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12 · 01-14-2011, 04:45 PM

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.

01-14-2011, 04:45 PM	#6
12 Banned OVR: 32 Join Date: Feb 2010 Posts: 4,468	Re: Road to the Show: Brayden Wiley, LHP 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.