[Jazzmosis]

I’ve always been a quiet guy. So I had never known how to deal with the media, let alone more than five people at a time. And to be hired so young - I was criticized intensely by nearly every sports radio show, fan, GM, and newspaper around. I hardly could ever answer the questions. How could I? I guess as time goes on, I’ll discover these things.

My name is Mark Jazzington. I know, a weird last name. Well sue me, I didn’t pick it. My life changed while in an amateur league. I played for the Oakridge Reds, a great team in Canada. I wasn’t a pivotal player in the team - more of a relief pitcher. I was, however, the only left-handed pitcher in nearly the entire league. But my pitching talents weren’t what got me noticed. Not when the scouts started to hear about our team and our undefeated season. I pitched on an off during the season, and was horrifically inconsistent. Almost inning to inning, I’d be a different pitcher. Lights out, then lit up. But my real skills were for reading other pitchers. I almost always sat next to my coaches and told them what the pitcher was going to throw next. Curve, change, fastball, whatever - I could figure it out. The small idiosyncrasies that every pitcher had. When scouts came around, questions were asked about how our team hit so well. My coaches talked about their dedication, but when asked what gave them the edge, they pointed at me. I wasn’t even paying attention at the time, I was just catching balls thrown into the infield during pre-game warmups. That’s when it all started.

After that game, a scout approached me. “They say you’re very good at reading pitchers.”

I just stared at him. He hadn’t even told me his name. “Uh. . . I guess so.” Was all I could muster up.

“I’m Roy Pickering. I’m a scout.”

I still looked him, partially sceptical. “Okay?”

Mr. Pickering shifted his weight, as if inpatient and talking to a child. “My management wants to see what you can do.”

By this point, I was trying to figure out if this was just a prank on me from my team. “Who do you work for?”

“The Florida Marlins.”

“Yeah, right.” I responded. The scout pulled out a document and handed to me. On this, was his name, the Marlins logo, and writing that shaped a certificate. He was indeed a scout for the Marlins. I handed it back to him, feeling my heart race. “What do you want with me?”

The scout smiled. “They say you’re very good at reading pitchers. And as you may have heard, the Florida Marlins are looking for some talent - someone different in their ballclub.”

By now, I assumed that they weren’t talking about my playing abilities. “You want me as a coach, or something?”

“We shall see.” Pickering fiddled with some papers as we walked to his car. “My boss wants to try you out.”


I had no idea what he even meant. But I was soon to find out. I received numerous calls in the next few days about how the Marlins were coming to Cincinnati and they wanted me there. They even gave me front row tickets, right behind the plate. And plane tickets to Cincinnati. Finally, I accepted and went - against my father’s wishes. When I got to the game, after getting lost in Cincy twice, I sat in my seats and there was Mr. Pickering, right in the seat next to me. Beside him was another man, one I’d never seen before.

“Ah, Mark. This is the GM of the Marlins, Reynold Fistell.” Mr. Pickering introduced. I shook his hand, but so much was running through my mind that I’d already forgotten his name.

“What do you want me to do here?” I asked, stupidly.

Pickering laughed. “Call the pitches. Do what you do best. This is the tryout.”

“Okay. . .” I trailed off. A one game tryout? For what job? I didn’t even know. They just kept telling me on the phone that they were very interested in my talent.

So I did what they asked. I watched this Cincinnati pitcher throw warmups and the first inning. I was nervous, so I was distracted easily. The GM, Mr. What’s-his-name, piped up. “What’s he going to throw next?”

“I don’t know. It takes a couple innings some times.” I responded. That was a blatant lie. I could figure out pitchers so quickly. But this was different.

As the innings dragged on, the game saw the Marlins losing by a terrible score of 10-3, or something. However, I had finally caught a rhythm. By the 5th inning, I could call the pitches with at least a 90% success rate. The GM seemed impressed. “How do you know he’s going to throw a changeup?” He asked.

I had become fairly focussed by this point, so his question caught me off guard. Without even looking away from the pitcher, I pointed. “He bends his right knee slightly when he picks up the sign for a changeup.”

“Amazing.” Pickering said. “I don’t even see it.”

But I was right.

The game ended, the Marlins getting blown out by a score of 15-6 or along those lines. I wasn’t really paying attention. The GM shook my hand again and said he’d call me in the offseason. Which was in about two weeks.


The weeks passed slowly. I had nearly forgotten about the whole ordeal, since I hadn’t received any calls since that day. Then, I heard that the Florida Marlins had fired their manager after a disappointing, 80-82 season. I remembered reading that they were supposed to make the playoffs. They didn’t even make third in their division.

It was mid-October when I received a call from a forgotten person.

“Congratulations, Mr. Jazzington.” The voice said.

“For what?” I asked, confused.

“You’ve got the job.”

I thought about jobs I had applied for. “Is this the pizzeria on Stanton Street?”

The voice laughed. “No. This is Reynold Fistell.”

It sounded like a name I should have known, but didn’t. So I faked it. “Oh, yes!”

“We’ve selected you to replace Edward Gregorio.” Mr. Fistell said.

Now that name was familiar. He was the recently fired Marlins manager. “Is this some sort of cruel joke?” I asked.

“By no means.” He responded. “You’re the new Florida Marlins manager.” There was a silence on both ends. “Unless, of course. . . you really are looking forward to that pizzeria job.”

I smiled weakly. “No, not really.” The conversation went on, but I was just given information and when to show up to Spring Training. . . and where Spring training was. Mr. Fistell then told me to call him back and give him what my answer was by the end of the week.


I talked to my father, who had mixed results. “You? What do they want you for?”

“I don’t know - but I have the job.”

“How much are they going to pay you? Where will you live?” My father asked.

In all the confusion and surprise, I’d forgotten to ask about the contract. After lengthy debates, my parents agreed to let me take the job. I called back the next day and confirmed. Also, I asked about the contract, which basically answered every other question my dad had asked. I was to be paid 100,000 dollars for a one year deal. After hearing that, I threw up. That was a lot of money.

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Please note that my age and the likes will be revealed in the next few chapters.