Page 13 of Unwritten Rules
“Yeah, I didn’t know what they were trying to say either.” Though that’s bullshit, given that Courtland was hired to be an analytics-minded manager by the organization that pioneered analytics. “Basically, you’re better at stealing strikes than Morales is.”
Zach stares down at the packet again, mostly so that Courtland is looking at the crown of his head and not whatever expression passes over his face, in case he’s accused of not wanting to see his teammate succeed.
Which he doesn’t, at least a little.
Especially at something Zach has worked on, spending hours, days, weeks with their training staff on improving his framing, so that on a borderline pitch, an umpire is more likely to call a ball a strike.
“It turns out,” Courtland continues, “that more strikes means fewer base runners. Which means fewer runs. Which means we win more.”
“Yeah, I got that.” It’s a little more sarcastic than Zach should be, particularly since Courtland can bust him down to triple-A, though he just gets a laugh out of him, loud enough in the otherwise quiet office that Zach’s hearing aid barks painfully.
“Point is,” Courtland says, “it’s spring training. Even if I don’t have you out doing bunting drills, there’s time to put in some work.”
Zach doesn’t say that he has been working with their hitting coach on his timing. With Morgan to the point that he’s aching. And he definitely doesn’t say that he both resents and is looking forward to spending more time with Eugenio, just the two of them. So he just says, “Okay.”
“See, Glasser, that’s what I like about you. No arguing. No bullshit.” Implying Eugenio argued with him or balked at having to work on something—though he’s been there every morning before Zach has, and Zach usually leaves before he does. “I expect to go into the regular season with two catchers who could convince an umpire that up is down and left is right and that a ball three inches outside the zone is actually a strike down the middle. D’Spara and Martinez’ll get you caught up on what they’re thinking.”
It’s a dismissal, so Zach dismisses himself.
He finds Eugenio out in the clubhouse.
“I hear you’re gonna teach me to frame better.” Eugenio doesn’t sound particularly happy about it.
“They didn’t work with you last year?”
Eugenio shrugs. “They did. I’m just lousy at it. And the organization didn’t prioritize it, you know? Glad to be someplace that does.”
“Sounds like D’Spara and Marti are coming up with something.”
“I thought we could practice. Or you could diagnose what I’m doing wrong?” He says it quietly, like he’s entrusting Zach with this. A request Zach wouldn’t refuse even without being ordered to help him.
They’ve only been out in the bullpen for a few minutes—after Zach makes Eugenio dig up the now-cold breakfast he brought him—but it only takes a few minutes to realize what Eugenio is doing wrong in framing: pretty much everything.
It’s heartening in a way. Eugenio is a smooth receiver and his pop time, the time it takes him to throw out would-be base stealers, borders on elite. Zach’s been watching him catch for more than a week, and he’s good at it. Except, apparently, when he’s trying to frame pitches.
“You can’t keep moving your glove like that,” Zach says, when Eugenio catches a ball fired by the pitching machine.
“I’m supposed to move my glove.”
“Yes, you’re supposed to move your glove. Just not likethat.”
Because decent pitch framing is about moving your glove slightly, subtly, imperceptibly to convince an umpire a ball is a strike. But even the most nearsighted, fool-headed umpire could see that Eugenio is practically jerking his glove on pitches, dragging it obviously inward, to the degree that he’s even making pitches that are strikes look like they aren’t.
And the thing is, Zach can just tell him that he’s doing well. Lie to him and say, “Yep, go get ’em.” But of course he doesn’t want to get chewed out by Marti, or deal with D’Spara’s deep, almost parental disappointment. Or admit to Eugenio that that’s what he’s doing.
On top of that, Eugenio is frustrated, all lip-chewing, jaw-clenching, temple-throbbing annoyance behind his mask. He’s taken a few balls off the chest, which probably smarts, even if they’re not being hurled by the pitching machine at full velocity. He’s scrambled after a few more, knees in the dirt, like it matters if he doesn’t field what would obviously be wild pitches. He curses as he catches a pitch, moving it so obviously that he doesn’t even wait for Zach to tell him he messed up. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Zach goes over to the Gatorade cooler and offers Eugenio a cup. “We could watch video instead.” Because D’Spara’s back and probably has more footage of framing than Zach ever cares to see.
“Did watching porn teach you how to fuck?” Eugenio snaps, and it hangs there for a second before Zach laughs. “Sorry, I’ve watched tons of video. I know when I’m bad at something. Hell, even my coaches told me I was bad at it.” He makes a vague hand motion that seems to encompass everything wrong in his previous organization.
“You just gotta relax. Stop thinking about it.”
Eugenio gives him an incredulous look.
“Fuck, I know, I know, that’s not helpful.” Zach buckles his chest protector and then slips on his mask. Squatting in front of the pitching machine is like facing a firing squad, or at least, a squad firing a bunch of baseballs at him at eighty miles an hour. Even with the chest protector, he’s going to have bruises. He crouches down and waits for the pitching machine to fire. The ball comes at him more or less down the middle. He catches it, careful not to adjust his glove.
“I know how to catch a ball,” Eugenio says. “And you didn’t even move.”
