fire on the left
Well, this took long enough. Tigers rookie fic, Justin Verlander/Joel Zumaya, with Curtis Granderson as the other main character. The tone is kind of weird, for me... it's third-person, but from Zumaya's point of view, if that makes sense, and that informed the tone. So it's at least partially how he would think, the wording. It sounds odd but you'll probably know what I mean when you read it. The fucker's too long for one post, again, so this is the first part, and the second part is linked at the end of it.
For those who don't know them,
From left to right, Verlander, Granderson, Zumaya.
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.
Fire on the left, part I.
Zumaya wakes up to the smell of burning. He blinks and their couch asserts itself beneath his face, nubbly fabric pattern-pressed into his cheek. He groans and raises his head, fuzzy at the edges. He's pretty sure he can hear someone singing, horribly off-key.
Things snap back into place and the voice in the kitchen resolves itself into Granderson entertaining himself while blackening toast or somehow turning on the coffee maker without a filter, something like that. Granderson has an enthusiasm for cooking and absolutely no aptitude whatsoever for it.
Zumaya stretches his back as best he can, staggering up to collapse at the kitchen table. Granderson is busily laying slices of an ashy black substance on a plate in what he probably thinks is an appetizing arrangement. Zumaya eyes it nervously. It might have been toast at one point in its existence, but then again it might have been something else entirely.
“Sleep well?” Granderson asks, setting the plate down on the table and depositing a stick of butter next to it with a flourish. Zumaya grunts. Their couch is narrow and great for keeping you on the edge of your seat for a stimulating Xbox game, but it’s nearly impossible to get a good night’s sleep on. They had picked it out because it was a violently bright shade of orange that reminded them of their home ballpark and that the salesman had assured them was the height of cool, dumb, but a bright orange couch is rare enough, can't go on regretting it.
Cracking his neck and poking unenthusiastically at the probable toast to make sure it isn’t going to come to life and kill him, he takes a moment to miss his mother, something he does at least half of every day, and another moment to mentally remind himself why so many of the guys are married. Picking out furniture, yeah. That must be one of the perks.
“Hadda leave me sleepin’ on the couch, huh?” He narrows his eyes at Granderson, who grins impishly and starts slathering butter on one slice. The butter knife causes an entire layer of the stuff to crumble off as it passes over, making his plate look like the bottom grate of a fireplace. “What if I gotta pitch today, huh? All sore all over, and I’m givin’ up runs left and right. S’all your fault, man.”
Granderson’s grin widens. “Sorry Zoom, but there’s no way I was gonna carry you to your room.”
Zumaya rolls his eyes and tilts his chair back on two legs so he can reach a banana on the countertop behind him. The banana, at least, should be safe. “Not sayin’ carry me, jeez. Y’coulda just poked me or somethin’.”
“You were out like a light,” Granderson says, pointing at Zumaya with the butter knife. “Out like a shitty batter on a high fastball. Out like Verlander’s dreams of bein’ a body builder. Out like, uh, like Pudge wishes he was.”
Zumaya has to struggle to not spray the table with half-chewed banana as he bursts into unavoidable laughter. He’s already mapping out, in his mind, the stretches he’ll have to do to get himself in playing shape by game time, where he and Granderson and Verlander will go to hang out after the game ends, and he doesn’t miss anything at all.
--------------------
Zumaya calls his mother after the game. It’s pretty loud in the clubhouse and there’s a snapping and squealing coming from the showers that makes it sound like Monroe has gotten a wet towel worked up into a pretty sharp rattail, but Zumaya’s real good at tuning the team out when he’s on the phone with his mother. He’s had a lot of practice.
It used to be a funny thing, when he first came up. Ha ha, look at the rookie pitcher, callin’ his momma five times a day. Then they saw him pitch, 100 miles per hour, fastball so heavy in the glove that even Pudge had to whistle, and Pudge had caught everything the game of baseball allowed to be thrown. They saw him blow past opposing teams and set masked umpire heads to shaking, how’s a guy supposed to call somethin’ comin’ at him that fast? They saw him get used to being up with the big club, stop being bright-eyed and scared around the veterans, coming into his own. And he still called home five times a day.
He still gets looks, sometimes, from the guys. Most of them don’t talk to their wives or kids this often, let alone their mothers. It’s not the norm in baseball. It just isn’t generally done.
Zumaya doesn’t give a shit. He’s always called his mother five times a day, and it doesn’t matter where he is, or what he’s doing, or if he’s playing ball or bagging groceries in some shitty little downtown shop. He’s going to call his mother five times a day so long as he can afford it. Baseball’s good that way. So long as he’s not a complete idiot, he’ll pretty much always be able to afford phone calls. He’s not making a lot yet, of course, but if he can stay unhurt, it’ll come. Everyone thinks so. He’s not too worried.
--------------------
Sometimes his mother calls him, like when he’s pitched two perfect innings to close out a one-run game, and he’s plastered all over the late-night Sportscenter, anchors marveling over his stuff. He’s out with the guys, wedged into the awkward point of a corner booth at a loud, dark bar, and he can feel his phone vibrate in his pocket. He digs it out, shoves it up against the side of his face, stuffs his fingers into his other ear to dull the noise.
Granderson, jammed up against his right side, ignores him with an ease borne of much practice. Crushed into his left side, though, is Verlander, rookie pitcher and one of the best on the team, and Verlander looks around curiously to see who Zumaya is talking to, assuming teammate or friend but clearly hoping for hot girls.
