Raw Fish

With a no-nonsense manager and a dugout stuffed with rookies and castoffs, the Marlins are trying to pick up the pieces-Again

He was introduced on a triumphant October afternoon at Dolphin Stadium, the hot prospect with the flawless pedigree. Joe Girardi had no managerial experience, but his Marinelike intensity and encyclopedic knowledge of the game from 15 seasons as a big league catcher and another as Joe Torre's bench coach gave him his pick of several jobs. He chose the Marlins, and he was certain he had chosen wisely. The 41-year-old Girardi raved to friends about the talented Florida lineup. With the right attitude and a couple of tweaks here and there …

Whoosh! Everyone was gone. With a stadium deal in tatters, owner Jeffrey Loria ordered GM Larry Beinfest to break out the machete. Josh Beckett and Mike Lowell-gone to the Red Sox. Carlos Delgado and Paul Lo Duca-gone to the Mets. Luis Castillo-gone to the Twins. Juan Pierre-gone to the Cubs. Álex González, A.J. Burnett, Jeff Conine, Juan Encarnación-free agent giveaways. In their places, the Marlins offered their new manager a team that resembled past rebuilding efforts not nearly as much as the cinematic classic Major League. Featuring 11 rookies on its Opening Day roster, the team quickly sank to the bottom of the NL East. These days, when Beinfest is asked about the club, he hems and haws, stammers and stutters. "We have a bright future," he says. "Very bright."

At one time, that was true. Back in 1997, the first time the organization blew up its roster shortly after winning a World Series, it turned over the jerseys to a bunch of unknown yet dazzling prospects. Among the new faces: Cliff Floyd, Kevin Millar, Mark Kotsay and Derrek Lee. Six years later, the franchise took home another shiny Series trophy.

This time around? The payroll is $15 million, nearly $20 million less than the next-cheapest club, the Devil Rays. And, predictably, fans don't appreciate the frugality. The Marlins report an average of about 12,000 spectators per home game, but 8,000 of them seem to be disguised as orange plastiseats on any given night.

Meanwhile, outside of All-Star holdovers Dontrelle Willis and Miguel Cabrera (both still young enough to not yet be making serious money), these Marlins symbolize the closest you and your friends will ever come to wearing major league uniforms. There's Reggie Abercrombie, the 24-year-old career minor leaguer who two seasons back hit .173 in Double-A. There's Matt Treanor, the 30-year-old backup catcher who, until a few years ago, spent his off-seasons parking cars at Disneyland. There's Wes Helms, a 30-year-old journeyman known mostly for being one of the most potent clubhouse gasdroppers in the game. Through the first seven weeks of the season, one of Florida's top players was catcher/outfielder/third baseman/first baseman Josh Willingham, a 27-year-old rookie whose position was listed as "unknown" until Girardi finally decided he'd do the least amount of damage in leftfield.

Is the new manager devastated? Heartbroken? Shocked? Does he feel as if Loria pulled the old bait and switch? "I came here to win a World Series," Girardi responds with a straight face. "That was the goal on the day I was hired, and it's the goal today."

He'd have been forgiven had he strangled Beinfest's cat. Instead, he got to work turning a pile of banana peels and tire rims into a major league baseball team. For Girardi, it all starts with the rules. No facial hair. No loud music in the clubhouse. And, most important, no acceptance of losing. "When I faced Joe as a player, I always admired his professionalism and doggedness," says veteran pitcher Brian Moehler. "He's the same way as a manager. A lot of people believe we're undermanned and too young, and it's an understandable way to look at our situation. But not Joe. It's not his philosophy."

During spring training, Girardi ran sprints (outracing some of his players), threw BP and willingly jumped into action to make a point. Unlike past Florida teams, which stressed fun, fun, fun in the sun, sun, sun, these Marlins are stoic and tightlipped. Their manager demands respect, and they provide it.

This approach will not keep the losses from piling up, but it's a start. And while they figure out who should play where, and who can play at all, you can't help but root, root, root for the Marlins.

