Diamond // Double Play // Pop-up // Home Run // Extra Innings // Batting Practice // Slider // In the Stretch
Walkoff —(n.) the home team scores a run to take the lead in the bottom of the 9th inning or later, automatically winning game with no need to complete the inning
Now it’s been ten days, and Michael is going to patch up whatever strange or possibly wholly in-his-head rift is between Luke and the rest of the team.
After they win, after Michael has not just broke .270 but is chasing down .280, after Luke has earned his second win with the team, Mike corrals the pitcher, squeezes in behind him as they board the bus to the airport. The road trip is over, another homestand starts tomorrow, and Michael is going to do this now.
“Good one tonight, Hemmings,” and yes, a professionally polite compliment as he crushes Hemmings against the window is an excellent way to start.
Luke’s eyes pass over Michael, he can feel them but is too busy fiddling with his dufflebag to look up, “Thank you. You had a good game as well.”
And it’s all very formal, though their bodies are crammed together in the small seats; all Michael can think is that it’s not supposed to be like this, so stiff. The close confines aren’t helping in the slightest, with his bag shoved between his legs and Luke’s hip digging into his own. He panics, reaches for a safe, hopefully provoking topic, “Ha-has Ashton got you on smoothies yet?”
It comes out so stilted, so desperate, that Luke cracks, white teeth beaming into the empty space above the seats in front of them, “Never, no.”
“Oh?” Intelligent.
“I had to promise to work out with him though, on every day off the whole team has.”
“Dude,” being so close to Luke’s eyes has him knotted up, reduced to a word at a time, so he tries again, “You’re an idiot.”
Somehow, Luke’s face doesn’t fall, or twist on itself, like he already knows Michael is teasing, despite the deadpan tone. He twirls a finger, silently urging Mike to explain.
“Ok, so now you have to work out with Ash. What you don’t know is that Ashton is going to talk to the team nutritionist—probably already has—about putting you on the smoothie diet, like the rest of us suckers,” he finally looks to Luke, finishing with a wild gesture to the rest of the busload of sleeping ballplayers.
The stricken look on Luke’s face says everything, and his slow turn forward before dramatically slumping and crashing his face in to the seatback in front of him has Michael erupting into peals of laughter, flaring obnoxiously through the easy quiet of the bus.
And like it was the first night in the locker room, after Ashton had left to check on Cal, it's easy again. There’s a only a short drive from the park to the airport, but as most of the team tries to drowse until they get to the jet, Michael and Luke are laughing about Ashton, about the game, about the hightlight reel of the worst plays of the week in ESPN last night. They drink an imaginary toast to Calum’s incredible catch during Luke’s last start and to Mikey’s new batting average, coo over photos of Castaway and Luke’s parents' dog—who he still insists is his dog—and Michael loses track of how many times he excitedly shoves Luke against the window when the pitcher makes him groan with a stupid pun.
Disembarking the bus, hurrying through the airport, Luke and Michael are practically skipping; it’s eleven PM and they’re hopped up over the win, on adrenaline, on each other.
Michael trips over a woman’s suitcase when he feels it again, a settling feeling in his chest that radiates home.
Looking at Hemmings, who has caught up to Ashton and Calum and is in the process of semi-successfully clambering onto the former’s back, he realizes that maybe it’s not just the fans that keep him motivated, that push him to give himself to the team and the sport. Every player plays for his team, the men beside him on and off the field—every extra-innings game and no-hitter, every error and every homer. But saying it is so different than when you finally, truly feel it.
Michael has been in the Majors for almost a month and a half, has been playing his heart out on a nightly basis, but now he thinks that his life is actually perfect. He has his friends; it's still so early and yeah, any of them could be traded or injured any day, but they’re together now, and that’s worth every doubt for the future.
Diamond // Double Play // Pop-up // Home Run // Extra Innings // Batting Practice // Slider
In the Stretch—(prep. phrase) officially called “the set,” one of two legal pitching positions. Often has a faster execution and is therefore preferable when there are baserunners
It’s been over a week. They’re in the middle of an eight-game road trip. Everything is business as usual in the clubhouse—exactly as it was before Hernandez was sent down to work on his command and Hemmings arrived at the ballpark. Which is to say, Luke is a ghost. Yes, he’s been around, sitting forebodingly with the other pitchers during games he doesn’t start, speaking only to the manager, the pitching coach, his catcher; most importantly, pitching a sublime game in his next start. He goes seven full innings this time, only leaving because of a high pitch count, which isn’t even his fault. Part of it was that Cantor’d had a rare error that allowed a runner to advance to third, as well as got the man up to bat on to first. It should’ve been an easy double play, and Michael had expected Luke to scream into his glove, or venomously glare at Cantor, something. He’d been quiet, still, already focused on the next batter, the next out.