Zumaya is, of course, speaking in Spanish, listening to his mother tell him what the Sportscenter guys had to say about his fastball, telling her details about the game. Verlander watches with hopeful interest until Granderson looks around, rolls his eyes, and leans across Zumaya’s lap, mock-whispering, “Madre.”
“You’re kiddin’,” Verlander mutters, doubtfully flicking his eyes at Zumaya’s phone. “He’s talking to his mom in the middle of a bar?”
Pudge, wedged into Verlander’s other side, overhears and leans in. “He’d talk to his madre if she called while he was fuckin’ a groupie.” Pudge makes obscene thrusting motions of his hips, pumping with his arms, and the rest of the table bursts out laughing. Zumaya cups a hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and swears at Pudge, who grins hugely and jerks his hips some more, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and squealing, “Ay ay ay, sì, sì mama, usted es mi mama grande, ay ay ay.”
Zumaya makes a movement like he’s going to crawl over Verlander and drag Pudge under the table to beat him senseless. Granderson wrinkles his nose, glances sidelong at Zumaya, and shouts, “Aw whatever Pudge, don’t be actin’ like you wanna do his momma, we all know it’s his poppa you’d be after.” He screws up his face and in a fair approximation of Pudge’s voice yelps, “Ay, ay, sì papi, give it to me papi, all night long, yo quiero big mehican dick.”
The table erupts in fresh laughter, Pudge good-naturedly chuckling with the rest of them. Zumaya glares for another second before letting a mollified smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. He mouths, “Not Mexican,” at Granderson, who throws up his hands and raises his eyes to the heavens. Zumaya winks to show he’s not offended, sits back in the booth and takes his hand from the phone, apologizes to his mother for the interruption, and listens to her tell him about how his little sister had clapped for sheer joy when she saw him get that last strikeout.
--------------------
Two weeks before they’re scheduled to go to Chicago to play the White Sox, people start calling Granderson for tickets. He’s from Chicago, and as near as Zumaya can tell, every single living family member of his wants to go to at least one game of the series, along with every person he was even a passing acquaintance of back in school. Their apartment phone and Granderson’s cell phone both ring constantly. Granderson starts taking the phone off the hook and turning off his cell at 3 am so they can get some sleep, because otherwise both would ring on through the night.
He’s not planning on having any family come during this series, so Zumaya gives Granderson his assigned tickets for all three games. Granderson thanks him profusely and bakes a cake to show his appreciation. He puts in way too much sugar and too many eggs, so it’s sticky and sickly sweet and doesn’t hold its shape well, but Zumaya eats it anyways because the frosting is good and he’s gotten, over the course of a couple months, kind of horribly used to Granderson’s cooking.
In the clubhouse before a game he tells Verlander about all the phone calls, how he’s taken to picking up the phone and saying, “Hello, ticket office,” as a joke. Verlander snorts and calls him a dork, gets up and offers Granderson all of his tickets. Granderson drags him back over to Zumaya and tells them how much this means to his family, and they totally don’t have to give up their tickets, and he seriously appreciates it, and Verlander’s got a cake due to him.
Verlander, not at all used to Granderson’s cooking and reasonably terrified of it, assures him that it’s fine, he’s not a big cake guy anyways, and he probably wasn’t going to use the tickets, may as well give them to someone who will, no big. Granderson hugs them both and runs off to go find his socks. Verlander turns to Zumaya and silently pantomimes intense relief, as though a baking disaster has just been narrowly averted which, so far as Verlander’s stomach is concerned, is exactly what happened.
Zumaya laughs freely and punches Verlander lightly in the side (not like he’s pitching today). “And you’re callin’ me a dork?”
Verlander crumples to the ground, rolling around theatrically. “Yes,” he groans. “Huge dork. Huge, cruel, evil dork.”
“’Least I didn’t insist he bake you a cake. Now that, that woulda been evil.”
Verlander stops rolling and eyes him with alarm from the floor. “You. You wouldn’t do that. Right?”
The look on Verlander’s face is hysterical and Zumaya accordingly bursts out laughing again. Leyland stomps by, already in his cleats, and gives Verlander a dirty look. “Sorry Coach,” Verlander says politely, sprawled on the carpet, “but Joel here just introduced my left ribcage to his knuckles, and wouldn’t you know it but the ol’ ribcage prefers thinking about its introduction down here.”
Leyland moves his eyes to Zumaya without moving any other part of his face or body. “You punchin’ starting pitchers?” he growls menacingly. Zumaya holds his hands up, palms out, all innocence.
“No sir. I jus’ tapped him. It’s hardly my fault he’s such a scrawny stick he can’t stand up to a friendly tap.”
Verlander sits up, indignant. “Scrawny stick? Scrawny stick? I am a stick of immense brawn, thank you very much.”
Zumaya cackles and Leyland makes a noise of disgust, shaking his head and stomping away, already pulling the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and muttering about how the damn kids will be the death of him yet.
--------------------
In Chicago, it takes 20 minutes for Zumaya to be bored in his hotel room. He rifles through the mini bar and determines there’s nothing special in there. He looks in all the drawers to see if there’s something more exciting than the Bible left in one of them (there isn’t). He draws an obscene stick figure sketch on the complimentary pad of paper with the complimentary hotel pen. Then he bounces on the bed and plays catch with himself, tossing his cell phone into the air. He already called his mother when the plane landed.
