"An early look at Jason Heyward and Stephen Strasburg, two of baseball’s top prospects."
http://www.newyorker.com/...12/100412fa_fact_mcgrath
Bobby Cox, now entering his twenty-fifth, and final, season as the Atlanta Braves’ skipper, removed his jersey and his sneakers and took a seat in his office at Champion Stadium, near Disney’s Animal Kingdom, as the beat reporters filed in. He unzipped his pants halfway, accommodating his managerial midsection, and ran his hand over his head. The Braves had lost, though scores scarcely matter in the preseason, and Cox attributed the results of what he deemed a “funny ballgame” to the persistent breeze that had helped make this the coldest spring he could recall. He didn’t volunteer a second possible factor: a twenty-year-old prospect named Jason Heyward had been given the day off, so that a couple of lesser lights could get some practice. For the better part of three weeks, Cox and everyone else who passed through Orlando had been talking up the kid in right field: African-American, six feet five and two hundred and forty pounds, yet somehow still lanky, with room on his frame for filling out—for acquiring what Heyward’s father, Eugene, calls his “man strength.” Darryl Strawberry, with whom Heyward had been compared by scouts, told the Times, “That kid has the goods.” Keith Hernandez invoked Willie McCovey. Online retailers were already selling T-shirts that read “The J-Hey Kid.” In fact, by the time I arrived, in the second week of the Grapefruit League schedule, Bruce Manno, the Braves’ assistant general manager, was so tired of recounting Heyward’s exploits that he groaned when I approached him near the dugout steps. “Twenty-seven years in baseball, and this is what I’m going to be remembered for,” he said, shaking his head. “I got friends calling me who I haven’t heard from in years, saying, ‘What happened?’".........
http://www.newyorker.com/...12/100412fa_fact_mcgrath
Bobby Cox, now entering his twenty-fifth, and final, season as the Atlanta Braves’ skipper, removed his jersey and his sneakers and took a seat in his office at Champion Stadium, near Disney’s Animal Kingdom, as the beat reporters filed in. He unzipped his pants halfway, accommodating his managerial midsection, and ran his hand over his head. The Braves had lost, though scores scarcely matter in the preseason, and Cox attributed the results of what he deemed a “funny ballgame” to the persistent breeze that had helped make this the coldest spring he could recall. He didn’t volunteer a second possible factor: a twenty-year-old prospect named Jason Heyward had been given the day off, so that a couple of lesser lights could get some practice. For the better part of three weeks, Cox and everyone else who passed through Orlando had been talking up the kid in right field: African-American, six feet five and two hundred and forty pounds, yet somehow still lanky, with room on his frame for filling out—for acquiring what Heyward’s father, Eugene, calls his “man strength.” Darryl Strawberry, with whom Heyward had been compared by scouts, told the Times, “That kid has the goods.” Keith Hernandez invoked Willie McCovey. Online retailers were already selling T-shirts that read “The J-Hey Kid.” In fact, by the time I arrived, in the second week of the Grapefruit League schedule, Bruce Manno, the Braves’ assistant general manager, was so tired of recounting Heyward’s exploits that he groaned when I approached him near the dugout steps. “Twenty-seven years in baseball, and this is what I’m going to be remembered for,” he said, shaking his head. “I got friends calling me who I haven’t heard from in years, saying, ‘What happened?’".........