short
Just a little plotless scene thing. Uh. For no real reason. Braves.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
dugout
Francoeur bounds down the length of the dugout, beaming, his batting helmet spinning in the palm of his hand. It's been too long, far too long since he was hitting like this, and he finally can feel the rightness of the bat under his fingers, he can finally see the true path of the ball.
He tucks his helmet into his cubby and is at the rail in two strides, unceremoniously shoving Giles over to watch McCann take his at-bat. Giles squawks and attacks his side, Francoeur fending him off with one arm like he would with one of his (or McCann's) overexcited puppies and keeping his eyes on the batter's box. McCann looks great out there, like he can see everything the pitcher has a whole minute before he throws it, and Francoeur thinks it must be unfair, a catcher's advantage kind of thing going on.
McCann gets a good hit to the shortstop, who pulls a completely insane play out of nowhere to throw him out at first. Francoeur wrinkles his nose at the unfairness of it all and turns around to sit on the bench. Giles, unbalanced by the sudden lack of resistance, falls under the rail and half out onto the field, swearing. Cox starts screaming at Giles that the kids in the crowd are going to hear him, which causes Smoltz to start quietly chastising Giles as well, which causes Hudson to roll his eyes and lean back, laconically letting loose with an impressively varied and deadpan-delivered string of curse words that shocks everyone into momentary silence.
"You're such a darn troublemaker," McCann mutters, nudging Francoeur to shift over on the bench. "I saw you start that."
"Didn't do nothin'," Francoeur smiles, serene. McCann grunts, unconvinced, and sprawls himself out on the bench, yawning and going in a second from hitting-ready to fantastically bored. Francoeur glances over at him, jealous. He can never look that casual in the dugout. He's not as bad as Giles, but he's bouncing from enthusiasm all the time, his legs drumming when he's sitting, his weight shifting rapidly when he's standing. He still can't quite believe he's here, playing professional baseball with his favorite team. He never sees McCann get like that, unless he's catching Smoltz.
He pokes McCann in the stomach and gets his hand swatted irritably away with another grunt, but a hint of a smile is playing around McCann's mouth. Francoeur grins. He doesn't think McCann was all that upset about the out, knowing the vagaries of baseball as he does, but it still makes him feel better if he can make McCann smile. It's only fair, after all the smiles McCann painstakingly eked out of him during his slump. That's how they work, they pick each other up, and there are some days when it's all Francoeur can do to thank the good Lord up above that he and McCann got drafted by the same team. He always includes it in his evening prayers, when he's not distracted by McCann in other ways, but he figures God sees that and gets the point just the same.
There's a shout and he looks up to see Hudson standing, stretching, patting his glove. McCann leaps up from his side, hurrying forward to walk out onto the field with an arm on Hudson's shoulder, discussing the upcoming batter. Francoeur grins again and digs his glove out from under the bench, where Giles had kicked it in his contortions. He charges up the dugout steps and, momentarily dazzled by the bright sunlight, runs right into McCann's back.
McCann huffs out an "oof!" and gives Francoeur a glare as he darts past. Francoeur snickers quietly to himself and squints into the sun as he hits the grass of the outfield. If he shields his eyes he can see some of his Franks up in the bleachers, still ecstatic over his homerun. He turns around to watch McCann settle back on his heels behind the plate and he adds to his list of things to add to his nightly prayer.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
dugout
Francoeur bounds down the length of the dugout, beaming, his batting helmet spinning in the palm of his hand. It's been too long, far too long since he was hitting like this, and he finally can feel the rightness of the bat under his fingers, he can finally see the true path of the ball.
He tucks his helmet into his cubby and is at the rail in two strides, unceremoniously shoving Giles over to watch McCann take his at-bat. Giles squawks and attacks his side, Francoeur fending him off with one arm like he would with one of his (or McCann's) overexcited puppies and keeping his eyes on the batter's box. McCann looks great out there, like he can see everything the pitcher has a whole minute before he throws it, and Francoeur thinks it must be unfair, a catcher's advantage kind of thing going on.
McCann gets a good hit to the shortstop, who pulls a completely insane play out of nowhere to throw him out at first. Francoeur wrinkles his nose at the unfairness of it all and turns around to sit on the bench. Giles, unbalanced by the sudden lack of resistance, falls under the rail and half out onto the field, swearing. Cox starts screaming at Giles that the kids in the crowd are going to hear him, which causes Smoltz to start quietly chastising Giles as well, which causes Hudson to roll his eyes and lean back, laconically letting loose with an impressively varied and deadpan-delivered string of curse words that shocks everyone into momentary silence.
"You're such a darn troublemaker," McCann mutters, nudging Francoeur to shift over on the bench. "I saw you start that."
"Didn't do nothin'," Francoeur smiles, serene. McCann grunts, unconvinced, and sprawls himself out on the bench, yawning and going in a second from hitting-ready to fantastically bored. Francoeur glances over at him, jealous. He can never look that casual in the dugout. He's not as bad as Giles, but he's bouncing from enthusiasm all the time, his legs drumming when he's sitting, his weight shifting rapidly when he's standing. He still can't quite believe he's here, playing professional baseball with his favorite team. He never sees McCann get like that, unless he's catching Smoltz.
He pokes McCann in the stomach and gets his hand swatted irritably away with another grunt, but a hint of a smile is playing around McCann's mouth. Francoeur grins. He doesn't think McCann was all that upset about the out, knowing the vagaries of baseball as he does, but it still makes him feel better if he can make McCann smile. It's only fair, after all the smiles McCann painstakingly eked out of him during his slump. That's how they work, they pick each other up, and there are some days when it's all Francoeur can do to thank the good Lord up above that he and McCann got drafted by the same team. He always includes it in his evening prayers, when he's not distracted by McCann in other ways, but he figures God sees that and gets the point just the same.
There's a shout and he looks up to see Hudson standing, stretching, patting his glove. McCann leaps up from his side, hurrying forward to walk out onto the field with an arm on Hudson's shoulder, discussing the upcoming batter. Francoeur grins again and digs his glove out from under the bench, where Giles had kicked it in his contortions. He charges up the dugout steps and, momentarily dazzled by the bright sunlight, runs right into McCann's back.
McCann huffs out an "oof!" and gives Francoeur a glare as he darts past. Francoeur snickers quietly to himself and squints into the sun as he hits the grass of the outfield. If he shields his eyes he can see some of his Franks up in the bleachers, still ecstatic over his homerun. He turns around to watch McCann settle back on his heels behind the plate and he adds to his list of things to add to his nightly prayer.