Road to the Show: Brayden Wiley, LHP

[12]

Game: MLB '10: The Show
Mode: RTTS
Beginning Difficulty: Veteran
Sliders: Default

Player Profile:

Player Name: Brayden Wiley
Position: LHP/1B
Height: 6'4"
Weight: 210

[12]

Draft Day

Brayden Wiley needed some time alone. This was the biggest day of his life. He was 17-years-old and the next couple of hours would determine his future. He loved sharing this day with the people he loved, but for now, he had to escape to his bedroom while his friends and family were downstairs. His mom had made sure to provide refreshments for all the people in the house, which totaled 20 or so. His dad was outside standing at the barbecue preparing hamburgers and hot dogs, obviously proud of what this occasion was all about.

The Pasco, Washington native had to get away from everything. He was beyond excited but he was also scared. He hoped the people downstairs would understand. As he looked through pictures that spanned his entire childhood, from Little League to now. It had all went so fast. He had sports memorabilia spread throughout his room, but the one thing that he cherished most was in a case. It was a baseball, but not just any baseball. It was the ball from the state playoffs where he threw a perfect game. Seven innings, 15 strike outs. Not a single player reached base safely, and really, no one even got close. That was the day when he really starting thinking about his future, and perhaps for the first time, he knew baseball would be his future.

Lefties don't grow on trees. A dominant lefty in baseball is something that scouts drool over. They are as precious as gold. He didn't throw hard, but he was smart. He studied film and his work ethic was second to none. His fastball topped out at 90 miles per hour in his last high school start, but his arm was still developing. He throws a sweeping curve and slider as well, but these pitches would need to be refined. At 6'4" and 210 pounds, he had the frame to develop nicely. He was a strong kid who had good mechanics. Scouts generally gave him high praise, and he was often called a first-round talent. There were a few who didn't, but that didn't bother him.

He pitched on varsity as a freshman, compiling a 5-0 record with a 2.25 ERA. Over his high school career, Wiley had a 26-2 record, with an ERA of 1.75. He struck out nearly two batters an inning. That playoff game was the defining moment for him, though. His high school team, Chiawana, was playing the defending state champion, the Ferris Saxons out of Spokane. The Saxons had some MLB level talent on their roster and had a few kids who had scholarships. The newspapers touted the game as the typical "David versus Goliath" battle. Wiley went out and dominated the Saxons. Seven innings, no runs, no hits, no walks, and 15 glorious strikeouts.

The first round of the 2010 MLB Draft had come and gone. Wiley was projected as a first round pick. Projections are often wrong. He thought that there was a strong possibility that his hometown team, the Mariners, would select him in the first round. The Mariners decided to pass on him.

This was when he went to his room. He wasn't pouting, even though it would seem like he was. He just wanted to be alone. He had his cell phone in his hand, and every MLB team had his number. He was just waiting for the call. To pass the time, he fired up his PS3 and began playing MLB '10: The Show. He loved that game.

He made his mind up a week ago that he would bypass college and sign a big league contract. College can wait, he thought. The University of Washington had offered him a full-ride scholarship to pitch for them. So did about every other college on the West Coast. College wasn't where his heart was, though. He wanted to get his career going. He planned on taking college courses in the off season, but he also realized that that might not happen right away.

His phone rang. He didn't recognize the number. It was a scout for a Major League organization.

Three minutes later, Wiley walked downstairs, in a daze.

He couldn't stop smiling as he walked through everyone and made his way out to the backyard where he dad was still grilling burgers.

"What is it? Did you get a call?" asked his dad.

"I did. Dad, I got drafted! The seventh pick in the second round. The scout, Tom Jefferson, told me they were prepared to draft me right now. He said they couldn't believe that I was still on the board. He asked me whether I'd accept a $1.2 million signing bonus. He told me I had 15 seconds to decide. I said I would."

"What team!?" asked his dad.

"The Atlanta Braves," replied Brayden. "Let's go let everyone know!"

[12]

First Impressions...

The flight to Atlanta was a long one. Layovers in Minneapolis and Cincinnati. After nine long hours, Brayden Wiley was finally at Turner Field, meeting with the Braves' brass. He would have a workout in a little bit.