He tries calling Granderson but Granderson is already out with his family or his friends or his old girlfriend from high school or who knows what and isn’t picking up his phone. He toys with the idea of calling his mother again for a few minutes. Instead he flips open his cell phone, scrolls through his address book until he gets to the ‘S’ part and calls the number with the header ‘SkinnyFuckV’, which is Verlander (as distinguished from ‘SkinnyFuckW’, which is Jamie Walker, whom he has not called once in his life but whose number he has anyways, and ‘LittleFuckZ’, which is his sister).
Verlander picks up on the first ring and is knocking on Zumaya’s door before he can hang up. He opens the door and Verlander hurls himself dramatically into the room, flopping down on the bed. “I’m bored,” he announces in ominous tones. “Where are the hot chicks?”
“Probably all with Granderson,” Zumaya mutters, sitting down on the bed and dropping a pillow on Verlander’s face.
“All at once?” Verlander sighs, lifting the pillow off his face and smacking Zumaya in the back of the skull with it before tucking it under his own head. “What a scene. That lucky little bastard.”
“Who’re you to be callin’ anyone ‘little’?”
“Cram it,” Verlander says, but without rancor.
Zumaya rolls up one sleeve and flexes his bicep, gesturing at it with his other hand. He’s not that muscular, not really, but he’s much bigger than Verlander, and that makes it impressive enough. “Now this is a man, see.”
Verlander golf claps. “Lovely. And what does that make me?”
Zumaya clears his throat and adopts a tuneful falsetto. “Not yet a girl… not quiiiiite a woooomaaaannn…”
“You sing like Walker,” Verlander accuses, and Zumaya stops to glare balefully at him. It’s a harsh accusation. “But speaking of women…”
“Told you. Granderson’s got ‘em all.”
“But I’m sexier than he is,” Verlander pouts, which in Zumaya’s opinion immediately disproves his point. “And I’m starting tomorrow, so get me some bitches, bitch.”
“Who cares if you’re startin’ tomorrow?”
“Starting pitchers get whatever they want before a start. It’s like pregnant women or something. It’s like, a baseball law.”
“Well, I could be pitching every day,” Zumaya counters reasonably, leaning back against the headboard. “So I should get bitches every day.”
“Nuh uh. Starters are way more important.” Verlander scoots his head off the back of the pillow so it curves his neck up and he’s looking at Zumaya upside-down, his chin in the air, looking very much more goofy than deeply important. “It takes you like 8 games to do what I do in one.”
Zumaya smirks at him. “You couldn’t be a closer if you tried. You need 8 innin’s to work through all your mistakes and shit. You couldn’t handle the pressure of havin’ to thow a perfect innin’ every time out. No way.”
“You’re not the closer,” Verlander points out, just to be difficult. “Jonesy is.”
“Whatever. He’s old. He’ll retire soon.” Zumaya gestures vaguely to indicate the eventuality of Todd Jones’ departure from the team. The poor guy has a mustache, for fuck’s sake. No one grows just mustaches anymore, it isn’t cool at all. He’s done for, so far as Zumaya is concerned, it’s only a matter of time. “And then I’ll be the closer. I’ll totally kick way more ass than you. I’ll be better than that fuckin’, whatever, that fuckin’ Papelbon.”
“Papelbon’s a little bitch,” Verlander agrees. “Speaking of bitches…”
“What, you wanna fuck Papelbon?”
“I almost don’t care at this point, so long as it’s warm and breathing and has holes.” Verlander thinks that over momentarily and makes a face, sticking out his tongue. “Yeah, never mind, gross. That would include, like, dogs and cows and shit. Forget I said that.”
“Watch what you do with that thing,” Zumaya warns, flicking Verlander’s outstretched tongue with a finger. “And I’ll never forget it. Cowfucker.”
Verlander sticks out his tongue even farther, talking around it. “Yea I gueth a elethant ne’er thorgets. An what you gonna do, ite it?”
Zumaya’s really bored. There’s nothing at all to do except sit here and banter back and forth with Verlander like usual, like they’ve done a thousand times before. Nothing new happens and he just wants to get through the night, keep going so he doesn’t die of boredom before he falls asleep, so they can wake up the next morning and Verlander can pitch and Zumaya can maybe pitch and they can hopefully win.
He’s bored, and that’s probably why he leans down, why he does bite Verlander’s tongue, why when Verlander’s mouth drops open in surprise he leans in and covers the shocked O with his own lips.
There’s dead silence when he sits back up. Verlander’s staring at him with huge, startled eyes, and Zumaya licks his lips nervously. It’s a little scary how fast the atmosphere in the room changed. He coughs, and Verlander starts, a body-sized twitch.
“Is. Is that gonna happen again?” He's staring at Zumaya as though he’s afraid that if he closes his eyes for a second Zumaya’s going to pull out a knife and gut him.
Zumaya can’t think of anything to say. He looks down at the bed and picks at a stray thread in the sheets, thinking that the team is paying too much for this place to have the sheets be crappy like this. He risks a look back up and Verlander is still staring at him warily.
“Dunno,” he mumbles, dropping his eyes to the sheet again. “Um. Do you want it to?”
There’s another longish pause during which Zumaya picks a small hole in the sheet, and Verlander chews on his lower lip. “I dunno,” he finally says, narrowing his eyes and sharpening his gaze. “Do. Do you want it to?”
“I dunno either,” Zumaya admits. He looks over and Verlander has gone back to chewing on his lower lip. He stares without trying to look like he’s staring. Verlander chews on his lip all the time, whenever he’s thinking about something. It’s a habit Zumaya had noticed but never really paid attention to before. He’s paying attention to it now, though. He’s got the insane desire to pry Verlander’s teeth off his lip with his own, and it’s freaking him out in about 8 separate ways.
