Power Pros Forum

The boy woke up at four in the morning. Not realizing this, he went about his morning routine, putting an orange T-shirt and blue jeans over his boxer shorts. After this, he put on socks, then stretched himself out. Checking his phone, he saw that the temperature was predicted to be in the mid-90s, and promptly took off his jeans in favor of shorts. The boy walked into the kitchen and poured a loud bowl of cereal with milk, and a glass of orange juice. He scarfed his breakfast down in just three minutes, and went down some stairs into the basement. Still thinking it was later than it actually was, he went through his usual weight-lifting routine, showered, put on socks and shoes, threw his bright blue backpack over his shoulder, and headed to school, walking as usual.

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The man had been homeless, just another job-searching citizen. Only recently had he gotten a job - not one found at a job fair, at that. He had become part of a program that recruited interested business students and trained them to fill jobs that required business knowledge and some particular skills. However, the program had become desperate and turned to high school seniors. The man had a large stack of questionairres to pass out to the students at Lowell High School, but first, he sat down in the freshly cut grass outside the school. It was only 4:30, so he figured no one would come along. He figured wrong.

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The boy got within three steps of the front door, when he saw, in his peripheral vision, an older man - probably in his sixties, he guessed - slumped over against a fence, a large stack of paper in his hands. He rushed over to the man. “Hello?” he called into the man’s left ear. He came to, and asked, “Who are you?” “I’m Carson Harris, a senior here at Lowell High. The question is, who are you?” The man concentrated. “My name is Jonah Redman, and I have a few questions for you, and your fellow seniors, to answer later,” the man, who was actually only 43, told Carson. “Cool. So, why is there no one else here?” The man looked at his wrist. “Probably because it’s…four, eleven- 4:55,” Jonah informed Carson. Carson decided he would go inside and take a nap in Mr. Childress’s room, which had several beanbags, two couches, and only one desk, that being Mr. Childress’s.

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Students continued to file into the school, and Mr. Redman followed them in, checking in at the office to make sure when he was supposed to show up. “9 o’clock,” the secretary told him. Jonah sat down on a comfy-looking chair and waited. When it was about 8:45, he was sent to the auditorium, where lap-desks had been set up in one section of the audience. Jonah went around and set a paper on top of each desk, then practiced his brief speech. “Have you ever wondered if college is going to get you ready for the workplace?”

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Carson slunk into the theater with his friends, acting like he didn’t care. In reality, he was quite interested in what the man had to say. Once everyone was seated, their principal introduced the man as having been homeless for several years, despite a high-level education, he had never visited a job center while in college, and his first job out had been at a Subway, five months after the fact, despite his UChicago degree. The man started speaking, and at the end of his speech, he told everyone to begin filling out the paper on the desk in front of them. Some kids had already started while he had been talking, but Carson was not one of them. The sheet required such things as name, address, and email, but also asked Carson’s intended college major (business, he put down) and where he was looking (Carson jotted down UCLA, Pepperdine, and Oregon). It also asked if he had ever considered getting a high-ranking job, such as being a general or regional manager, or a department chair, anything like that. Carson figured he might want to go into sports, so he checked the box. After that, he turned it in and went back to class. With only four days to go in the week, everyone was cramming for finals - but not Carson, who had taken four AP classes, the others being his elective and two study halls (he had dropped French for his senior year). In fact, the next day - Tuesday - would be Carson’s last day of high school, assuming he passed all of his classes. He let his mind wander to better things, like girls, and football, probably his favorite things - oh, and music too, he liked that.

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A week later, Carson was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for an acceptance letter from someone - anyone - that he had applied to. He had sent applications to UCLA, UMass, Northwestern, and UMass-Lowell. His mom carried in the mail, and Carson sorted through it as usual. He found two things with his name on them. Carson, not usually a religious kid, said his eleventh - no, twelfth prayer of the past five days. The first was from the business-student program that the guy had spoke about. To his surprise, they had accepted his application! He did have to get into a college, though, and the second piece of mail was from UCLA, and guess what? They also accepted his application! UCLA was his first choice, and they liked him as a football player, so he figured he would tell his parents he had decided when they got home. His mom was home, but she had awful headaches. Maybe if I tell her I got in, it will relieve the stress, Carson thought. He carefully climbed the staircase, and slowly opened the door to his mom’s special, extremely dark room. His mom groaned in pain. “Are you okay?” he asked softly. “Just the usual, why?” Carson showed her the letter. He had been right, as this led his mom to get up from the bed and exit “The Cave” for the first time all month, and it was the 22nd. He made her favorite, grilled cheese, to celebrate.