That’s all the other team was to Luke. A series of twenty-seven outs.
Mike had asked their catcher about Luke, the morning they flew to Colorado. Leighman was in his early thirties, still had good knees. Some catchers could catch until 40, but they are few and far between. The position takes it out of a man’s knees, his back, his hips—he’s part of every pitch, up and down out of a crouch, “the squat,” constantly. Leighman, Clark, was durable; though he had a few more days off than other position players, that was more convention, a part of the position, rather than a result of pain or necessity.
After boarding the team jet, Michael hustled to sit next to Leighman, all planned out what he’s ask, er, casually bring up. Calum didn’t seem to notice, dropping immediately into a seat and conking back out. It was early, after all. He felt Ashton’s raised brows on the back of his head. Of course, that could have had more to do with the same thing that prompted Leighman’s first words.
“Black, Clifford?”
“Oh,” he ran a hand through his hair, now jet black, “I figured I probably shouldn’t match the Nats when we play them in a few days.”
“We just finished up with the literal Reds,” Leighman laughed, loud and still sleep-roughened, “and the Diamondbacks before them!”
“Yeah, but it’s the Nationals! Hate ‘em.”
“Whatever, kid. Ya look great, it’ll be cool for Metallica Night during the next homestand.”
“Thanks Leighman,” he relaxed into the seat. That was one of the best things—best little things—about the moving up to the majors. Yes, he was and would likely always be a little bit of a nervous flier, but their jet seats were oversized, made to fit overgrown athletes. Yes, he wasn’t as large as Hank, or as broad as Luke (who could be?), but at more than just a nudge over six feet, Michael had suffered in the commercial flights minor leaguers took…when he wasn’t miserable on a bus.
After the plane had reached altitude, and ensuring the players around them had headphones in, were asleep, and weren’t Luke, Mike spoke up.
“All’s good?” ok, that wasn’t a great start.
“Yeah man, what’s up?”
“Just...you know how Luke, Hemmings, Luke didn’t have a great first game, but, you know, it wasn’t that bad? He just…reacted bad?”
Leighman’s face was bemusedly blank, a stark contrast to his regular easy smile. Michael began again.
“Like, you’ve seen his film, right? His look, his eyes? The focus? You met with his the day before the game—how did it go?”
The catcher’s face finally broke, “Yup, I know what you’re saying Clifford. He looks like he doesn’t care about the signs,” he leaned in to Michael, “you should stop telling Irwin things; the whole team knew you were a mess practically before the trade itself was announced,” Leighman finished with a kindly smirk.
“You…you’re shitting me! His next injury isn’t going to be a damn mystery, I guarantee that!” A few shhhs floated their way.
“Easy Cliffo, now you know. No need to worry about that stuff. World could go any day, this plane might fall out of the sky, we could get the designated hitter here in the National League.”
“Ugh, don’t joke about that.”
“Fair point. But back to your point, Hemmings is actually great to work with.”
Mike just sent him a skeptical look, willing him to elaborate. He did.
“Hemmings is thorough. As batters, we study a pitcher the night before, the day of, a game. But pitchers and catchers study an entire lineup every single game. We plan how to attack their best hitters, go over which pitches worked in the last game, what worked against that team last time, what to do in xyz situation. We have to,” he paused, sighing. “Look, I’ve been in the league a long time, seems like, and I’ve caught for five different teams. I’m not saying Hemmings is the best pitcher I’ve worked with—he’s not, he won’t be. But he’s the most dedicated, and it’s only been one start. Kid goes all in, makes a complete plan for not just the best hitters, but all of them. Plans not for every bad situation, but damn near all of them. It’s—”
“Impossible?”
“Yeah, kid, nearly. It’s a helluva lot of work for me, but I can get it done. We plan each at-bat, see? He patterns his pitches, but it’s such a convolution that it’ll take years for other teams to figure it out. I don’t know what it’ll be like when we face the Pirates, but I hope he’s changed his plan as he’d be predictable for a catcher with that much experience working with him. Think he has though. Kid’s real smart.”