THE CHEESECAKE Factory on Las Olas Boulevard in Fort Lauderdale is a place where the famous among us would never, ever go. The Cheesecake Factory is for tourists with fanny packs and Where's the Beef? T-shirts. It's hardly a haven for low-key anonymity.

So here is Dan Uggla, starting second baseman for the Marlins, ordering a burrito as dozens of customers come by his table … and keep on walking. Uggla is 5'11" and stocky, with spiky brown hair and intense blue eyes. "The other day, I was spotted for the first time," he says. "I was in a mall, and this woman looked at me and … "

Uggla is rudely interrupted. Leaning against his shoulder, his 1-month-old son, Jackson Daniel, has unleashed a milky white blob on Daddy's shirt. From across the table, Tara Sims, Uggla's fiancée, calls for the infant but is waved off. "After you've experienced all I've been through," Uggla cracks, "a little spit-up is nothing."

Uggla is not only baseball's most unrecognizable second baseman, he's the game's most improbable one, too. Before joining the Marlins as a Rule 5 pickup last December, the 26-year-old had never played above Double-A. He was simply a spacefiller in the Diamondbacks organization, someone to man a position until a real prospect came along.

"All I've ever wanted was a chance," says Uggla, an 11th-round pick in 2001 from U. of Memphis. "I was never scouted in high school. I was very bad for two years in college. And people routinely notice when you're a shorter player. They tend to use that against you."

Although the Marlins scouts were hardly euphoric over Uggla, the fire sale created sudden openings. Uggla is hardworking, considerate and extraordinarily tough (he played all of last season at Double-A Tennessee with a black-blue-and-purple bruise covering 60% of his right thigh, which he got from repeatedly diving for balls). "We needed a second baseman," says Beinfest, "and Danny was a second baseman."

Seven weeks in, he was batting .344 with 19 RBIs from the 2 slot. The Marlins couldn't get him out of the lineup if they wanted to. On March 31, the day after Jackson was born, the team gave Uggla the option of skipping a flight to Texas for an exhibition game against the Rangers. To Tara's dismay, Dan not only made the plane, he got there early. "When you wait as long as I have to get a shot," he says, "you don't let anything stand in your way."

IN THE 2006 Baseball America Super Register, which lists everyone in the game, there are 22 players named Ramírez. But there's only one Hanley Ramírez. The Marlins' rookie shortstop, leadoff hitter and designated team savior knows exactly how important he is, how skilled he is, how absolutely breathtaking a player he is. The 22-year-old Dominican was, after all, the jewel Florida insisted upon in November in exchange for Beckett, Lowell and Guillermo Mota.

Ramírez and rightfielder Jeremy Hermida are Florida's top prospects, legitimate Rookie of the Year candidates. But while Hermida, a sweetswinging lefthanded hitter, has already missed a month with a hip problem, Ramírez was leading all rookies with a .331 batting average and 12 stolen bases through mid-May.

He also sets the pace in attitude. In 2002, Ramírez was sent home during the fall instructional league for cursing out a trainer, and one year later, he was suspended for 10 days by the Red Sox after making an obscene gesture at his Class-A manager, Russ Morman. On the field, he is a marvelous blend of contact, speed and defensive range. Off the field …

"He's still growing," says Beinfest.

While other Marlins seem genuinely appreciative of baggage handlers (even though they have trouble adjusting to the concept), clubhouse kids (even if they have no idea how much to tip them) and, yes, reporters, Ramírez's aura is cool and indifferent. "If I play hard, who will complain?" he says. "My attitude is that I want to win. Is there anything wrong with that?"

ONCE UPON a time, when the Marlins were new, Coolio was popular and Tom Cruise seemed normal, Matt Treanor was a top prospect. The year was 1994, and the Royals used their fourthround pick to select the hard-hitting catcher out of Mater Dei High in Santa Ana, Calif. At the time, Treanor set his timetable for reaching the majors. "Two, three years," he says with a laugh. "I'd always had success, and I assumed it would continue."

Perspective is a powerful thing. In 1997, after a couple of bush league seasons below the Mendoza line, Treanor was dumped on Florida. Three years later, he was working odd jobs during the winter to make ends meet. In December 2002, his older brother Michael was shot and killed outside the restaurant Michael was managing in Venice, Calif.

