Leap of Faith

SARASOTA, Fla. - Pokey Reese has taken on such a mythical quality that one expects to see a chiseled, 8-foot-tall demigod looming in the Cincinnati Reds clubhouse - or perhaps floating several feet above it.

What one gets is a remarkably unpretentious, slightly scrawny, completely friendly guy, just like a "Pokey" should be. On this day, he is dressed in a Randy Moss replica Vikings jersey, and clowning with teammate Dmitri Young.

When Ken Griffey Jr. reported to camp, Reese shyly asked for his autograph.

Pokey Reese - the man the Reds wouldn't trade for Griffey, his label for the rest of his career - loves to play Dreamcast video games, and still hero-worships his idols, like Griffey, Moss and Allen Iverson. He even wore cornrows last year in tribute to the latter.

Most of all, he hasn't forgotten his hardscrabble roots in the devastating poverty of Arthurtown, S.C., a tiny community founded by freed slaves who had worked on the nearby plantation of John Arthur.

Born Calvin Reese Jr. - his father was in and out of his life and now is mostly out - Reese was such a pudgy baby that his family dubbed him "Porky." His grandmother's accent turned that into "Pokey," and it stuck.

Four siblings, two cousins, his mother and grandmother lived together in a two-bedroom shack - and the word shack is his. Stories of his early life sound exaggerated, but Pokey insists, "Every one of them is true. We were dirt poor."

Everyone doubled up in beds, Pokey sharing the bottom of a bunk bed with his older brother, Tony. Arthurtown had no sewers and no public water; Pokey's family had an outhouse. To get water, they walked a half-mile to their grandfather's place and pump it from a well. To take a bath, they heated water on the stove. Washing clothes consisted of rubbing them, item by item, on an outdoor washboard.

"We didn't have nothing," he said. "When I say nothing, I mean nothing. I mean, we would have Christmas, but we didn't get what we wanted. They'd go out and get us a little something."

The one constant in his life, besides his mother's love, was baseball, which he played in his yard with soda cans for bases. The time that Pokey used his mom's flour to line a field has become family legend - but it earned him a whipping at the time.

"That flour was 80 biscuits to my mom," he says.

His dad was a prominent player on a local semipro team, the Columbia Bulldogs. Pokey was their bat boy. Once, a screaming foul ball was launched into the dugout. All the Bulldogs ducked for cover except young Pokey, then 10 years old, who calmly speared the ball barehanded.

Those instincts made him a high-school star and, in 1992, the Reds' No. 1 draft choice. His rise through the minor leagues was slow and unspectacular, and marred by tragedy.

His fiancee and the mother of his 5-year-old daughter, LaBresha, died in an auto accident shortly after their engagement. The mother of his 6-year-old son, Naquwan, died while delivering a second child (not Reese's). And Naquwan's grandmother and great grandmother were murdered in South Carolina last year.

As recently as last spring, the Reds were so unsure of Reese's readiness to replace Bret Boone at second base that General Manager Jim Bowden looked into trading for Fernando Vina. That fell through, but Bowden signed Carlos Baerga, just in case.

But Reese was a revelation. A shortstop throughout the minors, he became a Gold Glove second baseman last season and hit better than anyone expected (.285, 52 extra-base hits, 85 runs, 38 stolen bases).

Bowden talks about Reese's "Omar Vizquel hands" and "off-the-charts instincts." Closer Danny Graves talks rapturously about his ability to get to balls to his left, right and behind him that no other second baseman could reach.

"Pokey's just begun, man," Graves said. "I totally understand why they didn't trade him."

"His range is astonishing to me," said former Mariner Harold Reynolds, a Gold Glove second baseman.

Young predicts that Reese - currently nursing a finger injury - eventually will become a Gold Glove shortstop when incumbent Barry Larkin, 36 next month, retires. "He should have had recognition long before this," Young said.

Larkin gives Reese his stamp of approval, which in Cincinnati is tantamount to getting the endorsement of the emperor.

"He could be the best shortstop in the game, as he is the best second baseman in the game," Larkin said. ". . . It's because he's such a great athlete, and along with the physical aspects are the mental aspects."

Nevertheless, Reese remained largely Cincinnati's secret. Six months ago, if you had told a Seattle baseball fan that there was a chance Griffey would be traded for Pokey Reese, he or she would have fumed, "That's all they could get? Pokey Reese? What a ripoff!"

But if they had pulled off that deal last month, those same fans would have high-fived in the streets and honked their horns in celebration. "Yes! We got Pokey Reese! Awesome!"

Reese hasn't changed, but the perception of him has, irrevocably. Since the season ended, he has become one of the most recognized baseball players in America, and he did it without getting arrested, making senseless comments in an interview, or getting a single base hit. All Pokey Reese did was not get traded.

"When it first occurred, I thought I was gone," he said. "I mean, Junior for me? But I'm here, so I'm happy."

And, yes, Reese says he would have pulled the trigger on the deal if he were in charge of the Reds.

"Without a doubt," he said, laughing. "Who wouldn't have traded me for Griffey?"

The fact that the Reds wouldn't has given Reese a peculiar sort of celebrity, one that he embraces.

"It's awesome, man," he said. "That's the nature of this business. One minute, no one knows you; the next minute, hey, you're big time."