June 29, 2022.

It’s late and there’s, like, only three other grunts in the joint when the guy comes in and slides onto his barstool. Actually, his motion isn’t a slide so much as a lurch—more like a punk kid who comes too late into second base. The whole stool shakes with the impact of his butt on hardwood.

“What’ch’ya drinkin’?” the bartender asks.

The guy looks up and licks his lips as if it’s been a decade since his last pick-me-up. He’s thin and pale, kind of gray around the lips. But the bartender is a pro, a guy from the Bronx by way of Italy and maybe a few places in between. He knows his best bet with this kind is to shut his trap and let the man have his moment.

“Got an Iron City?” the guy asks.

“Iron City it is.”

The bartender fishes a bottle out of the cooler. The guy’s got that hard look around him that says family man, but something about this one doesn’t worry him any. The suit is shabby and wrinkled. It’s a bit out of date, even to the beer jockey’s unrefined palate. He brings the bottle forward, cracks the lid, and pours a standard glass with a perfect head. He smiles as he puts the glass on the dark bar table.

The guy peers into the beer and watches bubbles rise into that perfect layer of foam. The corner of one lip curls upward, and his eyes rise to catch the bartender’s gaze. “That’s a damn fine pour,” he says.

“I’m the best at what I do,” the beer jockey says.

The guy wraps his hand around the glass, but doesn’t lift it. He looks at the screen where the Hitmen are playing. It’s the 12th inning. Two outs, 2-2 count on Rafael Vialla, a kid who came up straight from AA a couple weeks ago.

“You follow the game,” the bartender says, sensing something.

“Yeah. Back a while ago, anyway.”

The bartender shrugs. “The Hitmen’ll suck your soul dry.”

The two watch the screen as Vialla swings at and misses a Jo Kichida fastball up in the zone.

“See what I mean?”

“That’s baseball,” the gray-lipped man says. He leans forward and seems to breathe in the hoppy aroma of the beer’s effervescence.

The screen goes to a commercial

“Time for a money break,” the bartender says. He runs his rag over the counter.

The guy in the barstool sits a little taller. “Nothing wrong with paying the bills.” A distant smile comes to his lips.

“Yeah. But the bill’s pretty danged high.”

The guy shrugs as if there’s nothing left to say. The fabric of his suit gives a strange rasp.

“Which kid do you think is gonna get the big bucks come Friday?” the bartender says.

“What do you mean?”

“International free agents declare Friday. Maybe you didn’t know?”

“International Free Agents?”

“Yeah. Guys from outside the US. They declare for Free Agency, and all the owners line up to give them cash.”

Now the guy sits rock-solid straight. He stares hard at the bartender, and the Iron City bubbling away in front of him could be in Topeka or Katmandu for all he’s paying it any attention.

“How much?”

“Suppose it depends on the kid.”

The bartender is warming up now. Like all bartenders he likes being the guy with answers, but mostly he likes talking about baseball with someone who cares about the details. His wife doesn’t understand, and his friends just want to trade him Bryant Burris for Luis Cedeño. The PEBA is growing up these days. No one thinks about the details any more. But the bartender does. He understands that young guys are the heart of the game. It’s why he drafted Cedeño in the first place back when no one else knew what the rookie could really do. Most fans are idiots.

But this guy in front of him…

There’s something here.

“How does it work?” the guy in the barstool asks, his voice as sharp as one of Rainmaker’s curveballs.

The bartender leans in. “The kids get until June 30th to put their names in, then the owners basically go bobbing for apples.”

“What happened to Free Agency?”

“That’s still there, but this is totally different. These are kids.”

“How old?”

“Sixteen, maybe seventeen.”

The guy’s eyes get big. “Baseball owners are bidding for sixteen year olds?”

“When you got more money than brains, you gotta spend it on something.”

“You can say that again.”

“When you—”

The guy waves his hand, then motions him to continue. “So these teen-agers,” the guy says, “Do they have agents?”

“Of course.”

“Union membership?”

“When they sign.”

The guy’s face gets an expression that makes the bartender wonder if the barstool is going to need a special cleaning.

“How much?” the guy asks.

“The cap is about $3 Mil.”

“Three bills? The owners are dropping up to three million dollars on kids who may not even be driving?”

“Yeah, it’s like the freakin ice cream truck rolls up and out fall baseball contracts. I’ll take the chocolate dip with the $3M bonus, please.”

The guy’s eyes lose focus. “Three million dollars.” The words are a whisper.

“We’ll, they can go higher, but then the clubs gotta pay a 100% tax.”

The man on the stool lurches like he’s getting out of the way of chin-high cheese from Gunner MacGruder. He literally squelches a yelp of joy. “100% tax?”

“Technically I guess you can say there’s no cap.”

The man begins to laugh. The sound is strange and strange and stranger than strange. It’s a sound that comes from somewhere deep and far away, it comes with the sound of a distant flood. “Holy Mother of All that is Mercy,” the guy gasps between giggles. “Andy Freaking Messersmith,” he chortles. “Catfish Hunter.”

The bartender knows these names, but only because, to him, baseball is the whole of what a man needs to know to get along in this world. He knows about the old reserve clause, he knows about Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale negotiating $100K contracts together against the Dodgers just because they could. Two for one, they said. Sign us both, or we both sit. Solidarity. He had heard of Messersmith. He knew Hunter was the first guy to make a million freaking bucks.

No one else he knows would get those names though.

No one.

He looks at the guy. There is definitely something familiar about him, but the bartender can’t put his finger on it.

“That’s how it’s been ever since free agency and market pricing,” the bartender says, mostly to fill space. It feels like the conversation is done, except there’s more to go. “I mean, the MLB imploded over it, and the PEBA looked like it was bringing back old time baseball for baseball’s sake. But there’s always just so much money.”

The barstool guy nods and gathers himself.

“And the owners just can’t help themselves,” the bartender says.

“It’s the nature of capitalism to breed excess,” the man replies. “All you can do is try to make sure the guys doing the work get their fair share.”

The bartender looks back at the game. It’s the bottom of the 13th inning, and the Hitmen have the bases full with one out. Outfielder Clifford Green is at the plate. Greenie is putting together a helluva year now. Hitting .320. He’s going to make half a million dollars this season, and more next when arbitration kicks in.

“Yeah,” the bartender says. “The guy that did that ought to be in the Hall of Fame, you know?”

The guy shrugs. His suit gives another creaky sigh.

Kichida runs the count to 2-0, then comes into Greenie. Greenie drops a base hit to left field, and the game’s over. 4-3 New Jersey.

When the bartender turns back around, the guy has left the stool and is halfway out the door. “Sixteen years old!” the guy mutters in wonder. “Three million bucks … plus tax!”

Then the door closes, and the man is gone. His Iron City remains untouched on the barstool, it’s head still perfectly drawn.