I got to the baseball field at 9 AM sharp, thirty minutes before Coach Martinez had asked me to meet him. The morning air was warm - summer was coming early this year, and the season was winding down with only two games left.
Thirty minutes early. Sometimes I wish I was a cloud, just drifting along without having to worry about being punctual. But here we are.
I sat in the dugout, watching the groundskeeper drag the infield. This place had become my refuge over the past month since I'd started with the summer league. Baseball felt natural again, like putting on shoes that actually fit instead of the clown boots I'd been wearing for the past year.
My phone buzzed with the group chat that had become our daily check-in.
Better Men
Marcus: Soccer practice was some calm shit yesterday. Coach Jones has us running a new formation that's perfect for my style
Dre: Youth program kids had their scrimmage. My point guard dropped 18. Kid's got potential
Me: Meeting with Coach Martinez this morning
Marcus: Good luck bro
Dre: You been killing it out there
Jakari: Yo just saw these. Rico whatever coach wants, you earned it
Me: Preciate it
I put my phone away just as Coach Martinez walked across the field toward the dugout. He was carrying his clipboard and had that expression that meant he was about to say something important.
Here we go. Either I'm getting cut or promoted. My disappointment is immeasurable and my day is ruined if this goes wrong.
"Rico, kiddo, thanks for coming early."
"No problem, Coach."
Coach Martinez was a stocky Puerto Rican man in his forties who treated every player on his team like they were his own sons. He had this way of calling everyone "kiddo" or "son" that somehow never felt condescending - just genuine care wrapped up in baseball wisdom.
"I been watching you play this past month," he said, sitting down on the dugout bench. "You got elite bat speed, incredible power potential, and one of the best approaches at the plate I've seen from a young man your age."
I nodded, keeping my face neutral even though inside I was thinking, Here comes the 'but.' There's always a 'but' in these conversations.
"But I think you're limiting yourself to just hitting, son."
Wait, what? That's not the 'but' I was expecting.
"What you mean, Coach?"
"I mean, I been watching how you study hitters when you're in the field. How you call pitches from shortstop even though that ain't your job. How you always know what the pitcher should throw before he throws it."
I didn't say anything. Truth was, I'd always been obsessed with pitching strategy. My dad had been a pitcher before the streets got him, and he'd taught me to read hitters from both the mound and the batter's box.
"Your arm strength is well above average too, kiddo," Coach Martinez continued. "I'm thinking about something different for you."
"Okay..."
Is he about to ask me to be a two-way player? Because that would be both terrifying and everything I've ever wanted since watching Ohtani highlights.
"I want to try you as a two-way player, Rico. Primarily a hitter - because that bat is special - but also see if you got the stuff to pitch when we need it."
I kept my face blank, but inside I was doing backflips. Being a two-way player had always been my secret dream, though I'd never told anybody about my pitching aspirations.
"You interested, son?" Coach Martinez asked.
"Yeah. I'm interested."
Interested? Bro, I've been dreaming about this since Dad used to throw me batting practice and then let me pitch to him in the backyard. But let's play it cool.
"Good. Because I've been asking around about prospects for next year's team. We lost our cleanup hitter, and we need another arm in the rotation too."
My heart started beating faster, but I kept my expression neutral. "Really?"
"We run a solid program. Plus the athletic director is a good man too - reminds me of my old coach back in Puerto Rico. But he's particular about character - no second chances for young men who screw up off the field."
Great. No pressure there. Just don't mess up literally anything between now and tryouts. Easy.
"When you want me to start?" I asked.
"Today, kiddo. We got practice this afternoon before the game. I want to see what you can do on the mound, but mostly I want to see that monster bat against better pitching."
----
Rico Martinez was special, and not just because of his numbers.
In twelve games with us, the kid was hitting .421 with four home runs and 16 RBIs. That alone would catch attention. But what really impressed me was how he carried himself.
Never celebrated his hits, never showed emotion after striking out, just went about his business with this stone-faced expression that reminded me of the old ballplayers from my father's generation.
But I saw how he looked out for the younger kids on the team. When Zander was struggling with his confidence after getting rocked in a game, Rico spent an hour after practice just catching his bullpen session and offering quiet encouragement.
When Justin was having trouble with his swing, Rico would stay late and throw him batting practice, never making a big deal about it.
This was a young man with character, and that's all I needed to know about.
The hitting ability was obvious - kid had hands quicker than anyone I'd coached. But yesterday, when our starter got hurt and we needed someone to throw batting practice, I'd watched Rico step in.
Kid threw strikes like he'd been doing it his whole life. Smooth delivery, three different pitches, natural feel for the mound.
