With Luis Ortiz Suspended, What’s Left of the Andrés Giménez Trade for the Guardians?

I found myself wandering through Chagrin Falls on a picturesque Saturday afternoon. The air was crisp as the falls roared softly in the distance, the quaint streets capturing that postcard charm that makes you forget the rush of the week. I stopped into the Popcorn Shop for a hot dog — a tradition I can never resist when I’m in town — but as I waited in line, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window, and quickly realized just how wild my hair had grown. So I decided to head up the street for a trim at the Mug & Brush.

If you’ve never been, it’s one of those timeless barbershops — the kind with the red-and-blue pole spinning outside, while inside the spicy scent of aftershave mingles with the steady hum of clippers and weekend banter filling the room. At The Mug & Brush it’s not just a haircut; it’s an experience…as you step into a time capsule where the world outside pauses for a moment and the parlor inside operates at a slower rhythm. It’s a place where stories flow as naturally as scissors dance through hair, and where the troubles of the week seem to pause, suspended in the warm, barbered air.

The second I walked in, Dutch, the owner and an old friend, greeted me with his familiar warm smile and authentic air.

“Mario! It’s been a while. Take a seat,” he said, motioning me to his chair.
I settled in as he wrapped a tissue around my neck, tucked my collar in, and examining the mop on top of my head with a careful, calculating scan.

“The usual?” he asked.

“The usual,” I nodded, glancing around the shop at the familiar green bottles of Clubman hair products lining the barbershop counter, magazines piled on a small table — some old, some new — and the quiet hum of friendly chatter, a gentle rhythm that let my shoulders relax, releasing the remaining tension from the work-week.

Dutch snipped at my hair as we caught up on family news and reminisced about my high school pole vaulting days that were somehow almost 20 years ago now. In Chagrin it’s tradition for senior student athletes to get their pictures put up in shops around town, and I reminded Dutch that he had chosen my track picture as one of the photos he put in the window of the Mug & Brush all those years ago. Naturally, he remembered; he always did. Dutch never failed to recalled those small details anyone else would have forgotten. After our walk down memory lane our conversation inevitably transitioned to the Guardians.

“So what’s your take on this Ortiz and Clase mess?” he asked as his scissors worked expertly through my mop-top. “Folks around here can’t stop buzzing about it.”

I sighed. “A mess is the right word for sure. I wish I knew. I’m not exactly tapped into the league office. All I can do is wait like everybody else.”

That’s when a familiar voice perked up from behind a newspaper that had been obscuring the face of the man sitting in front of me.
“If I were a betting man, I’d say nothing’s coming out until the offseason. But the real loss? What it does to the return on Giménez. Ortiz gave that series of trades some real teeth, and now the whole return rests on a couple of kids still finding their way in the minors.”

The newspaper lowered, and there he was — the crooked ‘C’ baseball cap, the sharp eyes, and that unmistakable handlebar mustache twitching with excitement.

“Gus!” I laughed. “Of all places, what are you doing here?”

“Same as you,” he grinned. “Everyone knows Dutch runs the best shop on the east side. Already had my cut. Just stuck around after to enjoy the paper and for the barbershop talk.”

Dutch chuckled. “Gus has been coming here longer than I’ve owned the place.”

Gus tapped the folded paper on his knee, his freshly trimmed mustache bristling. “Now let’s get down to it. Ortiz left a hole, no doubt. But the value of that Giménez trade? That’s now in the hands of three kids: Josh Hartle, Michale Kennedy, and Nick Mitchell. And between us,” he said a bit lower as he leaned forward in his chair, “Hartle’s the one who might just make it stick.”

