WALSH, REBECCA.
Of the two of the them, Brennan had always had the more impressive appetite, able to eat a family’s worth of meals with relative ease whilst Rebecca picked at her plate when she got even half way to full. Unlike some of her college friends, Rebecca had never thought of herself as having an unhealthy relationship with food. She’d never feared it, or withheld it, but she also had enough of an awareness to acknowledge that in a house where both of her parents had regularly made comments about her needing to stay slim and pretty to have even a chance of finding someone decent, and a mother who lived on a stream of diet pills and actual pills, that she’d internalised some of those unhealthy attitudes. So as she stared at the frankly, obscene amount of food in front of them she found herself more than a little surprised that it didn’t seem quite so large and opposing. But then of course, she wasn’t just eating for herself was she? And as she considered that, and how she was going to gain weight regardless of how much she ate, it became considerably easier to pile her plate high before she rested it on crossed knees, watching as Brennan scanned through the channels.
True when it came to deciding films and tv shows to watch, it was usually Rebecca that was in control of the remote, but it wasn’t exactly a hardship to watch a daft movie about sport with a handsome lead in it. And more importantly, it wasn’t something that was likely to turn the waterworks up even higher than usual ( it was hardly rare for Rebecca to cry, but she’d cried over an advert about jello the previous evening ). “Hey, I like baseball too” she pointed out. After all, hadn’t it just been Brennan who had been turning her cheeks pink at his mention of her wooly red hat, emblazoned with the Sox’s logo? And so she settled down on the sofa, one hand petting Bruno’s head softly whilst she used the other to direct the pizza into her own mouth, all ooey and gooey and the sort of thing which was designed to clog up arteries with it’s goodness. …And Brad Pitt” she conceded a second later, a strand of mozzarella hanging from the corner of her lip which she swiped away, eyes trained on the screen as the title cards began to roll.
“I know you like baseball. But this is baseball.” Brennan chastised with a deliberate smugness, palm patting the top of her head as they settled in with food in-hand. “We won the 2004 World Series because of this movie” Brennan declared with a mouth half full of food. “Well,” He finally swallowed before continuing. “Sabermetrics. That’s what the A’s are doing in this movie. And then Henry finally got smart enough to implement it with the Sox. Broke the curse of the Bambino.” There were few things Brennan genuinely geeked out about, but if a conversation about the Red Sox was taking place, it was a given that Brennan knew all the players, their stats, and an entire run down of the major games minute by minute. He’d been 16 when the Red Sox had gone to the World Series and won for the first time since 1918, and how loudly he and his father had carried on when they’d won. Charles was even euphoric enough to give Brennan his first beer (which wouldn’t happen again until he was well past the legal age).
“I’m sure it was pretty crazy to be in the city when Boston took home the title. Huh?” Brennan glanced from the television screen to Rebecca, conscious he’d been rambling and felt immediately insecure at the prospect, subtle blush and smile before he looked back to the screen. “I’ve been to more Sox games with you than my Dad at this point. He’d always drag us up to Baltimore, D.C., even Philly if we could see the Sox playing.” They were some of Brennan’s fondest memories, driving hours just to catch the Red Sox in action from nosebleeds, soda and hot dogs keeping them company while they cheered on their team. “Hope this kid likes baseball.” Brennan mumbled with a faint smile.