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A younger boy came home and went upstairs, trading the T-shirt and shorts he had been wearing for his Boy Scout uniform, and quickly packing a bag with his Bible, flashlight, toiletries, and extra clothes - all the good stuff. The boy went downstairs, where he found the comforting, unusual sight of his mother, who suffered from migraines, and his older brother, who was just a dick sometimes, enjoying a moment together. He walked into the dining room, where they were sitting. His mom stood up and hugged his brother, then him. She picked up something from the table and handed it to her youngest son. “Wow, congrats,” he said, beaming, as he read the UCLA acceptance letter. “Thanks, Matthew,” Carson said. “I also got accepted to this program that teaches you skills to be, like, in a business leadership position.” “Cool,” Matthew said, still grinning. Matthew himself wasn’t far from thinking about college, as he was four years younger than Carson.

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A man got home after a tough day at work. He had been criticized by his co-workers for a presentation he had given, then the microwave had broken, so he had to eat his pizza cold, and the only drink was fruit punch. Kool-Aid and frozen pizza, the man thought as he went up to his bedroom. His wife’s door was open, and she wasn’t in there, which he thought odd. After changing out of his suit, the man took a nice shower, and put on a much more relaxed outfit, a nice T-shirt and shorts. The man worked from 8 to 4 every day, but he still found time to hang out with his kids, and to stay active as well. Unlike some parents, he had only been 23 when he had his first son, Carson, and so he was just getting into his forties now. Also unlike many 40-year-old men, he had no “beer belly” to speak of - not only did he not drink, but he was also a very active man. With Carson going off to college this fall, he wondered how life would be with only one kid around to cause trouble - not that Matthew ever caused trouble. He finally cleared his head and went downstairs, to several surprises. His wife was downstairs for the first time in at least three weeks, Carson was holding up an acceptance letter from UCLA, and Matthew was ready to go to his campout, dressed in his Scouting uniform and with a bag already packed. Carson hugged him, and he thought he might pass out. It was a strong hug - he could tell that Carson hadn’t been taking any days off from his lifting schedule, which called for arms on Monday and Thursday, legs on Tuesday and Friday, core on Wednesday and Saturday, and of course, rest on Sunday.

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FOUR YEARS LATER

The now-21-year-old boy walked up the steps, a blue gown on over his dress shirt and khaki pants. A blue cap rested on his head, the boy having drawn a football and a green number 3 on it. In a minute, the boy would slide the tassel from right to left, for the last time in his life, he hoped. As he got closer and closer to being called, he began to think about his brother. The poor kid was being recruited all over the country for his academics, but he had his heart set on playing college baseball. Only a couple small schools had offered him thus far, but he was going to play in an All-Star game, which the boy hoped to make. “Carson Harris,” the booming voice called out. Carson walked across the stage, did all the graduating stuff, and exited. He was still thinking about Matthew while he took pictures, and as he got in his car, a graduating gift four years ago, he wondered if it would be the last time he thought about UCLA.

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A month passed, and the boy had found part-time work at a statistics website. His job was to collect data on hitting stats by ballpark in the MLB. He plugged his headphones in, loaded his playlist on SoundCloud, and got to work, crunching stats from the last day of games into the spreadsheet he used to determine which ballparks were the most hitter- and pitcher-friendly. It wasn’t hard, but it took a bit of time, as he had to figure out who was the home team, convert both teams’ stats to the spreadsheet, then convert it to the online version of the spreadsheet. It definitely wasn’t a high-paying job, but it did get him back into sports. To pass the time around his job, he was playing flag football in a local league, and hoped to get a tryout with some team - any team - that would pay him to play. AFL, NFL, UFL, whatever, he didn’t really care.

