Moneyball (Movie Tie-In Edition) (Movie Tie-In Editions) Read Free Page A

toughest high school baseball leagues in the country. By his junior year he was six foot four, 180 pounds and still growing, and his high school diamond was infested with major league scouts, who watched him hit over .500 again. In the first big game after Billy had come to the scouts’ attention, Billy pitched a two-hitter, stole four bases, and hit three triples. Twenty-two years later the triples would remain a California schoolboy record, but it was the way he’d hit them that stuck in the mind. The ballpark that day had no fences; it was just an endless hot tundra in the San Diego suburbs. After Billy hit the first triple over the heads of the opposing outfielders, the outfielders played him deeper. When he hit it over their heads the second time, the outfielders moved back again, and played him roughly where the parking lot would have been outside a big league stadium. Whereupon Billy hit it over their heads a third time. The crowd had actually laughed the last time he’d done it. That’s how it was with Billy when he played anything, but especially when he played baseball: blink and you might miss something you’d never see again.
    He encouraged strong feelings in the older men who were paid to imagine what kind of pro ballplayer a young man might become. The boy had a body you could dream on. Ramrod-straight and lean but not so lean you couldn’t imagine him filling out. And that face! Beneath an unruly mop of dark brown hair the boy had the sharp features the scouts loved. Some of the scouts still believed they could tell by the structure of a young man’s face not only his character but his future in pro ball. They had a phrase they used: “the Good Face.” Billy had the Good Face.
    Billy’s coach, Sam Blalock, didn’t know what to make of the scouts. “I’ve got this first-round draft pick,” he says, “and fifteen and twenty scouts showing up every time we scrimmage . And I didn’t know what to do. I’d never played pro ball.” Twenty years later Sam Blalock would be selected by his peers as the best high school baseball coach in the country. His teams at Rancho Bernardo High School in San Diego would produce so many big league prospects that the school would come to be known, in baseball circles, as “The Factory.” But in 1979 Blalock was only a few years into his job, and he was still in awe of Major League Baseball, and its many representatives who turned up at his practices. Each and every one of them, it seemed, wanted to get to know Billy Beane personally. It got so that Billy would run from practice straight to some friend’s house to avoid their incessant phone calls to his home. With the scouts, Billy was cool. With his coaches, Billy was cool. The only one who ever got to Billy where he lived was an English teacher who yanked him out of class one day and told him he was too bright to get by on his athletic gifts and his charm. For her, Billy wanted to be better than he was. For the scouts—well, the scouts he could take or leave.
    What Sam Blalock now thinks he should have done is to herd the scouts into a corner and tell them to just sit there until such time as they were called upon. What he did, instead, was whatever they wanted him to do; and what they wanted him to do was trot his star out for inspection. They’d ask to see Billy run. Sam would have Billy run sprints for them. They’d ask to see Billy throw and Billy would proceed to the outfield and fire rockets to Sam at the plate. They’d want to see Billy hit and Sam would throw batting practice with no one there but Billy and the scouts. (“Me throwing, Billy hitting, and twenty big league scouts in the outfield shagging flies,” recalls Blalock.) Each time the scouts saw Billy they saw only what they wanted to see: a future big league star.
    As for Billy—Sam just let him be. Baseball, to Blalock’s way of thinking, at least at the beginning of his career, was more of an individual than a team sport, and more of an