sabermetrics
billy beane (moneyball) x playeranalyst! reader
summary: oakland is a place of on base percentage, and most of the league wants to kill the front office for its ideology. so imagine billy's shock when he meets someone who doesn't just wish to discuss team chemistry, or shame the numbers, but introduce intriguing formulas and statistics that go past most counting numbers. a/n: hi! i've never written a fanfic before aside the few trashy dramione pieces when i was in fourth grade, so this might be a little...interesting. also brad is so dilf in this movie and no one talks about it lol. warnings: implied age gap, tiny bit of pervy-ness, micro-flirting through stats (niche but yes)
the air in the front office of the oakland athletics was stifling, all stale breath and cheap coffee. now a week removed from your hiring, you were still surprised you had even gotten a job. some yale graduate had taken pity on you. maybe he only hired you to shut your mouth; you were a rambling mess during the whole interview. barreled this, lineouts in certain weather that.
you sat down at your desk that still doesn’t feel much like your own. there was a monkey mug full of pens, a ball you had signed by dwight gooden back in the early 90s when you were maybe three years old, and a huge computer that hummed whenever you opened more than twelve tabs, which was a rather difficult task when you happened to be a scatterbrained idiot half the time and a scatterbrained prodigy the other fraction.
you were working on a list of breakout candidates, complete with on base percentage (everyone’s new favorite number), and your own notes, scrawled in blue pen. remarks on unluckiness, competitive at-bats resulting in sharp cracks that somehow found gloves, the desirable things of a player that no one seemed to care about.
you went to put the packet on your boss’ desk.
he was almost never in. in the past week, you’d probably seen him a grand total of three times, none of which made an impression. tall-ish, blond-ish, angry or stomping about most of the time.
logically, an empty office was surely expected.
and yet, there he sat, glasses perched on his nose in a way you were sure was performative, nose in a binder, armed with a highlighter, dry erase marker clenched between his teeth.
billy beane.
"the breakout candidates brand said you wanted, sir," you said politely, holding out the file of spreadsheets.
he barely looked up. "do i know you?"
you rolled your eyes.
"saw that."
you wished there was a way to reverse an eyeroll in a way that was not moving said eyes counterclockwise.
and so you said a quick, curt introductory rite, placing the file on his desk before spinning on your heel to leave.
"no, stay. what'd you write here in this chicken scratch of yours?"
now he was looking up. and it was incredibly satisfying to watch his reaction. a quick glance up from whatever he was reading that held for at least a second longer than was commonly acceptable in a workplace.
"just that lopez has been hitting the ball sharply."
"and what's that supposed to mean?"
"that his obp which you are so apt to value doesn't accurately portray his talents."
billy snorted. "i like guys who can get on base, sweetheart. there's only three of them. they tend to fill up. and when they do, a run must come home."
you didn't like the way he was speaking to you, not one bit. like you were a clueless sorority girl who got to this office because you smiled pretty.
you smiled pretty.
"if you go on and watch the film," you batted your eyelashes, "you notice patterns. you can hear the crack of the bat. you can see the fielder fumble with it because of how hard it was hit. it was just in the exact wrong place."
"it's a game of inches and a game of luck. hard hit balls don't put runs on the board." he didn't even have the decency to try and look look minorly intrigued.
you ignored him. "and if you watch the fielder's positioning before the play, you can see he was playing up the middle, which is rather atypical, especially when knowing how much lopez likes to pull when he's batting from the left side." you paused. "so is this play bad luck or a slight on lopez?"
billy paid you a half smile and adjusted his glasses.
"explain the rest of these notes to me."
you sat down. the next half hour passed something like this:
...
"i made this formula to make an actually accurate obp."
"which means?"
"sharp lineouts to the gold glove shortstop playing miraculously right where the ball was hit are the same as walks and hits."
"that's mildly ridiculous."
...
"did you know that if kessler didn't play 81 games a year at yankees stadium he would've only been slugging around .375?"
"but he wears pinstripes."
"hopefully this means you'll never deign to put him in the green and gold."
...
"why did brand even hire you?"
"why are you still listening to me? it can't simply be because i'm pretty."
he snorted and violently spat out chewing tobacco into a paper cup.
...
"you talk like you've never watched a game of baseball in your life."
"i don't. i do sit ups in the workout room while they play."
"why?"
"i'm bad luck."
...
you spent the rest of that eventful day locked in the film room with a composition notebook, meticulously studying one of the a's most promising prospects. the only flaw to him was that the second he hopped the triple-a foul line, his fastball started getting rocked. his low curveball, his putaway pitch, started getting taken.
billy passed by. you weren't sure if you were on first name terms, still stuck on "sir", or nowhere.
"beane!" you called out.
he came back with a stack of paper in his arms.
"i don't watch games, kid."
you rolled your eyes. "clearly. and this is an at bat. there's a minimum of twenty-seven in a game. i'm pretty sure you're safe."
and so he sat down next you.
"this rhodes?" he asked.
you nodded.
"i want to trade him while he still got some kind of market value."
you shrugged. "sure, but i'm pretty sure the issue's fixable. all his stuff's still there."
