Roster on the Wall
– by Mario Crescibene
Case Filed March 15, 2026 | Cleveland, Ohio
“You don’t got a clue, Mario!” Frankie de la Noche‘s voice cut across the desk like a verdict. “You got no idea what you’re talking about!” His piercing blue eyes fixed on mine from the other end of the desk, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth like an exclamation mark.
The banker’s lamp cast its green glow across the notes and photographs scattered across every inch of my desk. Long shadows fell upon the corkboards lining
the walls filled with player photographs all connected by a web of red string that made my Little Italy office look less like a workspace and more like a bowl of my Nonna’s spaghetti. Outside, the streetlights glimmered down on the brick road below. It was late. It was always late when Frankie showed up.
He wasn’t a big man. Five-nine maybe, slight build, dark hair slicked back clean, and those pale blue eyes that were always watching. He wore a white button-down with a navy tie loosened at the collar, the usual suspenders and slacks, and a pair of black dress shoes that had stopped being shiny sometime around 2015. His fedora that brought the whole ensemble together sat on the corner of my desk where he’d tossed it when he came in.
I straightened up in my chair and fired back. “The hell I don’t! You might be the detective here, Frankie, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see things you can’t.”
“See things…” He scoffed, pulling the cigarette from his mouth, and pointing it at me. “Yeah. You’re sure seeing things alright.”
I reached across the desk and poured another glass of whiskey. I didn’t offer any to Frankie. He already had his. We’d been at it for over an hour and we weren’t close to done.
“Fry is hitting .111,” I continued, pushing a photograph across the desk toward him. “He’s got three hits in 27 at bats. You know he’s better off finding his rhythm in Columbus.”
Frankie glanced down at the picture without picking it up. “I’m telling you, Mario,” he said, shaking his head. “You gotta stop thinking so hard, you’ll blow a gasket. When are you gonna realize how this organization works? They keep guys like Fry in Cleveland. Heck, especially so early in the season. You think they’re gonna roll out some young guys who happened to get hot in spring training? That’s not what this organization does.”
He picked up his glass. “You send Fry down and you’re wasting the most versatile piece they’ve got on the roster. Catcher, first base, outfield, DH. You know what that’s worth over a long season?”
“I know what .111 is worth.”
He waved his hand like he was clearing smoke and took another sip of whiskey. “Jones will get first shot as the fourth outfielder too. Don’t get your hopes up. They’ve put too much into him to pull the plug in March. Honestly, I don’t know what you’ve been drinking, Mario. Yelling about roster spots for prospects right out of spring training like you’re nuts. The Guardians’ front office is predictable — predictable as a Cleveland winter: gray and boring.”
“Predictable is right,” I said. “You get tunnel vision sometimes, Frankie. You get so locked into how you think things are gonna go that you can’t see what’s right in front of you.”
Frankie slammed his glass on the desk. “Open your eyes, kid! It’s simple. Look, Fry and Jones make the 26-man roster coming out of camp, and Rodriguez waits in AAA as a right-handed bat.”
“Rodriguez has zero extra base hits,” I countered. “Zero. He’s not even a serviceable outfielder!”
“Not serviceable!?” The corner of Frankie’s mouth lifted. “Yeah, I’ll give you something to service.”
I opened my mouth. And closed it. He always had one more comeback than I did. I could see the argument slipping away from me, but there was one arrow left in the quiver. I knew the moment I reached for it I’d regret it.
“Frankie, you’ve got blinders on with Fry! This is just like the Akron case.”
Frankie’s body went stiff the moment the words left my mouth. I knew I had drawn blood. He didn’t speak, just simply reached across the desk for the bottle, poured a double, and finished the whole thing in one pull. He set the glass back down with a quiet tap, and poured another glass. Then, he raised his eyes slowly to mine.
“I told you never to bring up what happened in Akron. You do that again, Mario, and I’ll kill you.”
I’d gone too far. I knew it. “Frankie. I’m sorry. That was below the belt.”
He held my gaze another moment. Then slid the bottle across the desk.
“In more ways than one,” he chortled out, breaking the tension of the moment.
He got up and walked over to the corkboards lined with red string, his blue eyes scanning over the evidence like the Akron thing had never surfaced.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s talk about what we actually agree on.”
As he stood at the corkboards, studying the web of red string, I pulled my chair around to his side of the desk. Plopping down, I leaned back and surveyed the data.
“So far we agree the Guards need offense,” I summarized. “That was the whole problem last year.”
Frankie nodded slowly. “So you start with the lineup that gives you the most power.”
He reached up and tapped the piece of paper that was pinned to the board with 9 red strings connecting it to different players:
- Kwan — CF
- DeLauter — LF
- Ramírez — 3B
- Manzardo — DH
- Hoskins — 1B
- Naylor — C
- Valera — RF
- Arias — SS
- Rocchio — 2B
Nine names. No argument.
“That’s your lineup,” I said.
Frankie pulled the cigarette from his mouth and pointed it at the board, concurring, “That’s the lineup.”
He continued where he had left off. “Then you’ve got Hedges as your backup catcher, and Schneemann as your utility man.” He tapped their photographs as he said each name. “Position players 10 and 11.”
“Which leaves us with two spots remaining,” I said.
“Which means…,” Frankie cut in, turning to face me, “that leaves one spot. Fry then takes us to 12 position players in all, and Jones makes it thirteen.”
“That leaves two spots, Frankie. Two. You send Fry to Columbus to find his swing and suddenly you’ve got room for both Martinez and Halpin. Two guys who are actually producing right now. Martinez is hitting .357, he’s got an OPS of 1.205, and he’s a switch hitter—”
“He’s not a true switch hitter,” Frankie said flatly. “Just look at his splits, Mario. He’s useful against lefties. Against righties he’s a liability. You’re selling me half a switch hitter.”
“He gives you more positional flexibility than anyone else on this roster outside of Schneemann,” I continued. “And Halpin gives you another option in the outfield who is producing right now.”
“Halpin gives you a prospect still figuring things out.” Frankie turned back to the board. “You know what you do with positive momentum in spring training, Mario? You take it to Columbus and you let it build into something sustainable.” He whipped back around, pointing at me. “You don’t throw a kid into the lineup in Cleveland in April and hope he figures it out all because he played well in Arizona. That’s how you ruin a prospect.”
“That’s how you win games in April,” I shot back.
Frankie shook his head slowly, the way he always did when he thought the conversation was over and I just hadn’t accepted it yet. He looked back at the board.
I stared at the evidence in front of me: Martinez, Halpin, Jones, Fry, Rodriguez. Five photographs, two spots, no clear answers. Then something occurred to me.
“You know,” I said carefully, “if they went with fourteen position players and twelve pitchers they could technically carry Fry and still have room for—”
Frankie turned around so fast the cigarette nearly fell out of his mouth. He stared at me for a long moment. Then he walked over and picked up his fedora from the corner of my desk. Placing it on his head, he tilted the brim down over his eyes. He walked to the door without saying a word, pulled it open, and stopped momentarily with his hand on the frame.
“Fourteen position players? That’s where I get off. Goodnight, Mario. I’m taking a cab.”
The door shut behind him, but the case, as they say, was still wide open.