“Guess we’ll never know unless we try it,” Verlander announces, voice airy and forced. “Uh. Again.”
Zumaya nods emphatically. “Right. Definitely.” He slides forward so that when Verlander sits up they’re facing each other. He’s got no idea where to go from there, though. Verlander awkwardly puts a hand on his shoulder and Zumaya even more awkwardly cups a palm around the side of Verlander’s face. It’s early evening and Verlander has the stubble of a shadowy beard growing. Zumaya can feel it under his hand and he adds a 9th variety of freaking out. “Er. So. Uh.”
“Yeah,” Verlander says, simultaneously trying to boldly look Zumaya in the face and completely avoid his eyes, and failing somewhat at both. “Right, well, I guess we just…”
He leans forward a little, his hand on Zumaya’s shoulder tensing. Zumaya leans in to meet him and there’s an uncomfortable moment where they’re kind of pressing their lips together and neither one of them wants to be the one to open his mouth first and implicitly admit they’re actually doing this. Zumaya can feel Verlander’s hand shaking on his shoulder and Verlander’s cheek twitching under his fingers and figures, fuck it. He parts his lips and gently teases at Verlander’s mouth with his tongue until Verlander takes a deep breath through his nose and lets Zumaya in.
Granderson calls Zumaya’s phone at 2 am. It turns out he does have a lot of girls with him, and they’d just love to meet some more nice young ballplayers, so if Zumaya gets the message please call back and a good time is guaranteed.
But by then Zumaya is crouched at the end of the bed with Verlander’s dick in his mouth and his hand on Verlander’s stomach to remind him to not thrash around too much, and Zumaya can’t even hear the tinny buzzing ring of his phone where it lies on the floor, and it’s too little, too late.
--------------------
Zumaya goes two and a half innings in a day game at home and doesn’t get the save, but only because the offense had spotted them a 6 run lead. It’s Verlander’s game that he finished, though, and in the clubhouse afterwards Verlander jumps on his back, sloppily plants a kiss on the top of his head, and leaps back off to head to the showers. Everyone laughs, even Leyland, and Pudge gives him an approving thumbs up.
“Very funny,” he growls at Pudge and feints in his direction. Pudge leaps backwards, grabbing Fernando Rodney around the waist and pulling him in between himself and Zumaya. Rodney rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest, shoving his chin out so his pointed goatee bristles. Zumaya contents himself with sticking his tongue out at Pudge and stalks off to shove his gear into his locker.
When they get back to their apartment it’s still too early to really go out for the night yet, so Granderson sets himself up at the kitchen table with a small pile of papers and tries to split their rent and utility bills for the month in an orderly way. He’s got the papers spread out and is pecking at a little calculator with a pencil in the corner of his mouth when Zumaya comes in, an hour later, to see what there is to drink in the fridge.
“I hate paying bills,” he says, popping the top on a can of coke and leaning on the counter. Granderson looks around and takes the pencil out of his mouth.
“How come? I always work ‘em out, all you gotta do is write your check.”
Zumaya frowns at his soda. “I dunno. I just hate the idea of it. It’s like, too adult and shit. And it feels weird payin’ for, like, shelter. Somethin’ like that.”
Granderson snorts and turns back to the calculator. “What, you want me to pay it for you? Dream on, cheapskate.”
“I’d pay you back in somethin’ else,” Zumaya says, thinking. “Like. Beer. Or popcorn. Or blowjobs.”
“Gross!” Granderson laughs, turns back around and throws a wadded-up piece of paper at him. “Stay away from my dick, man.”
“You’d like it.” Zumaya leers at Granderson, who pretends to gag onto the floor.
“Take your rainbow ass out and go gay up some other dude, I’m tryin’ to keep us from gettin’ evicted here.” Granderson makes like he’s going to throw the calculator at Zumaya, who leers at him again with impunity because he knows Granderson won’t actually throw it. They don’t have another calculator.
Zumaya wanders out of the room with his soda and flips open his phone, pages through his address book to ‘S’. Granderson thinks Zumaya was just joking, of course. Well, Granderson did tell him to go gay up some other dude, and Zumaya always tries to be an accommodating roommate.
--------------------
They’re thinking majors but not there yet, still dreaming of roomy private airplanes in the aisles of cramped buses. 2005, and the All Star game is in Detroit. Zumaya’s got a brand new bright orange jersey that looks a little ridiculous, but Verlander’s got the same one, so he feels OK about it. They’ve both been selected to the Futures game, where minor league kids, best of the best, are brought in to play before a crowd thirsting for Alex Rodriguez and David Ortiz. The clubhouse in Comerica is exactly as great as they’d imagined it. Verlander says he thinks it’s bigger than the entire ballpark back down in Toledo, which Zumaya kind of doubts, but he can get changed without knocking elbows with half the team, unparalleled luxury, so maybe Verlander’s right.
They stand in the dugout, which is also, Verlander claims, bigger than their entire triple-A field. The ballpark is full, all these people here just to watch them play, at least for today, until the real pros show up for their game tomorrow.
“We’ll have this next year,” Verlander says, confident, nodding to himself, sure thing.
“Right. This.” Zumaya squints skeptically into the stands. “Have they even had a sell-out this year? And anyhow, we prob’ly won’t, you’ll get called up and I won’t, or someone’ll get traded.”