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He was of legal drinking, smoking, driving, and voting age, yet most people still considered him a boy. Carson didn’t understand that. He didn’t drink outside of a little at parties, and he had vowed to never smoke. While he did enjoy himself a nice party now and then, he definitely didn’t do any drugs - well, except for his allergy medicine, and occasionally cough drops or something, but those didn’t count. Carson was still driving the maroon Corvette he had gotten as his high school graduation gift. It was only November, but he was starting to worry about his future. The job he had taken was not year-round, but luckily, a local semi-pro team had picked him up as a fullback. The word fullback insulted him, but he would take $5,000 any way he could get it. In fact, Carson thought he was never going to get off the bench - the starting fullback was a much better blocker than him, and even with that, he only got in for about ten snaps a game. At halfback, Carson’s natural position, the team used a three-back rotation to keep everyone fresh, Carson of course not being included in the rotation. His experience as a defensive end in high school led him to become a key special teams player, though, and before he knew it, one of the tailbacks - the 250-pound goal-line back - had two separated shoulders, and Carson had earned his first promotion. He got only four carries the next five weeks - the team’s offense consisted mostly of random sweep plays, screen passes, and long bombs, followed by a punt - but in the last game of the season, he got the start, along with 20 touches, and capitalized on the opportunity, scoring three touchdowns (all from five yards or less) and gaining 83 yards. The team immediately offered a new contract for one year and $10,000. Carson thought about it, and came back with a counter offer. “Two years, $8,000 a year, but I can opt out whenever I want for any reason.” The team accepted this deal, then promptly signed some tight end for $12,000. They were the same age, and became rivals despite not competing for anything. Carson discovered that the kid wasn’t that tall, and told the quarterback to throw high to him, claiming that he knew this was his favorite spot for throws. Before he knew it, the tight end - Shane - had caught only one pass in fifteen targets, and a four-yard pass at that, while Carson ran all over defenses, scoring ten touchdowns in four games. However, Shane learned from his mistakes and formed a strong rapport with the quarterback, leading to many more, and much lower, throws. Carson’s yards per carry spiked, as running was less frequent now, but obviously, his touches declined, as did his touchdowns (Shane took most of them). Before they knew it, it was the last game of the season. Carson had 462 yards and 16 touchdowns on the season, and Shane had 338 and 7. “If I get to 500 yards before you hit 400, you have to be my slave for a month,” Carson suggested. “Deal. But if I win, you have to leave the team.” They shook on it, signed it, had it notarized and everything.

Carson’s first carry of the game went for a loss, and he fumbled on the play. He did not start the next possession, and Shane caught five straight passes, for a total of 21 yards. Carson was subbed back in and immediately gained 35 yards. They ended up punting somehow, and when they got to the sideline, Shane caught Carson in the side of the head with a cheap shot. Carson looked up from the Gatorade he was drinking. Shane had taken off his helmet and gloves, and looked ready to fight. Carson walked towards the trash can, as if to throw his cup away, but kneed Shane in the groin on his way. “That’ll teach you to mess with me,” Carson growled. Somehow, nobody caught their skirmish, but the next possession, Shane intentionally missed a block so Carson would be tackled by a mammoth lineman. He somehow squeezed through the lineman’s grip and ran straight for Shane, who was downfield “blocking” a safety. Shane quickly moved to actually block the guy, but Carson let the safety tackle him. After they settled for a field goal, Carson was livid on the sideline, acting as though it was Shane’s fault for missing two blocks. This led to another fight, a real one this time, and the day ended with Carson and Shane unemployed again.

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As if by magic, Carson and Shane couldn’t stop running into each other. There was the time that they reached for the same frozen dinner at Wal-Mart, and Shane hit Carson in the face with it. There was the time that they went to eat at a bar, and Carson left Shane with the fifty-dollar tab. Eventually, they both ended up with a mutual respect for each other, although their wallets found themselves rather empty. After Shane moved out of his apartment and into Carson’s house, Carson realized that Shane wasn’t so bad after all - he did have a tendency to break the rules, but Carson figured out how to harness this ability and use it for good. One day, Carson was sitting on the front porch, thinking, when a massive box came for him via FedEx. It was from the program he had been in during his college years, that had supposedly prepared him for a business leadership job. He opened it and started reading.

