Scouting Reports and Pastrami
– by Mario Crescibene
I found myself shuffling shoulder to shoulder through a congested aisle at the West Side Market on a busy Saturday morning.
Cleveland has plenty of landmarks, but only a few define it. The West Side Market is one of them.
You are transported the moment you step inside. People bustle in every direction, filling the aisles with a kind of organized chaos. The sound doesn’t come from anywhere in particular. It just exists — constant and all-encompassing — layered with the smell of smoked
meats hanging in the air.
The West Side Market is one of the last places in the city where things still feel the way they used to. Where people still have real interactions. Where they still look each other in the eye. Where they create small moments of connection in the middle of the mayhem. A place where customers call out orders to long-trusted vendors, and vendors respond back warmly by name. A place where Saturday morning still belongs to Cleveland.
The aisle where I was wedged opened up just enough to let me slip through. I shuffled past stalls lined with different cuts of meat and strings of sausages dangling from hooks overhead. As I moved along, one stand in particular caught my eye. Simple. Old-school. The kind of place that didn’t try to sell you on anything fancy. Just high-quality meats.
I stepped up to the counter.
There was nobody there.
I waited a moment, expecting someone to appear.
Nothing.
But then, toward the back of the stand, I noticed a figure hunched over the rear counter with his back turned, completely absorbed in what looked like a spread of newspapers. A cup of coffee sat just off to the side, steam still rising.
I cleared my throat.
No response.
I reached forward and rang the bell.
The man took a slow sip of coffee and shifted slightly, but his eyes never left the page.
I rang the bell again — sharper this time and a little annoyed.
The man spun around quickly. And there he was: Gus Marlowe, with his gray handlebar mustache and the same crooked ‘C’ cap as always — only this time, a white butcher’s apron was pulled tight over the familiar red flannel.
“Gus,” I said, surprised. “What are you doing here? And what are you doing behind the counter?”
“Covering for Frank,” he said immediately. “He takes his lunch every Saturday at noon, so I watch the stand, and he pays me with a quarter pound of pastrami. Been that way for years.”
He said it like it was the most normal arrangement in the world.
“What’ve you got spread over the counter back there?” I asked, nodding toward the papers he had been so hypnotized by.
Gus reached for his coffee — what had to be at least his fourth of the day — took a quick sip, and then tapped the stack behind him with a knowing finger.
“Scouting reports,” he said quickly before taking another swig of his brew.
I leaned forward slightly, angling for a better look. I could now see that spread across the back counter were Gus’s scouting reports — sheets of that old dot-matrix paper, the kind with the perforated edges still intact. On the pages were typed notes, statistics, and handwritten scribbles. A coffee stain had bled through part of a stat line, but that was par for the course with Gus Marlowe.
“You know, Gus,” I said, “you’re actually exactly the guy I needed to find.”
That got his attention. His mustache twitched as he looked up, eyes sparkling.
“Oh yeah?” he said. “Why’s that?”
“Well, I noticed that when the Guardians’ minor league rosters came out,” I continued. “One name was missing: Tommy Hawke.”
Gus didn’t answer right away. He just nodded once, like he already knew where this was headed.
“That’s a tough one, Mario,” he said. “Kid had himself a year in 2025. Had 63 stolen bases in 63 games at Lynchburg. Led all of Minor League Baseball in steals. At one point, they were talking about him being on pace to break the Minor League record for stolen bases.”
He paused, taking another long gulp of coffee.
“The whippersnapper got the call up to Lake County last year, but four games later and he ends up on the 60-day IL,” he said shaking his head.
“But he came back from the IL,” I said.
“He did,” Gus nodded. “But now he’s starting the season back on the IL. That’s what the Guards told me.”
“Did they say anything more than that?” I asked.
Gus shook his head.
“That’s all they’re telling me,” he said. “No timeline or specifics. They want to protect the medical privacy of their prospects. You get it.”
He took another sip, then set the cup down.
“But you can read into it,” he added. “Sixty-day IL… comes back… now starting the season on the IL again. That’s not the pattern you want to see.”
At that moment a portly fellow sauntered up to the counter and rang the bell enthusiastically, “The usual, Gus!” he called out.
