By Chris Lane
By Jeff Balke
By Aaron Reiss
By Angelica Leicht
By Dianna Wray
By Aaron Reiss
By Camilo Smith
By Craig Malisow
A newspaper quoted him as saying: "Instead of stepping out of Austin's shadow and having a team that is associated with a growing and great city, it will be known as the city that ran a Texas hero out of town."
In one sentence, Reid Ryan had hit upon all the insecurities of a suburb wanting to be its own city. It was a strike at the knees.
When Reid Ryan had first approached Round Rock city officials about locating his dad's new baseball team there, they wondered if they were being sucked into a case of a rich dad buying his bungling son a new toy. They now laugh at their own naivete.
"It didn't take long for all of us to realize that Reid is a supersharp kid," said Will Hampton, the city's public information officer.
Even so, some of Reid Ryan's biggest fans still wonder if the team might be the son's way of proving his worth to his father because he couldn't prove it to him on the mound.
Just when it seems like that might be the situation, Reid Ryan tosses a curve that suggests he is very much his own man, a secure, savvy executive who is out to make his sports venture a success, financially and otherwise. On New Year's Eve, Reid Ryan was the only man working at team headquarters, a cozy collection of desks nestled behind an architect's office that fronts the city's main street downtown. Comfortably clad in a Nike warm-up and cross-trainers, leaning against the edge of an employee's desk, Ryan is asked about the team's name, Express. Fans selected it -- Nolan Ryan's nickname -- in a fan balloting contest.
"It's kind of boring," Reid Ryan says of the name for the fireballer. Amazingly, the loyal and doting son preferred a very different title for the team: Fire Ants. "I could just picture the cap with a logo of a fire ant holding a bat."
In minor-league baseball, where merchandising the team's logo can significantly boost a team's profits, he realized that Fire Ants souvenirs would have been big sellers to help make the team a success. The same way using Nolan Ryan during the campaign helped make the election one.
For Reid Ryan, the soon-to-be-Hall-of-Famer's son who wasn't good enough to pitch in Yankee Stadium or Wrigley Field, taking good care of his dad's business is a great way to prove his worth.
It was 1996, and Nolan Ryan's oldest son was coming to terms with the fact that his good genetics were betraying him.
As a boy in the sandlots and back yards of Alvin, Reid Ryan had hoped that hours of practice would make his pitching perfect. Perfect, as in what his dad epitomized. Cliff Gustafson, the legendary baseball coach at the University of Texas, saw enough potential in Reid Ryan's right arm, along with a faint hope that quality genes would win out, to recruit him to pitch for his talent-rich Longhorns. Ryan's college career began like a dream when he faced his dad in an exhibition game against the Texas Rangers. But during the Longhorns' season, UT coaches called Ryan to pitch only three and one-third innings. After his freshman year, he got his father's blessing to transfer to Texas Christian University where he hoped for more playing time.
Things began looking up for him by his senior year. Ryan helped pace the Horned Frogs to their first Southwest Conference Championship in 28 years. The Texas Rangers, his dad's former team, signed him to a pro contract about a month later, and Reid Ryan began a stint in the minor leagues. But his professional career never took off. In three years, he reached only the highest level of "A" ball, three rungs below the majors. No matter how much will he put into throwing his fastball, he lacked power. Reid Ryan translated his father's pitching technique into his own but could not crack the 90-miles-an-hour barrier -- one his father could break in his sleep. This Ryan express turned out to be, in relative terms of the majors, a slow-moving freight train to be trounced on by batters.
The Rangers, despite the organization's loyalties to the Ryan family, released Reid Ryan in 1996. The San Diego Padres expressed interest in signing him to another minor-league contract.
"It became a choice of whether I wanted to spend five to ten years kicking around the minor leagues, and maybe one day making it to the big leagues for a cup of coffee, or whether I wanted to get out and become successful in some other field," he says.
He sought counsel from his father.
"You know, people kind of make fun of the fact that Nolan Ryan isn't the most exciting guy in the world," Reid Ryan says. "But he's what I like to call a 'common-sense guru.' He has a way of putting things into perspective that brings out what is right and what is wrong. So when I went to him he said, 'Reid, you should feel good about what you've done. Your goal was to play pro baseball, and you did that. You had one good year in the minors, and you enjoyed it.' "