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A month later, Carson had been installed as the general manager of the Chicago Cubs. Theo Epstein had unexpectedly resigned to spend more time with his family, and the Ricketts family had called upon the program to find them a new GM. Carson was told to find his own staff, and not to worry about the players. But the players refused to play for a GM younger than they were, and Carson ended up trading or releasing all of them. He didn’t get much other than salary cap relief and a ton of roster spots. His first move as GM, post-roster purge, was to hire Shane as his first assistant.

I hope Shane and Carson turn out to be a gay couple.

The boy laced his shoes and stretched. He was the only freshman in the national track meet, and he thought he had a good chance at winning. He had no muscles to speak of, but he was quite the speedster, and he had a sharp mind, too. He was wearing his lucky underwear, boxer briefs with the American flag on them. He never changed anything about his meet-day routine - he always wore the same clothes, ate the same food, and did the same stretches. He always watched the competition as they warmed up, to get a good read of his chances of winning. This race, he thought, would be a good one.

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Bronze wasn’t the boy’s favorite color, but it satisfied him in this race. The winner and runner-up were both seniors, and thus more experienced runners than him. He knew from the outset that he wouldn’t beat them, but he also thought he could beat everyone else easily, which he did. After the medals were awarded, the boy went into the runners’ locker room, where he changed out of his meet uniform and into a white T-shirt and jeans. It was cold out, so he put on a lime-green hoodie - that was his favorite color. He picked up the drawstring bag - in it were his meet clothes, his iPod, and some headphones. The boy took out the iPod and headphones from the bag, and started listening to some music. The boy was nineteen years old, and while he had his driver’s license, he did not have a car, nor did he want to. Luckily, for the national meet, everyone traveled by bus together.

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After spending a couple more days in New York, the boy grew tired of the cold weather and flew back to campus. The weather in Stanford, California was much nicer, he thought, than the weather in NYC. He was able to catch a Dodgers game and an Angels game before he went back to class. The boy, while he hadn’t played since he was eight years old, had fallen in love with baseball at a young age, and to this day he still enjoyed the sport. He envied the scouts who got paid to watch baseball. Little did he know what his next job would be.

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The boy managed to balance track stardom, the rigorous academics of Stanford, and still had some fun. His freshman year ended with him acing all of his finals, and he was able to relax during the summer. The boy found himself a job and used the money to buy tickets to several baseball games over the break - the Giants were in town pretty often, and he ended up renting out an apartment for the summer in San Francisco, only about 30 minutes from the school. He wasn’t taking any classes during the summer, just relaxing in what he now considered his home away from home. The boy really lived in Texas. After about a month of living in San Fran, he moved out, packed up, and caught the first flight back to Dallas/Fort Worth. While down there, he ran into his best friend.

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A familiar figure sped toward him - on foot, not in a car, luckily. “Zach?” “Max! I’m back!” Max Henderson had just spent the last three months playing shortstop for the TCU Horned Frogs, hitting.370 with one home run and three steals. Zachary Clement, his best friend, had just spent the last three months as a national track star. They relayed these stories, and many more, to each other.

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Another month passed, and Zachary went back to California to settle in for his sophomore year. He flew in to LA, where he took in a full Dodgers series. After the final game, he was walking back to the bus he had taken when he was stopped by a boy not much older than him. “You look smart,” the boy remarked. Zachary was wearing his customary blue-rimmed glasses and a polo shirt, so he guessed that made him look smart. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “And I take it you like baseball?” “That is also correct,” Zachary told the boy. “If an MLB team asked you to be a scout, would you take the job?” Zachary’s hands trembled. “Y-Yes,” he said quietly. “Welcome to the team,” the boy said. “Wait, what?” “I’m Carson Harris, general manager of the Chicago Cubs. And you’re…” “Zachary Clement-“ “-Zachary Clement, scout for the Chicago Cubs.” Zachary shook Carson’s hand. Carson slipped a business card into his hand as Zachary headed onto the bus.