As locks of hair fell to the floor, Gus continued, “Now, Michael Kennedy…he’s young, only 20, pitched a fair number of innings in Low-A last year, started nine games for Lake County this season. Numbers aren’t bad, but nothing leaps off the page—ERA hovering around 3.32, a WHIP of 1.36, strikeouts respectable, walks a bit high. Solid kid, works hard, but don’t expect fireworks. Nick Mitchell’s? He’s in a similar spot, 22 years old and called up to Lake County from Lynchburg this year. Since the call-up he’s been hitting in the mid-.260s with a couple home runs, OPS isn’t bad right about 0.800…he gets the job done, but the ceiling isn’t anything special either. Both have some promise, but neither feels like a game-changer yet.”

Dutch paused for a moment, tilting his head as the clippers hummed softly. “Sounds like you got the pulse of the minors down,” he said, his voice carrying that calm, measured tone he always had. Dutch set the scissors down gently on the counter and removed the tissue from around my neck. Now, if you’ve never been to the see Dutch, then you don’t know about the warm shaving cream he uses. It sounds simple, but is truly a treat, sending you into barbershop ecstasy. There is truly nothing better. As he applied the shaving cream and began to shape my neckline with careful precision. As he did, Gus continued.

”You bet, Dutch. Heck after decades scouting prospects all over Latin America, I learned more than just Spanish. “I learned how to spot those kids who are a cut above the rest,” Gus said with that half-grin of his.

I let out a laugh, snapping out of the hypnotic trance of Dutch’s warm neck shave. “Nice barber pun, Gus,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Barber pun? Not at all. I stick strictly to baseball puns. I leave the barber stuff to Dutch.”

Gus leaned back slightly in his chair, tapping the folded newspaper on his knee. “Now, Hartle…he’s one of those pitchers who could be special if he develops right. Kid’s 22, a Wake Forest product, and got drafted in the third round by the Pirates. 2024? Practically a warm-up—pitched just one game, nothing to write home about. But 2025 in Lake County? That’s where he made his mark. He made twenty-two starts, ten wins, two losses, with an ERA of 2.35. In 103.1 innings he punched out a cool 100 batters while walking 37. Opponents hit just .195 against him, with a WHIP of 1.05. When you see numbers like that, you take notice.”

He paused for emphasis, eyes narrowing. “He just got called up to Akron so he’s got to prove what he’s got at the AA level—but the body of work in High-A tells you everything you need to know. Arm’s lively, pitches with feel, the kind of mound presence that commands attention. He’s got polish beyond his years, control, and the kind of poise that makes you believe he can handle the next level without skipping a beat.”

With that Dutch finished his work with a refreshing splash of Clubman aftershave and patted my shoulders. “All set Mario.”

Gus admired my new cut, chiming in, “Dutch sure does good work. I barely recognize you, Mario. I’d almost call you handsome!”

As I got up to pay Dutch, I remembered something that had almost slipped my mind.

“Gus! I almost forgot. One of my readers, a guy who has the username of Raptorboy344 wanted to know what your take on Austin Peterson was.”

“Peterson? Yeah, I’ve seen him pitch. Kid’s got a quiet confidence on the mound. Doesn’t light up the radar gun, but he knows how to pitch. His fastball sits around 92-94 mph, and he’s got a solid curve and slider. But what really stands out is his changeup—it’s a weapon. He commands the strike zone well, which is why his walk rate’s so low. Doesn’t give hitters free passes.”

He paused, tapping his fingers on the armrest.

“Now, he’s been up and down a bit this year, right? Dominated at Double-A Akron, then had some struggles at Triple-A Columbus. That’s the learning curve. But I still see him as a potential big league starter. Maybe not an ace, but a solid middle-of-the-rotation guy. If he continues to develop, he could be in Cleveland some time mid to late 2026.”

As I paid Dutch, tipping extra as always, Gus glanced at his watch, his eyes widening. “The parking meter!”

Before I could say anything, Gus had already tossed the newspaper in the seat next to him, nearly knocking over a chair as he bolted for the door, leaving both me and Dutch laughing in his wake.

“I’ll see you in three weeks?” Dutch asked as he beckoned his next customer to take a seat.

“Perfect!” I said. “Just in time for playoff baseball.”

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