"then maybe the stuff looked better in double a than triple."
"or maybe the hitters know what's coming."
you pressed play on the vhs and the tape rolled. the pitch was a low curve, his signature. the rest of the sequence was as follows: fastball fouled off, high fastball taken, a changeup just on the inside corner for a strike, and another low curve.
"the hitter doesn't know what's coming. he just has a good eye."
you shook your head. "no, watch," the tape played again. you zoomed in on his glove hand. "he shook the glove twice and held it lower. if i saw that as a hitter, i would be sitting on a curve." another few seconds passed. "and the change, he shifts his feet in more of a sixty-degree angle."
"and for the fastball, he's still," billy completed. "he's tipping pitches."
a pause.
"i get the feeling you don't have many hobbies."
"oh," you said, "i have plenty. this one is my job."
he screwed up his mouth like he was trying not to laugh. "and that you're overcomplicating this. even when he's just showing them the curve, even inside or closer to the zone, they're taking all the way. i don't know if the stuff is good enough for triple a yet, much less the bigs."
"you're wrong."
"oh yeah?" he was smirking now, a full-fledged expression that made him...never mind.
you pulled out another tape of rhodes. made him watch it. the same pattern was there.
"you want to try and tell me i'm thinking too hard again?" you said sarcastically once the twentieth changeup of this conversation was thrown.
"fine," he said and opened his arms wide like he was receiving an exorcism. "save the team, kid."
...
it was a late night now, maybe a week and a half later. you were shoveling your nine o'clock dinner (a cup o noodles) down your throat while scrolling through a spreadsheet of potential shortstops-- the position had been a bit of a revolving door.
then, you found him. a young second baseman, dfa'd by the white sox just two days ago. didn't have much shine as a prospect but had one irreplaceable quality: clutch hitting.
you didn't put much thought to batting average, but when the splits were as exaggerated as this, someone needed to know.
you typed up a report, sent it to the printer, and slurped down the rest of the noodles.
billy came up behind you.
"what're you making of the current market?" he asked.
"that if hatteberg can play first, winslow can definitely handle short."
"so you're saying?"
i smiled and handed him the report. "that we have a dirt-cheap second baseman who can hit when runners are on."
he shook his head. "look at the obp. the average. everything. it's not exactly...attractive."
"next page, beane."
he flipped the sheet. "oh."
"yeah. oh."
then suddenly, "have you eaten?"
"no, but i'd take a vodka plain."
...
"this isn't a celebration," he assured you as you glided down the street in his pickup truck. "this is drinks."
"to drown our sorrows," you concurred mournfully.
"to drown our sorrows," he repeated. "are you even of legal drinking age?"
you snorted. "are you kidding? i'm an employed college graduate."
"just making conversation."
"sure, sure."
it was quiet then, quiet until he parked on the street next to some dive bar.
"i'm only here for the peanuts and vodka," you told him as you walked in.
"you're a vodka girl?"
"i'm esther greenwood." he looked confused. "it's a reference to the bell jar."
"huh," billy said noncommittally.
you rolled your eyes.
...
"so. where'd you go to college?"
i snorted and took another sip of my drink. "good icebreaker, beane."
"i went to mount carmel high school, if you were wondering."
"erik chavez went there."
he stared at you like you had a third eye.
"cool. so where'd you go?"
"ucla. investment banking."
he whistled. "impressive."
"not really. i liked the campus. and the parties."
"so you were a party girl."
"just a bit."
"they serve vodka at those?"
...
neither of you were much game for laughing, for conceding points. so you didn't. you cracked dumb jokes and kept rambling on the second you uttered them; he caught them and referenced the same topic in a sentence five minutes later. you asked dumb questions; he gave dumb answers.
then there were runs that went something like:
"i feel like there should be a way to represent talent or athleticism in statistics. everything we have is based on numbers we can count and divide easily. i don't think that's always accurate necessarily."
"that's fair but unrealistic, kid. most front offices are more concerned with the look of a player than the numbers of him. you would've hated being around when brand wasn't here yet."
a long drink of whiskey for him, a long drink of vodka for you.
"it's 2002. i mean, we're in the twenty-first century. i honestly think the way we build teams is mildly ridiculous."
"it feels less ridiculous when they prove it works. i mean, the yankees spend a hundred fifty million dollars a year and have plenty of rings to show for it. their team is built off stars and money."
"yes, but we have talent in the farm system. players under contract that will age up to be leaders if we keep them around. i'd say maybe two or three years and there's a team that wins over a hundred games right there on the field."
his eyes were suddenly heavy and warm on you. tender. observant. the corner of his mouth lifted. his irises somehow softer than usually.
"why're you looking at me like that?" you said with a laugh.
"no reason."
"i think i might walk home."
he opened his mouth to protest.
you spoke quickly so he couldn't say anything. "so i'll see you tomorrow, beane."
he shook his head. his eyes were still looking at you the same. "see you tomorrow, kid."
the second she left, the bartender was there. "you want another? she's a pretty one."
billy choked on his whiskey. "i'm fine," he said between coughs. "i've got work tomorrow."