The initial conversation went really well. At first, the questions centered around baseball. Wiley talked about his family, his friends, his upbringing. The Braves seemed impressed. Then, the without much warning, the hammer was dropped.

"Tell us about the shoulder injury."

Taken aback, Wiley replied, "Um, well, there is no injury. I mean, there was some tightness in my shoulder at the end of my high school season, but it was nothing. The pain went away."

"The doctor who saw you, he told us that your shoulder was strained?"

"Yeah, that's what he said," answered Wiley. "He also said there wasn't any lasting damage, that all I needed to do was rest and not throw for a week. So I didn't. I feel great."

"You know Brayden, withholding information like that could make us terminate your signing bonus, right?"

"I withheld nothing. I didn't see it as being significant. I bad a blister on my right index finger, did you want to know about that, too? My shoulder is fine. This isn't a big deal."

Laughter filled the room.

"Well played, son. We know your shoulder is fine. Here's the thing, though. If you can't hit at least 88 on the gun today, you're not playing this season. It's June, and the season is winding down anyway. 10 pitches today, that's it. We're not going to overdue it."

"Sounds fine. I don't appreciate the games," responded Wiley.

Turner Field was beautiful, but the workout was not. Wiley was rusty and it showed. He would not be playing this season, as his fastest pitched clocked a meager 86 miles per hour. Inside, Wiley questioned himself and wondered if the Braves regretted drafting him.

"We love your arm, kid. But you're going home until February of next year. Enjoy your summer. Get your workouts in. We'll fly you down here a couple more times before Christmas. We want to be careful with you."

So, there it was. All of that for a 10-pitch workout that resulted in the Braves telling Wiley that he was not fit to play this season. Fear and doubt flooded his mind.

He didn't like how the Braves handled him. One 10-pitch workout? Really? You get more pitches warming up between innings. He could tell his velocity was not there, but he had done what the doctor said and rested his arm. He had no doubt that by the 20th pitch or so, he'd be hitting 90 on the gun. But it didn't even matter now.

It was going to be a very long summer.

[12]

June 17, 2009

The flight back home was beyond miserable for Wiley.

That was supposed to be one of the best days of my life, thought Wiley. I was expecting some kind of small press conference, or at least a local sports reporter wanting to interview me. What was that all about? A 15-minute sit down with the Braves' brass, basically calling me deceitful? A 10-pitch workout? What a waste of time. I guess I'm not Strasburg. I'm just a second round pick from some Podunk town in Washington.

It's not like I was hiding anything from the Braves. I never thought this minor injury was a big deal. Shouldn't they have done their homework on me? Shouldn't they have known about the injury, if one could even call it that? What did they expect me to do? Tell them my life story in the short time they gave me on the phone to commit to them? I mean really, what the hell was I supposed to do? The doctor told me it was a minor issue and rest would fix the problem.

Wiley felt himself getting upset. As a second round pick, he felt the Braves felt pretty highly about him. Sure, they drafted another left handed pitcher in the first round, a guy from Vanderbilt named Minor. Maybe Wiley was just an afterthought to them.

I signed a contract. I'm not an afterthought. Get out of your own head!

Now he had the rest of this plane ride, and the rest of the summer and winter, to wonder what the Braves really thought of him. Did they think they made a mistake? No, thought Wiley. They didn't. I am going to be pitching in the big leagues. I am going to be good. I've never failed at anything and I'm not about to fail now.

Miraculously, Wiley drifted off to sleep for the remainder of his flight. When he walked through the terminal, he was greeted by a man that he had never seen before.

[12]

"Brayden, my name is Tom Watts. I am a talent scout for the Atlanta Braves," said the man.

Wiley offered up his hand.

"Hello. What are you doing here?" asked Wiley.

"Good question. Usually, I am out scouting at summer tournaments throughout the country during this time of the year," answered Watts.

"That's changed. I am assigned to you. I will be living here for the summer. The Braves think very highly of you. I am here to ensure that you stay on track considering you're not reporting to a team for the remainder of the summer."

Great, a babysitter, thought Wiley.

"Thought highly of me? With all due respect Mr. Watts, I came away from the meeting feeling like the Braves thought they made a mistake in drafting me. It seemed like they basically called me a liar," said Wiley.