“They’ll sell out when we’re up and makin’ the team good.” Verlander blows a large bubble in his gum and they both pause to admire it before it collapses under its own size. He sticks out his tongue and corrals the gum back into his mouth so he can snap it, which Zumaya hates, and Verlander only does because he knows it drives Zumaya nuts.
“Anyhow,” he adds, “how come you gotta be such a downer? We’ll both be up next year. We’ll be the best one-two pitchin’ punch in the majors.”
Zumaya looks at Verlander out of the corner of his eye and shakes his head. He can’t help but smile, though. He rests his forearms on the padded dugout railing and tries to imagine playing here almost every day. “One-two, huh? What ‘bout Bonderman?”
“He can be the best number three starter in baseball. We’ll do it. Wouldn’t be in the Futures game if we didn’t have a future,” Verlander adds, as though every prospect here is a sure thing.
“They might want me in the bullpen,” Zumaya admits, something the coaches had just begun telling him, don’t fall in love with starting, kid. “I been workin’ on that knucklecurve, you know, like Mussina’s got. But if I don’t get it quick, I don’t think I got enough pitches to do, you know, up here.”
Verlander waves this off with airy unconcern. “So we’ll be the best starter-closer duo in baseball. Whatever. Point’s the same.” He blows another giant bubble, takes the gum out of his mouth and sticks the small, chewed up wad on the hat of one of their teammates as he walks by, some big kid from the Braves, so that the huge pink bubble wobbles unsteadily around at the top of his cap. Zumaya watches the kid continue on down the length of the dugout, oblivious. It’s an old trick, gum on hats since the stuff was brought into the majors. Several other players are snickering and Verlander is looking immensely pleased with himself.
“You’re crazy,” Zumaya says. “I ain’t never closin’ in this city. We got Farnsworth, we got Ugie, we got Percy. That’s three closers right there, man, and what’s-his-name, Fernando, I bet he can close too if he’s gotta, they don’t hardly need no one else in the bullpen period with all that, let alone another closer.”
“Just you wait and see. It’ll happen.”
“Three closers, man. Three!”
Verlander claps Zumaya on the shoulder and laughs. “It’ll happen, man. I don’t know how, but it’ll happen. We’re gonna play together a long time. It’s just too perfect to not happen.”
“Well I don’t know how I’m gonna jump over three damn good closers even if I ever get called up here.” Verlander’s hand is still on Zumaya’s shoulder and it’s a solid, warm grip, like one of the bronzed statues out in center field had come down and patted him on the back.
“It’ll happen,” Verlander repeats. “Just has to.” Zumaya turns his head to look at him full on and Verlander grins, broad and cocksure. Zumaya grins back. He still doesn’t see how Verlander’s crazy dreams would ever come true, but they’re playing together for now, in what he’s firmly convinced is the most beautiful ballpark in baseball, and hey, who knows, maybe, just maybe.
--------------------
With a one run lead, Zumaya comes out to pitch the 8th inning. He sets down the side, one-two-three, audible collective gasps in the crowd when he hits triple digits, so he doesn’t even have to look at the radar readings. Pudge pats his back as they run back into the dugout and tells Leyland that the fastball has “good pop,” meaning it’s going so hard today that the umpire can hear it clearly popping when it hits the pocket of Pudge’s glove square. Leyland stares, sphinx-like, out at the homeplate umpire for a second before inclining his head ever so slightly towards Zumaya and telling him he’s going out for the 9th.
Zumaya drops onto the bench and carefully wraps a towel around his pitching arm, keeping the joints as warm and loose as possible. Granderson vaults into the space next to him, making Andy Van Slyke, who had been sitting there taping a bat handle, jump about a foot off his seat and then glare. Granderson ignores him and stretches his legs out far in front of him, high blue socks making them look a mile long.
“Hey, we goin’ out tonight?” he asks, modulating his voice low so the coaches won’t hear.
“If we win.” Zumaya closes his eyes and tips his head back. He visualizes the next three batters he’ll have to face and tries to remember what pitches they feast on. Joe Mauer. Good breaking ball hitter. Blow him away with the fastball. Michael Cuddyer. Middle zone hitter, pitch him inside. Justin Morneau. Morneau. Hmm.
“Morneau has no eye, he’ll just sit on your fastball and be fucked if you throw him any offspeed stuff,” Verlander says, voice close at hand. Zumaya opens his eyes and Verlander has somehow wedged himself onto the bench next to Granderson. Van Slyke is still taping the bat, aggressively handling it as though he’d like to beat some respect into a rookie or two, and it’s clear he’s had to move down to make room.
“Fastball’s what’s workin’ today,” Zumaya points out. There’s no use in asking how Verlander knew what he was thinking. It’s probably not that hard to figure out.
“He’ll sit on it,” Verlander insists. “Throw him that ol' knucklecurve.”
“Don’t got no knucklecurve.”
“Sure you do,” Granderson pipes up, shoving back Verlander, who had been leaning over his lap. “I saw you practicing the grip in front of the TV last night.”
Zumaya shoots him an annoyed look. He doesn’t really have a knucklecurve. If he did, that would be an extra pitch and he’d be starting. He wishes he had a knucklecurve and he’s been trying to develop one for a year and a half now, it’s getting there, he can feel it sometimes, the knowledge is there at his fingertips, he just can’t access it all the time. Not yet.
Granderson laughs at his expression. “Yeah, whatever, you can throw it for strikes if you really want to. C’mon. Then we can go to the bar after.”