That's when I started thinking Chicago baseball needed to meet this young man.
----
I showed up to practice at 1:45, fifteen minutes early again. The rest of the team was already there - about eighteen guys ranging from recent high school graduates to kids like me who were trying to prove they still had game.
Look at all these dudes stretching and acting professional. Meanwhile I'm over here trying not to throw up from nerves about performing on both sides of the ball.
"Rico, kiddo!" Coach Martinez called out. "Come warm up with the pitchers first, then you'll hit with the position players."
The pitchers were a different breed - they had this quiet confidence, like they knew they were the most important players on the field. Our current rotation was led by Zander Washington, a lefty who'd pitched varsity at St. Rita before getting cut for grades.
"You the new two-way guy?" Zander asked as I joined their warm-up circle.
"Trying to be."
More like desperately hoping to be while trying not to embarrass myself in front of people who actually know what they're doing on both sides.
"Heard you got a monster bat," Zander continued. "What about pitching?"
"We'll see."
Translation: I've been secretly working on it for years but have no idea if I'm actually good or just good at fooling myself.
We started with long toss, gradually increasing the distance. My arm felt loose, strong. All those months of inactivity had actually helped - no wear and tear, no bad habits built up from overuse.
After warm-ups, Coach Martinez called me over to the mound. "Alright, son. Show me what you got. Start with your fastball, then work in your off-speed stuff."
I took the mound for the first time in a real practice setting. The rubber felt familiar under my foot, the distance to home plate looked exactly right.
Okay, don't overthink this. Just throw strikes and try not to kill anybody.
Justin Coleman caught for me while I threw my first official bullpen session as a pitcher. The first few throws were rusty - too high, too outside, trying to do too much. But gradually, I found my rhythm.
Fastball after fastball, hitting the strike zone consistently. Then I started mixing in my curveball - a sharp breaking ball that Dad had taught me when I was thirteen.
"That's a nice curve, Rico," Justin called out after I threw one that started at eye level and dropped into the strike zone. "Got some real bite to it."
Don't get cocky, Rico. It's just practice. Wait until there's an actual batter trying to take your head off.
----
I was making notes on my clipboard, but really I was trying not to show my surprise. Rico's pitching mechanics were way more polished than I'd expected.
This kiddo had obviously been working on this for a while. His delivery was smooth, his arm action was clean, and he was hitting his spots with surprising consistency.
But the real eye-opener was his fastball velocity. The kid was sitting in the low-to-mid 80s, which was legitimate varsity level stuff.
"Alright, let's see how you do against live hitting, son," I called out.
Keenan Jackson stepped into the batter's box - a solid hitter who'd played varsity at Simeon. He was grinning like he was about to take the new guy deep.
"Don't go easy on me, rook," he called out.
Rico's expression didn't change. Kid looked like he was waiting for a bus, not about to pitch to a good hitter for the first time.
The first pitch was a fastball on the outside corner.
PAH!
Perfect strike. Keenan stepped out, surprised by the location and velocity.
"Damn, kiddo's got some heat," I muttered to myself.
The second pitch was that curveball. Keenan was sitting on another fastball and started his swing early. The ball broke down and away, and he whiffed completely.
PAH!
Rico finished the at-bat with another fastball on the corners.
PAH!
Three pitches, three strikes. Keenan walked back to the dugout shaking his head.
"Who's next?" Rico called out, like striking out a varsity-level hitter was just another Tuesday for him.
This wasn't beginner's luck. This young man had been preparing for this moment.
----
"Alright, that's enough pitching for today, kiddo," Coach Martinez called out. "Rico, grab your bat. Let's see what everybody's been talking about."
Oh great. Now I have to prove I can hit after just striking out three guys. Give me a break.
I jogged to the batting cage where Nathan Davis was throwing batting practice. He was a decent pitcher - low 80s fastball with an okay slider.
"Heard you just struck out half our lineup," Nathan called out as I stepped into the box. "Let's see if you can hit as good as you pitch."
Challenge accepted. Time to show these dudes why hitting is actually my thing.
Nathan's first pitch was a fastball down the middle. I turned on it, driving it hard to left-center field.
DING!
The ball jumped off my bat with that perfect sound that every hitter lives for.
The ball cleared the fence by about fifteen feet. Home run on the first swing.
Okay, this feels more like home. Pitching might be new territory, but this is where I live.
"DAMN!" Zander yelled from behind the cage. "That ball had a family!"
"Where'd that come from, kiddo?" Nathan asked, shaking his head.
"Just been working on my swing."
Just been taking hundreds of swings in my backyard every day for the past three years, but who's counting.