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On the bus, Zachary realized his right fist was clenched around something. He opened his palm to reveal a business card. He wasn’t kidding, he thought. Zachary managed to find his way to Stanford, where he called the number on the card. The two boys hammered out the contract details over the phone. Zachary told Carson that he was from Texas. “Go scout guys down there, and hire another scout for me, okay?”

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The first semester came and went, Zachary continuing to breeze through his required hours. He headed home, hoping to spend some time with his family, obviously, but also hoping to find at least the scout. One candidate came to mind, and luckily, he wasn’t hard to track down. The boy Zachary found was studying at MIT, and said he really couldn’t do much other than help for this one trip. While the boy, Joseph Phillips, was incredibly smart, Zachary knew his dream was to become a detective, like Sherlock Holmes. He quickly realized that his hopes lied in other hands, thanked Joseph, and moved on. He was walking down the street to go down to the neighborhood lake, when he ran into another familiar kid. Something clanged against the concrete, and the boy bent down to pick it up. The boy started to rub the dropped glasses against his shirt, but Zachary handed him a small cloth to use. “Thanks,” the boy said quietly. He looked up and saw Zachary. “Hey, I remember you,” the boy said, less quietly this time. “Evan, right?” “Yes, Evan Wolf,” he said.
Zachary invited Evan to come down to the lake with him, and he accepted the invitation. Evan thought he remembered Zachary playing baseball against him at a young age, and Zachary told him that was probably true. “Why’d you quit?” “I guess I just wanted to focus on track,” he told Evan. Half an hour later, they were both sitting there, skipping rocks across the lake. Zachary took the moment to offer Evan the job. He quickly accepted. Evan’s only worry was whether he would be able to go to college for the second semester. He had been going to UT-San Antonio. Zachary said he thought that would be fine, especially since they would almost exclusively be scouting the Texas area. “Okay, I’m in,” said Evan, and after calling Carson, Zachary had made his first hire.

The boy stomped his foot down on the skateboard. He messed with his long hair, realized he needed a haircut, then got going again. He thought back to the good old days. Actually, the “good old days” were only two years in his past. The boy had been, and continued to be, a very active person, playing two sports in addition to being in a skateboarding group with some friends. After messing around for a few more minutes, he gave up on trying to learn the new trick he had been hoping to show off later, and skated down the block to the SportClips. The workers knew him by name, and knew exactly what he wanted before he had to say a word. When he was done, his brown hair had been cut short, shampooed, and he had gotten a massage, too. He paid, took a sucker from the bowl (cream soda, as always), and skated down to the local high school. He weaved his board down the sidewalk, through the parking lot, and into the gym, where he set it against a wall. To his surprise, several of his high school teammates were shooting around, with a few guys he remembered from their rivals stretching at the other end. One kid waved him over. “Sup?” the boy asked him. “Wanna play?” he was asked. “Yeah,” he said as he shot a three-pointer. The long ball had never been his specialty, at least in basketball, but he made this one. After getting his “change”, the boy drove the lane and missed a pull-up in the paint. The kid that had waved him over called everyone together now. “Okay, Jackson and I will be starting guards. Jake and Calvin, you’re the wings. Marc, you’ll be our center. Carlos, Danny, and Mike, you’ll come off the bench. We need to get out and run in transition, they have some athletes, but no one that can really play ball - except for Pete, obviously,” Simon Young said, pointing in the distance to the now-6’8” Pete Grossman, the opposing center.

At “halftime” of the game, players from both teams socialized. Carson Harris, from Lowell, mentioned something about the Cubs. “What was that?” “I said, I got hired as the GM of the Cubs,” he said. “Like, the Chicago Cubs?” “Yeah,” Carson said. Jackson immediately became very interested. “Who all’s on the staff?” “I have one assistant and two scouts from Texas, and I’m looking for an assistant and a scout from up here,” he said. Jackson immediately called “dibs” on the assistant spot. Carson laughed, but agreed. A kid he didn’t recognize brushed back his long hair, similar to how Jackson had earlier, and volunteered to be the scout. “I could be a scout,” he said quietly. “Okay, Oliver’s the scout, and Jackson, you’re my assistant. Come talk to me after the game.”