“If you get him out on it, I’m buyin’,” Verlander offers, he has a knucklecurve, of course he does, that’s how he got here, ‘though he’s trying to convert it into a regular curveball now. But he’s still thirsting for it, in love with the dipping and diving and crazycontrolleduncontrolled nature of the pitch, he wants to see it and is willing to see it from Zumaya. Willing it into Zumaya.
Willing to pay for it in beer and shit, that just isn’t something Zumaya can turn down.
He goes back out for the 9th, aware of Leyland watching him closely from the top step of the dugout, poised to call for help at the first sign of any trouble. Mauer and Cuddyer both make outs harmlessly, bats swinging too far in front of his fastball in an attempt to catch up to it. Morneau digs in, waving his bat lightly, bright blonde hair curling out the bottom of his batting helmet. Zumaya can almost see his batting average, well over .300, shining in imagined neon on the front of his jersey.
Pudge puts one finger down, framed in the white of his crouching thighs. Fastball. Zumaya shakes his head. Pudge puts one finger down again and waggles it for emphasis. Zumaya shakes his head again, and Pudge half-stands in his crouch, annoyed.
Morneau steps out of the batter’s box and looks down to adjust his gloves, assuming Pudge is walking out to the mound. While Morneau’s looking away Zumaya catches Pudge’s eye and mimes the grip of a knucklecurve. Pudge’s face slackens in surprise behind his mask and he shakes his head. Zumaya stares blankly back in until Pudge sets his jaw and drops back down into his crouch, causing Morneau to look up and hurry back into the box, dirt clods skittering away from his cleats.
The knucklecurve floats in on a big, wide arc, dancing slightly in the pockets of air its relative lack of spin creates as it approaches the plate. Morneau has no idea what he’s looking at, Zumaya can tell right away, his bat coming around wildly and connecting far down on the underside of the ball.
Granderson springs to life in center field, darting forward and planting himself firmly on the grass. Zumaya watches him, fist clenched preemptively, punching into the air when the ball drops neatly into Granderson’s waiting glove.
Pudge races towards him and leaps at his chest, screaming at him in English and Spanish, calling him a crazy culo and pounding him about the shoulders. The crowd, which has been on its collective feet the entire time, is only just now registering with Zumaya, people yelling wildly in the stands. Granderson hits him from the side in a whirlwind of arms and legs and guys are leaping over the dugout rail to run out onto the field. Morneau is still standing at homeplate, bat held limply in one hand, wondering what the fuck that pitch had been.
It’s not a playoff game, but it’s big, they’ve got the series and the lead in the division and the best record in baseball, no one can touch them, sleek Tiger cats dancing high in the sky where the air is rarefied and not even pinstripes can breathe this year.
Zumaya catches Verlander’s eye through the scrum of joyous teammates. He’s going to drink Verlander out of pocket tonight, Verlander can see it in his eyes, and there’s not an ounce of regret in there, nothing but delight reflecting back.
--------------------
On to Part II.
For those who don't know them,
From left to right, Verlander, Granderson, Zumaya.
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.
Fire on the left, part I.
Zumaya wakes up to the smell of burning. He blinks and their couch asserts itself beneath his face, nubbly fabric pattern-pressed into his cheek. He groans and raises his head, fuzzy at the edges. He's pretty sure he can hear someone singing, horribly off-key.
Things snap back into place and the voice in the kitchen resolves itself into Granderson entertaining himself while blackening toast or somehow turning on the coffee maker without a filter, something like that. Granderson has an enthusiasm for cooking and absolutely no aptitude whatsoever for it.
Zumaya stretches his back as best he can, staggering up to collapse at the kitchen table. Granderson is busily laying slices of an ashy black substance on a plate in what he probably thinks is an appetizing arrangement. Zumaya eyes it nervously. It might have been toast at one point in its existence, but then again it might have been something else entirely.
“Sleep well?” Granderson asks, setting the plate down on the table and depositing a stick of butter next to it with a flourish. Zumaya grunts. Their couch is narrow and great for keeping you on the edge of your seat for a stimulating Xbox game, but it’s nearly impossible to get a good night’s sleep on. They had picked it out because it was a violently bright shade of orange that reminded them of their home ballpark and that the salesman had assured them was the height of cool, dumb, but a bright orange couch is rare enough, can't go on regretting it.
Cracking his neck and poking unenthusiastically at the probable toast to make sure it isn’t going to come to life and kill him, he takes a moment to miss his mother, something he does at least half of every day, and another moment to mentally remind himself why so many of the guys are married. Picking out furniture, yeah. That must be one of the perks.
“Hadda leave me sleepin’ on the couch, huh?” He narrows his eyes at Granderson, who grins impishly and starts slathering butter on one slice. The butter knife causes an entire layer of the stuff to crumble off as it passes over, making his plate look like the bottom grate of a fireplace. “What if I gotta pitch today, huh? All sore all over, and I’m givin’ up runs left and right. S’all your fault, man.”
Granderson’s grin widens. “Sorry Zoom, but there’s no way I was gonna carry you to your room.”
Zumaya rolls his eyes and tilts his chair back on two legs so he can reach a banana on the countertop behind him. The banana, at least, should be safe. “Not sayin’ carry me, jeez. Y’coulda just poked me or somethin’.”
“You were out like a light,” Granderson says, pointing at Zumaya with the butter knife. “Out like a shitty batter on a high fastball. Out like Verlander’s dreams of bein’ a body builder. Out like, uh, like Pudge wishes he was.”