"I heard about that. Look, you need to understand that some people have different ways of conducting interviews. Some guys are going to see how kids react to certain things. From what I heard, you did very well."

"I stood up for myself," said Wiley.

"Kid, look. I am sure you left Atlanta with all sorts of negative thoughts running through your mind. You signed your deal, and you were probably expecting to be told where to report. They told you to stay home, and I am sure that bothered you. Here's the thing though, the Braves are doing what's best for you and for them. You're a pretty big investment. A second round pick is a big deal," said Watts, trying to assure Wiley.

"I guess. I don't know what I expected. I just thought it was all very awkward and I wasn't made to feel like they were excited about me," responded Wiley.

"Not the case at all. They took that kid Minor in the first round, but believe me, I was in the war room when the pick was made, and half of the guys in there wanted them to draft you. Minor was a known commodity because he went to college, the same college as David Price. But believe me, a lot of people believe in you, kid. When you were available in the second round, there was no hesitation. Why do you think you got a $1 million-plus bonus? That's unheard of for a second round pick. They wanted to make sure you'd sign."

Wiley smiled.

"That's more like it," said Watts. "So here's the deal - I'm not here to cuddle you. I'm not here to be your best buddy. I am here to train you, to make sure you follow a program. We start tomorrow. Be ready."

With that, Watts walked away.

[12]

June 18, 2009

Wiley's cell phone chirped. In a fog, he looked at the clock next to his bed.

5:30 AM.

He didn't recognize the number.

"Hello," said a groggy Wiley.

"In bed? Come on kid, it's time to get moving. Your old high school. 30 minutes. Bring your gear - and some good running shoes. No pitching today," said the voice on the other line.

22 minutes later, Wiley hopped in the brand new Chevy Silverado that his dad had bought him as a congratulatory gift. It was nice and he loved it. He always wanted a truck, and at 6'4", he needed the leg room. He drove down to the McDonald's that was minutes from his house and ordered an iced coffee.

15 minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of his old school.

"That's 20 sets of lines," said Watts. "6 AM is when we start. Not 6:15. No excuses. From here on out, being late will be more costly, both physically and financially. I have every right to fine you."

"Chill out," said Wiley. "You told me nothing of this yesterday, you did say we'd start today, but you call me 30 minutes before you expect me to be here? I need time to wake up, sir," said Wiley, clearly angry.

"This is a key moment, kid. No one needs to chill out. You're a professional baseball player now. It's time to start acting like it. You can choose to buy in to what I'm selling, or you can do it your way. Believe me, your way will lead to your baseball death. My way will led to an MLB career. You may not like me, but you will respect my authority this summer. I'm your boss. If you think otherwise, we can call Bobby Cox right now."

With that, Wiley apologized.

"Being late won't happen again, Mr. Watts."

A smile.

"Good. Let's get started. Stretch out, and give me 20 sets of lines. Full speed. I know you were a high school basketball standout as well, so you know all about running suicides."

Three hours later, a deflated and exhausted Wiley walked through his front door.

"Dad, I'm dead. I am going to get a nap."

"Listen to Mr. Watts, Brayden," said his dad. "He's well-respected. He's going to push you. Punish you. But believe me son, he thinks the world of you. He was the main proponent that wanted the Braves to draft you at #7 overall, but they took the other kid instead. He sees a special lefty when he looks at you. He told the Braves that if they passed on you again in the second, he'd quit. He has followed you since summer legion ball when you were 16. He seems like a stranger to you, but he's not. Listen to him, everything he says, and don't tell him that I told you any of this."

"How do you know all of this?" asked Brayden.

"When you flew to Atlanta, I had lunch with him. He flew in as you flew out. He told me things about you that I didn't even know. Your mechanics are graded at a C right now. Your fastball is rather weak but you project well. It was a lot of baseball talk. He impressed me and I trust him. You should too."

With that, Brayden smiled, shook his head, and made his way upstairs to catch some sleep.

A long summer indeed.

[12]

July 17, 2009

Peyton Jones was Brayden's best friend. He was also his catcher and had been since Little League. Jones was chubby, at 5'10" and 235 pounds, but he was a great catcher. He was an even better friend.

