KNOW THIS: STANTON notices everything. He approaches life like a guy constantly trying to memorize a license plate. He notices the obvious, like the Marlins' penchant for treating the roster with a never-ending sleight of hand -- now you see Miguel Cabrera, now you don't -- and he notices the less obvious, like the way poor sleep and lousy nutrition have a debilitating impact on a team that travels the most miles in the NL East.

"He puts a lot of thought into everything -- everything," Ramos says. "Before he acts, he always thinks a little bit. We're going to go eat and I'll ask, 'What do you want?' " Ramos pauses dramatically, stares into the distance. He's Stanton now. Five seconds, 10, (15 ... he's clearly a method guy. "Finally, I'm like: 'Dude, I'm hungry. Let's go.' "

Stanton is as exacting as he is deliberate. He was a three-sport star -- baseball ranking third -- at Notre Dame High in Sherman Oaks, California, and was recruited to play wide receiver at USC before the Marlins took him in the second round of the 2007 draft. His plan was to give pro ball three years before reassessing whether he might try college football. By then, though, he was already in the bigs.

After an All-Star third season in 2012, Stanton noticed the creep of entitlement spreading like algae and moving his way in the clubhouse, and he told Redmond he wanted it to stop. Special treatment in baseball is quirky: It's accepted that a star gets three locker stalls in a corner rather than one in the middle between a reliever and a guy who has memorized the flight schedule between Miami and New Orleans. But a star who expects a different kind of special treatment -- especially one who doesn't take well to criticism -- gets his share of side-eye.

"I don't care how good or bad you are, you're going to make a mistake," Stanton says, "so make sure I'm the same as that rookie over there."

It didn't feel right, probably because he'd never experienced it. Raised by postal workers who divorced when he was 10, Stanton chose to transfer from Verdugo Hills High to (Notre Dame after his sophomore year for a more disciplined atmosphere and better sports teams. As an under-the-radar baseball player on the fertile fields of Southern California, he always played as if someone important might be watching.

Part of scouting is espionage, so Marlins scout Tim McDonnell sat in his car in the parking lot beyond left field at games, watching through binoculars, careful not to give himself away. He surveyed the stands, looking for other scouts, because another part of scouting is determining the opposition. Either he or his assistant attended every game of Stanton's senior year, and they wrote down the name of every scout they saw. The list was short. McDonnell would put his binoculars on his lap and ask himself, "Am I crazy?"

Stanton's relative anonymity was a result of a system that favors exposure over potential. He was not a product of youth baseball's industry. He did not play on expensive travel teams or attend the $500-a-day showcases where 15-year-olds ("showcase ponies," McDonnell calls them) run through drills with cookie-cutter mechanics and false hustle and emerge like factory parts.

He was a no-name among local youth baseball royalty. Matt Dominguez, Mike Moustakas, Josh Vitters -- they'd all been on the circuit for years, known to scouts before their pits sprouted hair. Stanton was Mike then, mostly because he got tired of everyone mispronouncing Giancarlo and said: "Y'all are annoying. See if you can handle Mike." He's still Mike to those from his past, and he's Cruz -- his full name is Giancarlo Cruz Michael Stanton -- to his mother's side of the family. But during batting practice at his one high-level (but free) showcase event after his junior year, he was the "big fella" with the long swing who drove five balls over the fence while nobody else hit more than one.

After the '07 draft, and Stanton's signing for $475,000, McDonnell was in the stands at a summer tournament when an older scout approached him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Man, you really reached for that one," he said, chuckling, "but you'll learn."

To answer the next question: No, McDonnell has never thrown those patronizing words back in the scout's face. "I knew I was right," he says. "For some guys, it's all about themselves. But for him, it wasn't the Mike Stanton Show -- it still isn't."

So Stanton, that ethic still in place, vowed that this outsized Forever Deal, if it came to pass, would be the tide that lifts all boats. His frustration went deeper than the standings. When the Marlins exceeded expectations last season, contending for a wild-card spot and reaching .500 in late August, Stanton provided the poetry, telling Yahoo Sports, "Five months doesn't change five years." He hated the losing, sure, but he despised the culture that enabled it.

"I made it clear that I wasn't happy with our lack of success for the whole time I've been here," Stanton says. "There's only so long you can cry wolf. You've got to start making a push. There's no more beating around the bush. The time is now."

Stanton's message to the assembled brass at the Beverly Hills Hotel: For the Marlins to become a sustainable, competitive franchise over the course of this proposed contract, management needs to make fundamental changes beyond the makeup of the roster.

"You can't just bring anyone in," he says. "It doesn't matter how good they are. When it gets tough and you're heading down the stretch, you need players you want to play for. It's not, 'This guy comes out and throws every five days and then plays video games.' You're not going to die for that guy."

