slider. threw 4, all in play, 2-4 against so it's now got a 2-12 average against, not bad. listened to some Drake after the game and got real sad, now my mood's Blue. oh also I'm not smart enough to read mystery novels, *(censored)* this shit. ayy I got a win tho

END OF APRIL

8 G, 8 GS -- 46 IP, 44 H, 12 R, 11 ER, 5 BB, 3 K, 4 HR -- ERA: 2.15 -- WHIP: 1.07 -- opp. AVG .251, OBP .272, SLG .320 -- GB/FB ratio is 11.1 holy heck

I have 8,025 followers on Twitter which is pretty good considering it's 2008 and ppl don't really use Twitter yet, also I got $46,700 in *(censored)* one-dollar bills for the strip club but I'm like 11 years old so *(censored)* that

anyway yeah there you go, *(censored)* you if you expected more I suck at keeping logs going (except for the RPG, Marlins log, and apparently the UTSA one too I'm good at those.). . ok bye