“You got it, Papi,” Gus called back as he grabbed a large ham. His hands flew through the air as he placed the large hunk of meat on the trimmer and began deftly cutting the thinnest slices of ham I’d ever seen. Papi was practically drooling as he watched transfixed.
Gus’s show continued as he swept up the cuts in his hand, placed them on a sheet of butcher paper, then wrapped and tied it all together in a single fluid motion.
“There you are, Papi. Pound and a half of black forest, just how you like it.”
Papi snatched the package off the counter with both hands and tucked it under his arm like it was something precious. He handed Gus the money, slapped the counter twice, satisfied, and disappeared back into the crowd.
Gus watched him go with a grin, then turned back to me and picked up exactly where he left off.
“And he’s not alone,” he said.
“Who?” I asked. “Papi?”
“No, not Papi. Tommy Hawke. Tommy Hawke isn’t alone. He’s got Welbyn Francisca on the IL with him down at Lake County. Francisca was one of the most anticipated prospects in this entire system. Kid signed for $1.375 million out of the Dominican Republic in 2023. Switch-hitting middle infielder, plus contact, plus speed like Hawke. Francisca has the kind of profile that gets scouts excited before he’s even played a game at full-season ball. But just like Hawke, he’s starting the season on the IL.”
He leaned against the back counter, arms crossed over the butcher’s apron, shaking his head slowly.
“Two kids trying to prove it at High-A. The season’s already moving, and they’re both standing still.”
“That’s tough,” I said.
“It is,” Gus said. “You feel for the kids. You really do. They’ve worked their whole lives to get to this point. And now they’re sitting in a training room somewhere watching their teammates take the field without them.”
A woman leaned over the counter and pointed at a string of andouille sausages hanging overhead.
“How much for those, Gus?”
“Now Mrs. Esposito, you know your doctor said you have to cut back on the cold cuts.”
“Cold cuts? Cut back? I wish you’d cut it out, Gus,” she said with a smile. “Now here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to sell me three links, I’m going to give you a nice tip, and you’re not going to say anything to my cardiologist. Do we have a deal?”
Gus laughed. “You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. Esposito. Three links coming up.”
After handing her a paper bag with her contraband and completing the transaction, Gus turned back to me.
“The Guards have had so many prospects deal with injuries, you worry about those two in Lake County. Look at Daniel Espino, George Valera, Chase DeLauter… heck, you can go back to Sizemore! Players that make it in the bigs can’t just be skilled. They have to remain healthy. Because nobody gives a hoot how skilled you are if you can’t get out of the trainer’s room.”
“That’s brutal,” I admitted.
“That’s how the game goes,” Gus retorted. “If you get focused on all the stories of injuries and what-could-have-beens, you’ll quit baseball forever. You feel for the kids. They’re not just chasing a dream, it’s their livelihood. Then they have to deal with injuries, and oftentimes you’re not just watching your teammates from the bench, you’re watching your competition get reps that you aren’t. But that’s part of the game. You hope the kids make a full recovery, but you realize that isn’t always the case.”
A young guy in a Browns jacket stepped up to the counter. “Chicken cutlets?” he said hurriedly, already pulling out his wallet.
“You got it, buddy!” Gus had the cutlets wrapped in the blink of an eye. The customer paid in a flurry, and then disappeared into the current of the crowd.
Gus turned back to me.
“Look,” he said, adjusting the cap on his head. “You hope for the best for those two kids. You really do. But you can’t hold your breath waiting. The season doesn’t pause for anybody. Never has.”
He picked up his coffee, found it empty, and set it back down with a look of quiet resignation.
“The Guards have a loaded system. Lake County’s got plenty of talent taking the field right now. So you wish Hawke and Francisca a full recovery, you keep an eye on their progress, and you let the season do what the season does.”
“Man,” I said pensively, “that’s almost poetic, Gus.”
“What?! Poetic? No, Mario. That’s baseball.”
At that, Gus glanced down at the counter and saw the chicken cutlets still there that the man had forgotten in his rush.
His cutlets!” Gus exclaimed. He grabbed the package and darted into the crowd, the white apron trailing behind him, and was gone.
That’s baseball. And that’s Gus.
If you have prospects you’d like Gus to cover or have other questions, leave them in the comments section for the next article.