Zumaya has to struggle to not spray the table with half-chewed banana as he bursts into unavoidable laughter. He’s already mapping out, in his mind, the stretches he’ll have to do to get himself in playing shape by game time, where he and Granderson and Verlander will go to hang out after the game ends, and he doesn’t miss anything at all.
--------------------
Zumaya calls his mother after the game. It’s pretty loud in the clubhouse and there’s a snapping and squealing coming from the showers that makes it sound like Monroe has gotten a wet towel worked up into a pretty sharp rattail, but Zumaya’s real good at tuning the team out when he’s on the phone with his mother. He’s had a lot of practice.
It used to be a funny thing, when he first came up. Ha ha, look at the rookie pitcher, callin’ his momma five times a day. Then they saw him pitch, 100 miles per hour, fastball so heavy in the glove that even Pudge had to whistle, and Pudge had caught everything the game of baseball allowed to be thrown. They saw him blow past opposing teams and set masked umpire heads to shaking, how’s a guy supposed to call somethin’ comin’ at him that fast? They saw him get used to being up with the big club, stop being bright-eyed and scared around the veterans, coming into his own. And he still called home five times a day.
He still gets looks, sometimes, from the guys. Most of them don’t talk to their wives or kids this often, let alone their mothers. It’s not the norm in baseball. It just isn’t generally done.
Zumaya doesn’t give a shit. He’s always called his mother five times a day, and it doesn’t matter where he is, or what he’s doing, or if he’s playing ball or bagging groceries in some shitty little downtown shop. He’s going to call his mother five times a day so long as he can afford it. Baseball’s good that way. So long as he’s not a complete idiot, he’ll pretty much always be able to afford phone calls. He’s not making a lot yet, of course, but if he can stay unhurt, it’ll come. Everyone thinks so. He’s not too worried.
--------------------
Sometimes his mother calls him, like when he’s pitched two perfect innings to close out a one-run game, and he’s plastered all over the late-night Sportscenter, anchors marveling over his stuff. He’s out with the guys, wedged into the awkward point of a corner booth at a loud, dark bar, and he can feel his phone vibrate in his pocket. He digs it out, shoves it up against the side of his face, stuffs his fingers into his other ear to dull the noise.
Granderson, jammed up against his right side, ignores him with an ease borne of much practice. Crushed into his left side, though, is Verlander, rookie pitcher and one of the best on the team, and Verlander looks around curiously to see who Zumaya is talking to, assuming teammate or friend but clearly hoping for hot girls.
Zumaya is, of course, speaking in Spanish, listening to his mother tell him what the Sportscenter guys had to say about his fastball, telling her details about the game. Verlander watches with hopeful interest until Granderson looks around, rolls his eyes, and leans across Zumaya’s lap, mock-whispering, “Madre.”
“You’re kiddin’,” Verlander mutters, doubtfully flicking his eyes at Zumaya’s phone. “He’s talking to his mom in the middle of a bar?”
Pudge, wedged into Verlander’s other side, overhears and leans in. “He’d talk to his madre if she called while he was fuckin’ a groupie.” Pudge makes obscene thrusting motions of his hips, pumping with his arms, and the rest of the table bursts out laughing. Zumaya cups a hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and swears at Pudge, who grins hugely and jerks his hips some more, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and squealing, “Ay ay ay, sì, sì mama, usted es mi mama grande, ay ay ay.”
Zumaya makes a movement like he’s going to crawl over Verlander and drag Pudge under the table to beat him senseless. Granderson wrinkles his nose, glances sidelong at Zumaya, and shouts, “Aw whatever Pudge, don’t be actin’ like you wanna do his momma, we all know it’s his poppa you’d be after.” He screws up his face and in a fair approximation of Pudge’s voice yelps, “Ay, ay, sì papi, give it to me papi, all night long, yo quiero big mehican dick.”
The table erupts in fresh laughter, Pudge good-naturedly chuckling with the rest of them. Zumaya glares for another second before letting a mollified smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. He mouths, “Not Mexican,” at Granderson, who throws up his hands and raises his eyes to the heavens. Zumaya winks to show he’s not offended, sits back in the booth and takes his hand from the phone, apologizes to his mother for the interruption, and listens to her tell him about how his little sister had clapped for sheer joy when she saw him get that last strikeout.
--------------------
Two weeks before they’re scheduled to go to Chicago to play the White Sox, people start calling Granderson for tickets. He’s from Chicago, and as near as Zumaya can tell, every single living family member of his wants to go to at least one game of the series, along with every person he was even a passing acquaintance of back in school. Their apartment phone and Granderson’s cell phone both ring constantly. Granderson starts taking the phone off the hook and turning off his cell at 3 am so they can get some sleep, because otherwise both would ring on through the night.
He’s not planning on having any family come during this series, so Zumaya gives Granderson his assigned tickets for all three games. Granderson thanks him profusely and bakes a cake to show his appreciation. He puts in way too much sugar and too many eggs, so it’s sticky and sickly sweet and doesn’t hold its shape well, but Zumaya eats it anyways because the frosting is good and he’s gotten, over the course of a couple months, kind of horribly used to Granderson’s cooking.
In the clubhouse before a game he tells Verlander about all the phone calls, how he’s taken to picking up the phone and saying, “Hello, ticket office,” as a joke. Verlander snorts and calls him a dork, gets up and offers Granderson all of his tickets. Granderson drags him back over to Zumaya and tells them how much this means to his family, and they totally don’t have to give up their tickets, and he seriously appreciates it, and Verlander’s got a cake due to him.