The next pitch was his slider, breaking down and away. I stayed back on it and drove it the other way for what would've been a double off the right field wall.
DING!
"Nice piece of hitting, son!" Coach Martinez called out.
Five more swings, five more rockets. Line drives, home runs, hard ground balls that would've been hits in games. Every swing was violent, controlled, perfect.
DOOOOONG!
DING!
DOOOOONG!
"Aight, that's enough, kiddo," Coach Martinez said, but I could see him trying not to smile. "Save some for the game tonight."
-----
Madre mía.
I'd heard about Rico's hitting from watching our games, seen the stats, watched him take some impressive swings. But watching him take batting practice was like watching poetry in motion.
Every swing was perfect. Perfect timing, perfect mechanics, perfect contact. The kid wasn't just hitting the ball hard - he was absolutely destroying it.
That first home run traveled at least 420 feet, and he made it look effortless.
"Yo, Coach," Zander said, walking over to me. "How is this kid not already on a varsity team somewhere?"
"Made some mistakes off the field, son. But talent like that doesn't stay hidden for long."
As Rico walked out of the cage, every player on the team was looking at him differently. Not just as the quiet new guy, but as someone who could potentially carry an offense single-handedly.
The kid had just shown he could strike out good hitters AND hit bombs off decent pitching. At seventeen years old.
Time to call Coach Williams and tell him about this special young man.
-----
During the game that night against the West Side Warriors, I got my first real test as a hitter against their ace, Logan Thompson - a big righthander throwing in the mid-80s with a nasty curveball.
In the bottom of the third, with two men on base and two outs, Coach Martinez called my name.
"Rico, kiddo! You're hitting cleanup. Let's see what that batting practice was about."
Cleanup? No pressure to drive in runs or anything. Just act like you belong and try not to embarrass yourself.
I stepped into the batter's box and took my usual stance. Logan was studying me, probably trying to figure out what kind of hitter I was.
Let me help you out, big guy. I'm the kind that's about to take you deep.
The count went to 2-1 after I fouled off a good fastball and took a slider outside. Logan came back with another fastball, but this one caught too much of the plate.
DING!
I turned on it, driving it deep to left-center field.
"GET OUT OF HERE!" someone yelled from our dugout as the ball cleared the fence by at least twenty feet.
Three-run homer. My first official at-bat as a two-way player, and I'd just tied the game.
Okay, this is going exactly as planned. Now let's see if I can pitch too.
In the seventh inning, with us now down 6-4 and runners on base, Coach Martinez made the call.
"Rico, kiddo! You ready to close this thing out?"
Been ready since I was eight years old watching my dad pitch in men's league games.
"Yes sir."
I jogged to the mound with the bases loaded and no outs.
Okay, Rico. You just proved you can hit. Now prove you can get them out too.
The first batter was their cleanup hitter, Zach Mitchell. I threw him a first-pitch fastball on the outside corner.
PAH!
"Strike one!"
My second pitch was the curveball, breaking down into the zone. He swung over the top of it.
PAH!
For the strikeout pitch, I went back to the fastball. Outside corner, knee-high.
PAH!
"Strike three!"
One down, two to go. Maybe I actually know what I'm doing on both sides of the ball.
----
I was watching Rico work on the mound, and I had to keep reminding myself this was his first time pitching in a game situation.
The kiddo was throwing strikes, changing speeds, hitting his spots like he'd been doing this for years.
But what really impressed me was his composure. Bases loaded, no outs, pressure situation, and he looked like he was playing catch with his father in the backyard.
After getting out of the inning with minimal damage, Rico came back to hit in the eighth inning and drove in another run with a double to the gap.
DOOOOONG!
We won 8-6, and as Rico packed his gear, I pulled him aside.
"Son, that was something special tonight. Home run and three RBIs hitting, got us out of trouble pitching."
"Thank you, Coach."
"You know what this means, kiddo?"
"What?"
"You just became exactly what Lincoln High needs. A young man who can hit cleanup AND pitch in pressure situations."
This kid could change everything for Coach Williams' program.
"Keep working on your command and maybe develop a changeup, son. You do that, and you could have a real future as a two-way player."
As Rico walked home, I was already planning my conversation with Coach Williams. A kid who could contribute on both sides of the ball, with character and work ethic to match his talent?
That's what every coach dreams about finding.
RICO'S STATS - 12 Summer League Games:
Batting Average: .421 Home Runs: 4 RBIs: 16 ERA: 0.00 (1 game pitched) Strikeouts: 6 in 3 innings
Numbers that would make any high school coach take notice, wrapped up in a young man who carried himself like a veteran and treated his teammates like family.
Time to introduce Chicago to their future two-way star.