The Guardians Got a Steal in Pitching Prospect Franklin Gómez
· Yahoo Sports
Screenings and Scouting Reports
– byMario Crescibene
I found myself sitting in my ’90s Alfa Romeo Spider at the Midway Drive-In Theater in Ravenna, waiting for Bull Durham to begin. There was always something about the nostalgia of a drive-in theater on a hot summer night that I loved. And what better place than the Midway Drive-In?
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The moment you pull up, you’re greeted by a classic 1950s-style marquee with MIDWAY spelled out in red retro boxes with cream-filled letters. A row of flags line the top of the sign, snapping quietly in the evening wind. And below the bold MIDWAY, the night’s films are spelled out in red plastic letters — each placed by hand one at a time — the same way it’s been done for decades.
I settled into the black leather seat of my Spider with a coke propped between my legs, a bag of popcorn resting somewhat precariously against the door, and a hot dog on one leg. The black leather still held the warmth of the day and as the movie started, Susan Sarandon’s voice came over the speaker. An organ hummed softly in the background as she launched into her opening monologue about the Church of Baseball.
The Church of Baseball? In a car with warm leather seats, a hotdog, popcorn, a coke, and a baseball movie? I was already in heaven.
At least I thought I was in for a baseball movie. But as Susan Sarandon’s character kept talking, she started getting into the countless relationships she’d had, one season after the other, with one minor leaguer after the next.
“What kind of a movie is this?” I asked myself out loud.
Just as her monologue concluded, I heard the crunch of gravel under a car’s tires. And as I turned my head, a Buick came rumbling up to the left of me and eased into the spot right next to mine. I had a sneaky suspicion who it was as soon as I saw the old Buick, and hung my elbow out the window to get a good look at my drive-in neighbor — and sure enough, there he was.
As he put the car in park, Gus glanced over and did a double take. His eyes glinted as they always did as he realized who he’d run into once again.
“Mario!”
“Gus! What in the world are you doing here?”
“Same as you, I’d imagine,” he said, nodding toward the screen. “C’mon, get in — we’ll watch the movie together.”
I quickly finished my hotdog, gathered up my coke and popcorn, and made the short migration from my car to his. I climbed in and pulled the door shut. Apparently I used too much force, however, because as the door slammed closed, the Buick’s alarm exploded to life, blaring its off-key rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”
“Sorry, sorry!” Gus fumbled with his keys, but finally cut the alarm mid-note. “Well at least the alarm fits the theme of the movie,” Gus chortled out.
“I’m not so sure, Gus,” I countered. “I thought this was a baseball movie, but this is starting to feel more like a chick-flick.”
“Never seen it,” Gus shot back as he systematically laid four hotdogs in his lap.
“Me neither,” I responded. “But it’s not capturing my attention.”
As I got situated in Gus’s car, I took stock of my new surroundings. Scouting reports and notes were jammed into every crevice of the navy blue interior of the Buick. Papers and notes were stuck in the seat pockets, the dash, and even wedged between the seats. A season schedule was taped to the windshield just above the dashboard. And I couldn’t help but notice, tucked in the open glove compartment was an old stopwatch sitting next to a folding mustache comb.
On the movie screen, the story shifted to Nuke LaLoosh, the talented but brash pitching prospect and the old veteran Crash Davis… and of course Annie Savoy the prospect-whisperer-seductress. But between the love triangle and supposed baseball advice, I just couldn’t get invested in the story of the prospect pitcher or the washed-up catcher.
Watching it, something occurred to me.
“You know, Gus,” I started, “we never talk much about pitchers. I don’t really care whether Nuke makes the majors, but are there any pitching prospects you’ve got your eye on?”
“Funny you should ask.” Gus said, setting down his hotdog — somehow he’d already finished two without me noticing — and rubbed his palms together excitedly. “Franklin Gómez. Kid’s a steal, Mario. An absolute steal. Cleveland picked him up from the Mets this offseason for next to nothing, just a chunk of international bonus money. Twenty-one years old, lefty, six-foot, weighs two-twenty. He was in the Mets’ system since he signed out of Venezuela back in ’22.”
As he said that, Annie Savoy told Crash and Nuke she wanted to take them both back to her apartment.
“What kind of a movie is this?” Gus asked, perplexed.
“I think we bought tickets to Sex and the City by mistake, Gus,” I joked leaning over to prod him with my elbow.
Gus shook his head and refocused on Gómez. “The interesting thing, Mario, is that everyone’s talking about Braylon Doughty, but he and Gómez had almost identical numbers while at Lake County.”
Uninterested in the movie’s drama of the ever-evolving love triangle, I whipped out my phone and pulled up the stats:
Gus was right. Doughty and Gómez had almost identical numbers across the board.
“But don’t let the stats fool you, Mario. These two might appear the same on paper, but they are completely different on the mound. Doughty’s got the stuff — power sinker, cutter, the kind of arm that jumps off a scouting card. Gómez doesn’t light up a radar gun. He gets you out because he knows exactly what he’s doing up there. Command over stuff, every time.”
As Gus continued, I pulled up Gómez’s advanced stats:
“Look at his walk rate this year,” Gus said, jabbing a finger at the screen. “7.5%. Strikeout rate’s right there with it at 27.6%. Put those together and you get a K-BB% over 20%. And he’s got a FIP of 3.69 although his BABIP’s on the higher side at .327. But don’t get me wrong — the command jump is real, and that’s the part that’ll set him up for success.”
I glanced back at the screen to see Annie in a batting cage, shaking her hips at Crash while on a date — as she continued to insist that she was monogamous with Nuke.
“Pucha,” I muttered. “Esta chica es una trampa.”
Gus shook his head and went right back to his analysis. “Realistically? You’re looking at Gómez being a back-end starter… maybe a swingman if the fastball doesn’t tick up. But it’s promising when you see him putting up the same numbers as Doughty. Kid’s a project worth being patient with.”
Before I could respond, Nuke appeared on the screen in a dream-sequence with him dripping sweat while pitching in nothing but a garter belt and a jockstrap.
“What is this?” I said, sitting up. “Magic Mike?”
Gus squinted at the screen. “I don’t know what Magic Mike is, Mario, but I sure know this ain’t a baseball movie.”
“You’re telling me,” I said.
Then I added, “You know, Gus… you always dash away each time I see you. How are you going to do that this time? You can’t exactly drive away with me in the car.”
Gus squinted at Tim Robbins in a garter. “Why don’t we both make a quick getaway this time, Mario? Patience will pay off with Franklin Gómez, as he makes his way back from an elbow injury, but I’ve lost my patience with this movie. Let’s head to the Birdie Shack for some ice cream.”
“Sounds good to me,” I responded. And then remembering a line from the movie I added, “That movie’s a lot like how Nuke pitches, sort of all over the place.”
Gus laughed. “They got a million-dollar cast, but a five-cent script.”
And with that, we pulled away.