Wiley was in basketball shorts, Nike sandals and a white t-shirt. His high school baseball hat was turned backwards, with crazy locks of hair sticking out the sides of his head. They were seated at a local restaurant.

"You look thin, man," said Jones. "One finger diet?"

"Get out," said Wiley. "This Watts dude... Man, he is killing me. Working me to death. We're in July and I haven't had a break in a long time. The closest thing to a break I get is watching game film on Sunday's with him and my dad. Every other day, he has me running a cross country style run. It kills me."

"Aww, is the poor bonus baby crying?" asked Jones. "Excuse me if I don't feel much sympathy for you, man. You're rich. You're a member of the Braves' organization. Your dream has only just began."

"Nightmare," said Wiley. "More like a nightmare."

They both laughed.

"When will you get to pitch again?" asked Jones.

"Not until next year," responded Wiley. "The Braves are being careful. I had a shoulder strain. You remember that. With lefties, they are extra careful. Watts was telling me about Erik Bedard, the pitcher for the Mariners. He had shoulder issues that led up to a lot more injuries. He hasn't pitched in a year. They got worse for him. They are just being really cautious."

"Sounds smart," said Jones. "I bet it sucks not being able to pitch, though."

"It does, but what I've learned is that there's a lot more to pitching than just throwing the ball hard," said Wiley. "It's an absolute cerebral thing. I never really looked at it that way. I've always watched some film, you know, to gauge certain things about hitters, or about my own delivery. But man, at this level, you learn so much more."

"Sounds boring," piped Jones.

"They are talking about having me start the season in Mississippi next year," added Wiley. "Double-A ball. That surprised me, but I guess their team down there has a really good pitching coach. I'll work out of the bullpen in the beginning and they'll really be limiting my innings. After Christmas, I am flying down there to look for an apartment. Want to come?" asked Wiley.

"Sure, sounds fun," said Jones.

"Watts also has me on a pitching schedule this week. They were going to fly in one of the Braves' bullpen catchers for a couple weeks. I told him about you. Do you want to catch for me?"

"I thought you'd never ask," said Jones.

With that, their food arrived, and just like expected, silence filled the air while the two boys gorged their food.

[12]

September 22, 2009

The summer came and went. Wiley spent most of the time working out and being too tired to do anything else. If the Marines boot camp was any harder than what he'd just endured, he was glad he wasn't a Marine.

His body composition had changed. At the beginning of the summer, Wiley was 6'4" and weighed in at 224 pounds, which was hefty for him. He was listed at 210, but when Watts saw the scale, he knew the angle that he'd take.

"Kid, some guys can be hefty. But guess what? You're not CC Sabathia."

"I'll be better than him," said Wiley, clearly amused.

By the end of the summer, Wiley weighed in at a lean 212 pounds. He was just under 10 percent body fat. He had gained strength in his lower body and it was noticeable.

His fastball still seamed weak, though. Most days, it topped out at 88 miles per hour. In high school, Wiley routinely clocked 90 or 91 on the gun. He couldn't understand why he had lost velocity.

"That's typical," Watts had told him. "There are kids who throw in the upper 80s in high school, but by the time they are 21 or 22, they can hit in the mid 90s on the gun. It's all about development, kid. You're barely 18. Your fastball will come."

Watts was finally giving him a break. Two weeks of no working out, no baseball and no game film. He had planned to go to the Oregon Coast with some friends and family, and just get away from everything. He loved going there. It was the family's vacation spot.

"In October, you'll be flying with me to Atlanta. The Braves want to have another meeting with you to talk about next year. The early word says you're going to Mississippi, which is a shock to me, and I don't really agree with it. I think you'd be better served going to Rome, Georgia and playing for their single-A club. But that's not my call."

"I'll be ready for AA ball," said Wiley.

"I hope so. Hey, that Minor kid. He had a really good year. He started in Mississippi and then went to Gwinett, where the Braves AAA team is located. You have some serious competition."

"Why do you say that? He's not competition, he's an organization teammate. I wish him well," said Wiley.

"Yeah. Okay. Anyway, after your break, and after the trip to Atlanta, we will continue training up until Thanksgiving. After that, you're on your own. December and January are your months to enjoy, but keep working. Spring training starts in February."