“Still seems…insane. You can’t plan for everything. What about when he has to look at the signs?”
“Didn’t really have to last time. Plus, I’m sure he sees them, they’re just not that necessary. He never needs to shake me off, since we both already know what’s next, and after that, and after that. Of course, game didn’t go as Hemmings’d hoped, but he was with a new catcher, backed by a new team, had to be tough. Be almost worried if there wasn’t a hiccup…won though, didn’t we?”
“Yes…but he was so…I don’t know, beat up afterwards. He’d been talking to Ash and I the day before—and the day he arrived—but not at all since. I don’t think he’s spoken to anyone!”
“Easy. Clifford, it’s not your job to make friends, it’s to support the guy. Make him feel welcome, but don’t push any damn pitcher,” Leighman kept his smile, but Michael knew this was serious. This was what made or broke games. Trust. Trusting your men to take the load, trusting yourself to pick it up when they couldn’t.
“You—you’re right. He just needs time. It’ll be fine.”
“It will. We good now, Nightwing?”
Mikey grinned, “That make you Batman?”
“Nah, never. I’d need to be taller. Hemmings can be your Batman, the kid’s broad enough for it.”
“Yeah…Thanks Clark—hey, Superman!”
“Rest up for the rest of the flight, got it Clifford?”
Michael did shut his eyes until they touched down in Denver, but he didn’t sleep. He was somewhat comforted by what Leighman had said, but he still wanted to speak to Luke, to give him his trust, to help him settle. Luke will pitch in their second game against the Rockies—he wanted to make things ok by then.
It took a little longer than that, but not much. In less than a week, everything would be ok, but not as he expected.
Luke’s second game with the team is a marvel. He pitches a full seven innings, only allowing one two-run homer—a common curse in the thin air and small dimensions of Coors Field. It’s this first reason that also pushes Luke out of the game. They have a four-run lead, and the manager doesn’t like to push his pitchers where the air is so thin. Luke goes easy—Michael can see the steel fall from his eyes.
He hadn’t been able to speak to Luke before the game yesterday, or during it, after, before today’s game…He’s not sure if he’s chickening out, or if there just hasn’t been a good opportunity, one that wouldn’t damage the fragile scaffolding of a professional pitcher. And sure, maybe Luke wouldn’t have a problem with Michael bothering him, but Michael doesn’t know.
So he’d done nothing.
Calum had though—his job. In the third, after Luke allows the homer, with one out, the Rockies catcher knocks a shot into deep right center. It’s an excellent hit, likely a double, or would be had the fantastic hitter in right field not made the best defensive play of his first season in the bigs.
It’s across the field from Michael, he wouldn’t be involved in this play unless Cal somehow overthrows the ball after scooping it up and it gets past Campos, covering second base. So he’s watching the ball fall, gets into a loose position behind the shortstop, and misses Calum’s dive. He doesn’t miss Ashton’s cheer though, nor the horns Luke flashes to right field—indicating two outs—followed by pointing right to Cal.
Michael can’t see Luke’s face, but as Calum jogs back to his position, he sees him smile like a beacon and thinks, “well, that’s one thing solved.”
Like Michael figured from the beginning, Calum was easy—he gave it all to the team that gave him a chance to play defense, and that doesn’t leave a lot of room for casual grudges or senseless vendettas. Luke still hasn’t opened up since his first start, but the simple acknowledgement of Cal’s success on the field had instantly knocked down all the (admittedly one-sided) tension. It was enough, and Michael should probably get back into the game, but he can’t avoid the little flare of hope within him—that maybe he can talk to Luke again, make him part of the team, for good.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
heyyyyyyyyyy, give ‘er a shot if you like Luke and Clem and rain and happy (then sad) Calum and Michael being a dick and vague allusions to sex that I have no ability to write *winky face*
When you’re writing another little sequel blurb and sudDENLY LUKE AND MICHAEL ARE MAD AT EACH OTHER AND THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A CUTE THING ABOUT DYEING MICHAEL’S HAIR AFTER A TOUGH GAME
I just wanted to say that I really like your fanfic! Keep going girl! 😁
Wow, hello, THANK YOU!!!! I’ll tell you a secret: the thing’s actually completely written, but I didn’t mean for cashton to happen at all but then it suddenly did and now I have rewrites up the wazoo…
This message means the world to me, seriously. It’s been years since I wrote anything other than an essay, so lovely feedback is so encouraging and unexpected and just wonderful :)
