Tucked into the corner of the clubhouse he runs, Adam Jones plopped into a chair and readied himself for the questions he knew were coming. Two days earlier, ebullient as ever, he beamed at the fact that his friend Dexter Fowler would spend the next three seasons alongside him in a Baltimore Orioles uniform. The team needed a top-of-the-order bat and an everyday outfielder, and Fowler was the stone that killed two for the Birds.
The real problem, of course, was that Fowler had agreed to no deal. Someone with the Orioles alerted reporters of a three-year, $35 million deal, the stories circulated as gospel, Jones furthered it by revealing that Fowler told him he'd be an Oriole and everything seemed hunky-dory until Fowler sauntered into Chicago Cubs camp alongside team president Theo Epstein, who earned his pimp walk with that neat little bit of trickeratio.
The real problem, of course, was that Fowler had agreed to no deal. Someone with the Orioles alerted reporters of a three-year, $35 million deal, the stories circulated as gospel, Jones furthered it by revealing that Fowler told him he'd be an Oriole and everything seemed hunky-dory until Fowler sauntered into Chicago Cubs camp alongside team president Theo Epstein, who earned his pimp walk with that neat little bit of trickeratio.
One of the reasons Jones owns near-universal respect among teammates and peers is because of the grace with which he can handle any situation. The last time this happened in sports it spurred a weird emoji war between two basketball teams, and the last time it happened in baseball involved a surprise Roger Clemens appearance at Yankee Stadium and a Suzyn Waldman conniption, and here was Jones, his team spurned, his mellow harshed, and the first words out of his mouth were: "Cool. Our team's here. Cool. He's back with the Cubs. Good. Good for him. I know him personally, so it's good. We're moving on. We've moved on. He's moved on. We've got a big day ahead of us today. It's a game of adjustments. You move on."
And that was his tone for the two minutes he spoke, two minutes that could've been awkward or angry or anything but gracious. Jones left the disillusionment to the Orioles, who believed they had a deal with Fowler – much like they believed they had a deal with Yovani Gallardo before an MRI forced its renegotiation and much like they believed they had a deal with Darren O'Day before he tweeted that they didn't. And he left the righteous indignation to Fowler's agent, Casey Close, who went all shock-and-awe on the Orioles and media for perpetuating the myth of a done deal with Baltimore. All Jones did was say how happy he was for his friend – he used the word happy seven times – and kept that tune except for one tiny little window into what he might've been burying beneath the kindness.
"I just want to face them now," Jones said.
Everyone wants to face the Cubs, the overwhelming pick to win the World Series because … well, because they really are that much more talented than everyone else. And, yes, this is where we note that the only thing won on paper is a game of paper football, and talent is only as good as health, and blah blah blah. Futile though the exercise may be, it's the one we play before a single pitch is thrown, and ask just about anyone in baseball to pick a team to parade through its city in early November and it's the Cubs, because who else is as good?
In the American League, the Orioles are every bit the favorite of the Royals and the Blue Jays and the Red Sox and the Yankees and the Rays and the Tigers and the Twins and the White Sox and the Indians and the Astros and the Rangers and the Angels and the Mariners and holy hell I just named every American League team except the A's, who always seem to outplay their paper team because of superior roster management and tactical excellence.
And that – the constant flux of the AL, the seemingly tiny standard deviation among teams, the opportunity for the decent to be good enough for the playoffs and the good to falter enough to miss them – is what makes the Fowler episode a body blow for the Orioles. This doesn't kill them. They've still got Jones and $168 million man Chris Davis and Manny Machado, the best of the three, on his way to $300 million and beyond. Supporting them are a finally healthy Matt Wieters, a powerful Jonathan Schoop and a steady J.J. Hardy up the middle. And then there's the Zach Britton-O'Day-Mychal Givens back end of the bullpen, which has performed an awful lot like the Yankees' supposed historically great trio, minus the name recognition.
Still, the Orioles' weaknesses are tangible. Guys with OK stuff who outperform it (Miguel Gonzalez, Gallardo) and guys with great stuff who can't seem to put it all together (Ubaldo Jimenez, Kevin Gausman) populate their rotation. And even if Hyun-soo Kim covers left field, manager Buck Showalter can assuage the abyss in right with creative platooning for only so long.
Maybe the solution is Jay Bruce. Perhaps it's Austin Jackson. In getting past Fowler, Jones went to his silver-linings playbook.
"By him not agreeing to it,” Jones said, "it opened up money at the All-Star break or at the deadline in case something is happening. And it gives other guys in here chances."
It's indisputable that Fowler would have made the Orioles better, and that in a sardined AL East that little bit could prove worth a lot. And how the whole episode went down was literally inside baseball, a look at the sausage of reporting and negotiating and the sorts of things that go unspoken but churn throughout the game daily.
Ultimately, this episode served more as a reminder that guys change their minds and Adam Jones doesn't believe in apologies for such foibles ("Grown men shouldn't say sorry," he noted) and that statements from agents are hilarious and that the Cubs are better than everyone. And to fulfill Jones' desire to see them and Fowler, the Orioles need to be, too. They don't face each other in the regular season. It'll have to be the World Series, which is a long way from February, a long way from the wide-open American League, a long way from the corner of a clubhouse in spring training with 162 games yet to play.
Still, the Orioles' weaknesses are tangible. Guys with OK stuff who outperform it (Miguel Gonzalez, Gallardo) and guys with great stuff who can't seem to put it all together (Ubaldo Jimenez, Kevin Gausman) populate their rotation. And even if Hyun-soo Kim covers left field, manager Buck Showalter can assuage the abyss in right with creative platooning for only so long.
Maybe the solution is Jay Bruce. Perhaps it's Austin Jackson. In getting past Fowler, Jones went to his silver-linings playbook.
"By him not agreeing to it,” Jones said, "it opened up money at the All-Star break or at the deadline in case something is happening. And it gives other guys in here chances."
It's indisputable that Fowler would have made the Orioles better, and that in a sardined AL East that little bit could prove worth a lot. And how the whole episode went down was literally inside baseball, a look at the sausage of reporting and negotiating and the sorts of things that go unspoken but churn throughout the game daily.
Ultimately, this episode served more as a reminder that guys change their minds and Adam Jones doesn't believe in apologies for such foibles ("Grown men shouldn't say sorry," he noted) and that statements from agents are hilarious and that the Cubs are better than everyone. And to fulfill Jones' desire to see them and Fowler, the Orioles need to be, too. They don't face each other in the regular season. It'll have to be the World Series, which is a long way from February, a long way from the wide-open American League, a long way from the corner of a clubhouse in spring training with 162 games yet to play.
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