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The game ended, no one had been keeping score, but that didn’t seem to matter. Oliver, Jackson, and Carson made a plan to hold tryouts by position (pitchers and catchers, infielders, then outfielders), and after exchanging contact information, everyone started to leave. Several went into the locker room, which was much nicer than it had been two years ago, and showered, changed, or both. Carson told everyone to come back next week, he would probably have the flyers to pass out then.

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Jackson rode his skateboard to the apartment he called home. The family had moved from Foxborough to Lowell after Jackson’s graduation, and now he lived there along with two sisters and their dad when he wasn’t studying at UMass-Lowell. He couldn’t wait to see if anyone could still play. In the meantime, he researched the art of scouting players, and figured out how to grade players in just a few short days.

A boy, an older one at that, entered the copier room in the school library. He positioned the paper he was carrying in the correct corner, then pressed a button repeatedly. The button increased the number of copies to be made. The boy stopped pressing the button when he reached 71, and pressed the “copy” button. While he was waiting, he pulled out his MacBook Pro, compliments of his employer, and sent the paper as an email to a friend. The friend replied quickly, telling the boy that he was already in the process of making 35 copies for his use. The copier spit out the last copy, and the boy placed them in his bag and headed to the gym. He had made one copy for everyone who had played baseball in the Massachusetts Sports Conference in the past eight years. He hoped for most of the kids to come.

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The boy set the papers down on a white folding table. The papers were flyers for an open baseball tryout, with anyone who came to possibly become a member of the Chicago Cubs. After playing another recreational basketball game, everyone grabbed a flyer (or more) and headed for the exits. The tryout was scheduled for the next day.

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Three boys took their seats behind home plate. A former coach had been brought in to lead the tryouts. After reviewing every player, the three young scouts jotted down who they wanted to invite back. Obviously, there were some groups that wouldn’t join the team unless they could all join the team, so that was a minor issue.

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In Texas, just about the same thing happened. There were three young scouts there, too, evaluating a group of young athletes on a local high school field. The next tryout was scheduled in a week, and every player had filled out a sheet so the Cubs could contact them about the second round of tryouts.

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Complimentary of the Cubs, all six boys had received a MacBook Pro, and they now all used them to join a video chat, in which they discussed the tryout results. All six had been watching a large amount of baseball and practicing their scouting techniques, and they were now ready to give accurate, detailed reports on these players: their abilities, their physical characteristics, and their personal characteristics.

Twenty-five in all arrived at the field, almost simultaneously. 22 of them were wearing baseball pants, five of those in full catcher’s gear. The other three had clipboards, paper, and pen in hand. If you did not understand the context, you might think this was a meeting for a high school or college team. Not only were all the players from the same area, they were all 26 or younger, and at least most of them looked younger than they really were. The seventeen non-catchers strode to the mound, forming a line. They broke into groups of four or five - three or four pitchers paired with one catcher. Each pitcher threw 10 pitches, then rotated back, going through this cycle twice. Then the next group would take their turn, and so on. The clipboard-holding boys then instructed the catchers to go take off their gear and get ready to hit. One of them set up a net to “catch” the pitches. Each batter went up seven times, and each pitcher faced two batters. The last batter came up, and one of the pitchers volunteered to face him. He was a tall, skinny left-hander, and he threw three straight fastballs, all out of the strike zone. His next pitch, another fastball, was a called strike, then another fastball got fouled off. He finally threw a curveball, but it broke out of the zone. The batter flipped his bat and headed to first, but they were all called together. “We’ll have your results in about a week,” the scouts told them.

Next up were the infielders and outfielders. A few pitchers were called back to throw to them, but they were mostly working on fielding and running, with just a little hitting. As with the pitchers and catchers, their results would be finished around a week from then. At the same time, similar tryouts were going on in North Texas. A week passed, and the players were eager to get their results back. The first to get his results was a tall - very tall - first baseman from Massachusetts, the first tryout area. He was not surprised when he opened the package and found a letter telling him to report to Chicago as soon as possible. Meanwhile, between Massachusetts and Texas, sixty-eight other players got that same letter, along with their scouting report from their first and second professional tryouts.