This is the attitude Stanton brought to the negotiating table, the same resolve he brings to the plate. The most powerful hitter in the game was about to become its most powerful player.

HE HITS THE ball as if he has a personal grudge, as if it owes him, over and over, for unforgivable slights. He led the NL with 37 homers last year despite missing the final three weeks, and he was that Fiers fastball away from winning the NL MVP. "He should have won it anyway," says Marlins catcher Jarrod Saltalamacchia.

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Stanton rarely shows emotion, and it has become a contest for teammates to detect it when he does. Every once in a while, they claim, when he hits one that lands in a faraway place -- like a camera well, high above the wall in dead center -- he'll betray the thick bark of his professionalism with a slight smile.

"Sometimes there was a little look on his face," says McGehee, now a Giant. "You could see he was proud of himself."

Power hitters are the rarest commodity, the astatine of the baseball world. Just seven players hit at least 35 home runs last year, and just nine players in history have hit more homers through their age-24 season than Stanton's 154. It's possible that all of them, placed end to end, haven't traveled as far as Stanton's.

"When you get one, you don't even feel like you swung hard," he says. "Just an air swing. It's very addicting, so you have to be disciplined. When you hit one that far, you think: I don't think I swung that hard. I might be able to get a little bit more. That's when you get bad habits."

There it is again, the constant nag, the part of him that sees the dark side of a 500-foot shot. It's why he didn't instantly jump at the deal. In fact, he walked away. Let me think about it, he said, leaving slack jaws in his wake. "In all honesty," Redmond says, "you wouldn't think twice if the guy who's offered a few hundred million dollars just says, 'OK, I'll take it.' "

Stanton needed more than gaudy figures. He needed a no-trade clause, the first issued under Loria, and an opt-out after six years. Satisfying those needs, however, came at a cost. To provide the team with payroll flexibility, he agreed to a massively backloaded deal; Stanton will make the same amount this year as last, and if he opts out, he'll leave $218 million on the table. He is giving the benefit of the doubt to a franchise and an owner that have yet to prove they deserve it. "It's a shield, not a sword," Samson says of the opt-out. "He wanted it to protect himself in case we don't hold up our end of the deal. All of our legacies are on the line. If either one of us is wrong, it's a career-defining move."

Stanton also needed the culture to change. The Marlins were flying in charters that didn't even have Wi-Fi; he and teammates who wanted high-protein, low-fat meals were forced to bring them from home.

This year the Marlins will be on a new first-class-only charter with massage tables and, yes, Wi-Fi. They will have a chef in the home clubhouse, relieving Stanton of frequent trips to Whole Foods to buy fresh fish for his pregame meals. As for the payroll flexibility, Stanton will be part of MLB's best young outfield, along with Gold Glove left fielder Christian Yelich and 23-homer center fielder Marcell Ozuna. And they will be joined by new acquisitions: Dee Gordon at second, Martin Prado at third, Michael Morse at first and Mat Latos in the rotation. None of them is likely to change the face of the NL East -- Gordon's on-base percentage is subpar, Morse has topped 100 games just three times in 10 seasons -- but Stanton saw the moves as a sign, at least, of management's commitment. "It all started with him," says Hill, the president of baseball ops. "If Giancarlo's not a part of the Marlins, we go a different direction."

It's a startling admission, proof that Stanton's power within the organization makes one of his 500-foot homers look like a pop to short. Still, why the trust? Why does Stanton believe this time will be different? Wasn't Cabrera supposed to be the face of the franchise too? Buehrle and Reyes both contend that Loria told them to purchase homes in South Florida before he traded them, charges Loria denies. Then again, that 2012 team was aimless, and the 15-game improvement from '13 to '14 significant.

Is there hope among fans waiting nearly an hour for Saltalamacchia's autograph at the Winter Warm-Up at Marlins Park in February? Does a 100-yard line to the Selfie Station -- a team employee mans the camera, but whatever -- for Alvarez indicate a rebirth of baseball in Miami?

"I know I took a lot of criticism," says Loria, "but you don't get to the top by wading in the water."

Some of the harshest words came from within, however, from the young man Loria refers to with fatherly, or maybe grandfatherly, tenderness. He encouraged Stanton to travel when he made the big leagues, and he and his wife dined with Stanton and Nolasco two years ago at the Eiffel Tower. But the friendly fire that came from that deliberate young man in the Beverly Hills Hotel -- "pointed questions," Redmond calls them -- changed the molecules in the air. Loria wasn't the only ruthless businessman in the room.

The future has never seemed to mean much to Loria. It means everything to the guy who sat across the table, the guy who requested and received the Forever Deal. For nearly a week after exiting the hotel, Stanton assessed the contract from every angle, a jeweler gauging a stone. With the opt-out and all promises in place, pen finally hit paper, and the clock started. Six years to forever.

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