The following February, as he does every February, Treanor reported to spring training with great optimism. And that March, as usual, he got shipped to the minors. "I'm an example of the struggles people sometimes have to go through," he says. "Life is not always the easy path. In fact, usually it's the hardest path possible. You just have to keep your eyes on the goal and keep chugging."

Now in his third season as the Marlins' backup catcher, Treanor is the unofficial clubhouse sage. If Jason Vargas, Ricky Nolasco or any of the other young pitchers need the lowdown on opposing batters, he's who they go to. When rookies want to know how much to tip the clubbie, Treanor's the man. Restaurant recommendation? Good movie? The distance between Venus and Mars? Treanor knows all.

He also happens to be the husband of beach volleyball star Misty May. He met her at a sports therapy center in Orange, Calif., in November 2003 and proposed four months later. This spring, she signed more autographs at training camp than most of the Marlins. "My wife is significantly more famous than I am," Treanor says. "But when you've gone through all the stuff I have, you lose the ego. I have no problem marrying up."

A MARLINS prospect named Scott Olsen was standing outside Wrigley Field on the evening of Oct. 14, 2003, partying hard on Waveland Avenue with a gaggle of pals, when the now-infamous Steve Bartman stuck out his now-infamous paw. As the Marlins' sixth-round pick in the 2002 draft, Olsen said he was happy, that he wanted the organization he played for to get to the World Series.

But as a lifelong Cubs fan, he was devastated. "You grow up rooting for a team that's cursed, and it's finally on the verge of breaking through," says Olsen, who was raised in suburban Crystal Lake, Ill. "When the Cubs lost that game, it became very clear that maybe they just aren't meant to win a World Series. It still breaks my heart, but it's true."

Now a 22-year-old rookie lefthander with a killer slider, Olsen has had his ups and downs. Through his first seven starts, he was 2—3 with a 6.55 ERA. But he brings a refreshing brashness to an otherwise quiet clubhouse. He'll say anything that's on his mind, and say it loudly. Olsen on his bad habit: "I smoke cigarettes. Five or six a day. I'm not proud of it, and I'm trying to quit. But I'm not gonna lie about it, either. That's not my style."

Olsen on spring training: "Was I confident? Joe said he was going to keep the 12 best pitchers, and I knew I was one of the 12 best."

Olsen on Florida's playoff hopes: "Unrealistic? Who the hell said that? In 2003, the team was 10 games under .500, and they wound up winning the World Series. If they could do it, why not us?" (Sometimes, he just talks crazy.)

And of course, Olsen has an opinion on Bartman, too: "The guy deserves a break … I guess."

THERE ARE days when everything feels right, when Reggie Abercrombie's speed and power merge into one blissful whirlwind of perfection. On May 13 against the Pirates, he went 2-for-4 and was on every ball. Against the Phillies 11 days earlier, he smoked a two-run triple to center, rounding the bags like a young Willie Mays.

And yet, more often than not, Abercrombie looks lost. He flails at balls well out of the strike zone, and on the bases he still hasn't figured out how to time a pitcher's delivery to the plate. Like Uggla, he is a major leaguer because of circumstance. Florida needed a centerfielder, and Abercrombie plays center. Bingo.

Truth be told, there are times when Abercrombie stands on the outfield grass and wonders whether he made the right choice. As a quarterback at Georgia's Columbus High in the late 1990s, he was one of the state's top players and was recruited by a handful of D1-A programs. "I watch football on TV and miss it," he says. "But baseball offered more of a long-term future."

By long-term, Abercrombie was thinking 10, maybe 15 years in the bigs. Instead, his sevenyear pro career has been littered with potholes. Selected in the 23rd round in 2000 by the Dodgers, Abercrombie's résumé includes a .226 season at Class-A Wilmington and that .173 at Jacksonville. Fobbed off on the D-Backs in July 2004, he was claimed off waivers by the Marlins the next April.

"I'm only 24," he says. "I can still become the player everyone thought I'd be. I just need … " The phrase dangles in the air, until he finds the right word. The perfect word. The Marlins word.

" … A chance."

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