The Exit Interview - Just Call Me Nails

“Oh my… I’m dead, right?”

Standing in front of me was a solidly built guy wearing catcher’s gear underneath a hospital jacket. He carried a patient's clipboard with a baseball scorecard attached to it. Oddly enough, I felt completely comfortable standing there in front of Commissioner Pete, as though this were some normal, everyday occurrence. What I assumed would be an easy process became considerably more interesting when I noticed the group seated directly behind him.

“Oh man… this can’t be good.”

Behind the Commish sat six people at two long tables, separated by about seven feet.

The first three looked ready for a celebration, like they couldn’t wait to approve my name for the starting lineup at Holy Ghost Memorial Stadium in Heaven. The other three? Front-office Human Resources types. Those guys definitely didn’t want me anywhere near the field. Like every bean-counter known to man, these agents from hell seemed committed to one mission in life: keeping talented players stuck in the minors while avoiding call-up bonuses at all costs.

Pete glanced down at his clipboard. “Lookie here, kid. There’s always a tie in the selection committee whenever somebody gets considered for the call-up. You get one option. Tell us a truthful baseball story. That’ll complete your Exit Interview and determine your baseball classification.” A slight smirk crept across his face. “Here’s the catch. Your story has to change the mind of at least one of the bean-counters, and you need four outta the six votes in front of you. You’ve got thirty minutes to prepare… and ten minutes to sell it.”

“That’s easy,” I said. “I’ve got the perfect story.” Then I paused. “I’d better think about the presentation, though. Since this is my only way in, I probably shouldn’t get overconfident.” They gave me a few minutes to gather my thoughts, but honestly, there was only one story I truly wanted to tell.

The story of Eli Prieto.

It’s hard to imagine anybody not loving this kid… although those suits behind Pete looked pretty determined to stay nasty. This was the most relentless kid I’d ever seen. Thirteen years old. A little undersized. Tough as nails. Honestly, “Nails” should’ve been his nickname from the day he was born. That kid came into the world with a cigar in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. He was built for baseball.

But Eli was born with two club feet and a severely damaged esophagus, along with several other physical complications involving his chest and throat. The most obvious issue, though, was his feet — both completely turned inward. His life started with surgeries. Lots of them. As an infant and toddler, Eli spent years battling casts, braces, and metal bars connecting his ankles. Truthfully, he never even got the chance to toddle normally. To get around, he developed his own version of mobility — the bum-slide. Nothing about his early childhood resembled a normal kid’s experience. Everything was difficult. Overwhelmingly difficult. And yet, through every obstacle, every painful surgery, every setback… Eli never lost his happy.

The other major challenge was his esophagus. Doctors constantly had to perform surgeries to stretch and reconnect the damaged tissue so he could swallow properly. Stretching and restretching. Surgery after surgery. Hospital visits became routine — like six-month oil changes. Overall, the kid had undergone more than thirty surgeries. Did I mention he was only thirteen?

For many people, that would just sound like a tragedy. But hardship only matters in a story when it gives meaning to the victories that follow. Eli had two older brothers, both naturally gifted athletes. Baseball was everything to them. Jake eventually moved on to other interests, but Eli? Eli lived and breathed the game. He’d sit at the field watching his brothers through the fence, aching to join them. You could see him studying everything — swings, throws, footwork, reactions. He absorbed baseball like oxygen.

At first, all he could really do was watch. Then the surgeries started working. His feet straightened out. And suddenly there was no stopping him. The kid ran everywhere. He picked up baseball bats before he could properly hold a spoon. It honestly looked like he was trying to consume baseball itself.

Early on, it was hard not to see him as physically behind the other kids. He spent years trying to catch up. At eight years old, he wanted to compete with ten-year-olds because he needed the challenge. At eight, he played like a six-year-old. By ten, he played like a twelve-year-old. Because he worked. Constantly. And he never quit.

His parents encouraged him nonstop, posting videos and celebrating every little milestone because Eli was also the runt of the litter — small, skinny, and constantly underestimated. Then one day, everything clicked. Now he was spitting sunflower seeds, chugging Gatorade, and chewing Big League Chew like it was a full-time job. The kid’s absolute favorite thing in life was spitting. He spit everywhere. Living room. Porch. Driveway. Dugout. Didn’t matter. To Eli, that’s what baseball players did. And man, did people love him for it. He became the ultimate teammate — always encouraging others, always hustling, always desperate to get into the game.

And the Dodgers? Forget about it. Baseball blue ran through his veins. Fourth-generation Dodger fan. Eventually, Eli figured something out: If he wanted more playing time, he needed an edge. And since most kids hated catching, Eli picked up the tools of ignorance, convinced his dad to buy him catcher’s gear, and absolutely fell in love with the position. Will Smith became his guy. His hero. And suddenly baseball became even more real.

Think about this for a second: This was a kid born with two club feet. A kid who still had to miss parts of the season for surgeries to stretch his esophagus. And yet… he refused to be denied.

What once looked pitiful became beautiful.

Then came his twelve-year-old Little League season. Nails made the All-Star team. An All-Star. You couldn’t watch him play without smiling. Every movement on the field carried gratitude, determination, and joy. Over my lifetime, I’ve seen gifted players. Powerful players. Professional-level talents. Roy Hobbs-type athletes. I’ve sat in living rooms while some of those kids signed professional contracts. But let me say this prophetically about Eli Prieto:

This kid is special.

Maybe he never wears a Major League uniform. Maybe he never steps inside Dodger Stadium as a player. But wherever life takes him, one thing is certain: He’ll always be Nails.

So Pete… while I’d love to believe one of those Human Resources guys might be moved enough to change my game-time status… would it be possible to send me back for a few more years?

I’ve still got some games left to watch before making my rookie debut at Holy Ghost Memorial Stadium.