The Rise and Rise of Little Gato

[Arroyos]

The Rise and Rise of Little Gato

It was the best of meetings, it was the worst of meetings, it was the usual chit-chat and folderol, it was like nothing before or since, it was the usual GM chow-down and get-together, it was all Little Gato’s show, it was a heady time, it was an assault on the senses, it was the beginning of a new season, it was the end of an era, and for Little Gato, most of all, it was the culmination of years of frustration and it was to bring the relief he had given up hope for. It was, in short, the 2030 PEBA Winter Meetings.

The most exciting news, at least from the point of view of the Yuma Bulldozer contingent, was the announcement of the team’s new name, the Arroyos, and the revealing of the new logo and uniforms. That took place just about an hour into the meetings, and the Yuma staff in attendance sat back in the belief that nothing else of importance could possible take place that would eclipse their announcement. But no more than ten minutes after the planned announcement, a Yuma ball player burst into the ballroom and started shouting, “I want to play ball for anyone but Yuma! Please, trade for me!”

When the shock from being so rudely interrupted resided, the GMs started to laugh at the arrogance, the presumption, the temerity and gall of a ballplayer—one of their ballplayers—daring to charge into the sacred gathering and demand to be traded. It’d never happened before.

Maybe it was a stunt, a kind of show, an entertainment to fill the gap between announcements of new team names and negotiated trades. “It’s an act!” someone shouted out. And then someone else started to applaud. Other joined in, but the young man refused to take his cue and bow. Instead, he grabbed the tie of the GM nearest him—a silk tie, probably a Stefano Ricci tie worth a thousand dollars—and yanked the GM until they were face to face. “Trade for me. Gato. Good pitcher.”

“Get your hands off my tie!” the GM retorted. “Do you know how much that tie cost?”

Undeterred, the young man turned to the next man wearing a tie—a much less expensive tie, it must be noted—and without grabbing him put his face, the desperate face of a desperate ballplayer, in the face of the man wearing the cheaper tie and pleaded, “Trade for me. I will win championship for you. Gato.”

“Sorry,” the man said, “I’m just a waiter.”

Truly distraught, Little Gato—who is neither short of height nor lacking in breadth, but that’s what his teammates call him, Little, rather like Little John of the Robin Hood tales—Little Gato wondered how he might communicate his dire situation to the men in this room? How can he get them to hear him? So many GMs and all he wanted was one who would make a trade with his team and deliver him from the hell of Yuma, Arizona. How do you tell a crowd that you can bear losing no longer? That you are a winner by nature, a champion by heart, a … a … Gato could think no more, so he jumped on top of a table and cried out, “Please, gentlemen, listen to me! I cannot play for Yuma. Lose, lose, lose, that is all they do. I must win some day. Please, trade for me, I promise best season of my career!”

Before he could reiterate his plea, two uniforms strong-armed him off the table and out of the ballroom. “Please!” he yelled back at the GMs gawking at the young ballplayer being dragged away from their Winter Meetings. “Please!” But they had returned to their cocktails, their undercooked chicken dinners, their bejeweled wives and girlfriends, and to the business at hand, that being the swapping of young men for other young men in the hopes of making a larger profit. Gato’s cries could not be heard over the sound of coins falling on coins in the loud clamor of capitalism.

Or maybe Gato was heard?

As security led the now docile pitcher across the lobby toward the hotel entrance, a messenger came running from the ballroom to the lobby.

“Mr. Gato, Mr. Gato!” the young lad called.

Gato stopped in his tracks and the security guards let go his arms as the messenger blurted out, “You got it … what you wished for. They’re gonna trade you!”

Gato nearly collapsed. “Really? You not fooling me?”

“No, no, it’s real,” the messenger said.

“Who traded for me?” Gato asked.

The messenger shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“No matter,” said Gato. “I don’t care. I will pitch not in Yuma any more!”

And with that he grinned a grin as large as the stadium he would be leaving. “I am Yuman Being no more!”