Verlander, not at all used to Granderson’s cooking and reasonably terrified of it, assures him that it’s fine, he’s not a big cake guy anyways, and he probably wasn’t going to use the tickets, may as well give them to someone who will, no big. Granderson hugs them both and runs off to go find his socks. Verlander turns to Zumaya and silently pantomimes intense relief, as though a baking disaster has just been narrowly averted which, so far as Verlander’s stomach is concerned, is exactly what happened.
Zumaya laughs freely and punches Verlander lightly in the side (not like he’s pitching today). “And you’re callin’ me a dork?”
Verlander crumples to the ground, rolling around theatrically. “Yes,” he groans. “Huge dork. Huge, cruel, evil dork.”
“’Least I didn’t insist he bake you a cake. Now that, that woulda been evil.”
Verlander stops rolling and eyes him with alarm from the floor. “You. You wouldn’t do that. Right?”
The look on Verlander’s face is hysterical and Zumaya accordingly bursts out laughing again. Leyland stomps by, already in his cleats, and gives Verlander a dirty look. “Sorry Coach,” Verlander says politely, sprawled on the carpet, “but Joel here just introduced my left ribcage to his knuckles, and wouldn’t you know it but the ol’ ribcage prefers thinking about its introduction down here.”
Leyland moves his eyes to Zumaya without moving any other part of his face or body. “You punchin’ starting pitchers?” he growls menacingly. Zumaya holds his hands up, palms out, all innocence.
“No sir. I jus’ tapped him. It’s hardly my fault he’s such a scrawny stick he can’t stand up to a friendly tap.”
Verlander sits up, indignant. “Scrawny stick? Scrawny stick? I am a stick of immense brawn, thank you very much.”
Zumaya cackles and Leyland makes a noise of disgust, shaking his head and stomping away, already pulling the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and muttering about how the damn kids will be the death of him yet.
--------------------
In Chicago, it takes 20 minutes for Zumaya to be bored in his hotel room. He rifles through the mini bar and determines there’s nothing special in there. He looks in all the drawers to see if there’s something more exciting than the Bible left in one of them (there isn’t). He draws an obscene stick figure sketch on the complimentary pad of paper with the complimentary hotel pen. Then he bounces on the bed and plays catch with himself, tossing his cell phone into the air. He already called his mother when the plane landed.
He tries calling Granderson but Granderson is already out with his family or his friends or his old girlfriend from high school or who knows what and isn’t picking up his phone. He toys with the idea of calling his mother again for a few minutes. Instead he flips open his cell phone, scrolls through his address book until he gets to the ‘S’ part and calls the number with the header ‘SkinnyFuckV’, which is Verlander (as distinguished from ‘SkinnyFuckW’, which is Jamie Walker, whom he has not called once in his life but whose number he has anyways, and ‘LittleFuckZ’, which is his sister).
Verlander picks up on the first ring and is knocking on Zumaya’s door before he can hang up. He opens the door and Verlander hurls himself dramatically into the room, flopping down on the bed. “I’m bored,” he announces in ominous tones. “Where are the hot chicks?”
“Probably all with Granderson,” Zumaya mutters, sitting down on the bed and dropping a pillow on Verlander’s face.
“All at once?” Verlander sighs, lifting the pillow off his face and smacking Zumaya in the back of the skull with it before tucking it under his own head. “What a scene. That lucky little bastard.”
“Who’re you to be callin’ anyone ‘little’?”
“Cram it,” Verlander says, but without rancor.
Zumaya rolls up one sleeve and flexes his bicep, gesturing at it with his other hand. He’s not that muscular, not really, but he’s much bigger than Verlander, and that makes it impressive enough. “Now this is a man, see.”
Verlander golf claps. “Lovely. And what does that make me?”
Zumaya clears his throat and adopts a tuneful falsetto. “Not yet a girl… not quiiiiite a woooomaaaannn…”
“You sing like Walker,” Verlander accuses, and Zumaya stops to glare balefully at him. It’s a harsh accusation. “But speaking of women…”
“Told you. Granderson’s got ‘em all.”
“But I’m sexier than he is,” Verlander pouts, which in Zumaya’s opinion immediately disproves his point. “And I’m starting tomorrow, so get me some bitches, bitch.”
“Who cares if you’re startin’ tomorrow?”
“Starting pitchers get whatever they want before a start. It’s like pregnant women or something. It’s like, a baseball law.”
“Well, I could be pitching every day,” Zumaya counters reasonably, leaning back against the headboard. “So I should get bitches every day.”
“Nuh uh. Starters are way more important.” Verlander scoots his head off the back of the pillow so it curves his neck up and he’s looking at Zumaya upside-down, his chin in the air, looking very much more goofy than deeply important. “It takes you like 8 games to do what I do in one.”
Zumaya smirks at him. “You couldn’t be a closer if you tried. You need 8 innin’s to work through all your mistakes and shit. You couldn’t handle the pressure of havin’ to thow a perfect innin’ every time out. No way.”
“You’re not the closer,” Verlander points out, just to be difficult. “Jonesy is.”
“Whatever. He’s old. He’ll retire soon.” Zumaya gestures vaguely to indicate the eventuality of Todd Jones’ departure from the team. The poor guy has a mustache, for fuck’s sake. No one grows just mustaches anymore, it isn’t cool at all. He’s done for, so far as Zumaya is concerned, it’s only a matter of time. “And then I’ll be the closer. I’ll totally kick way more ass than you. I’ll be better than that fuckin’, whatever, that fuckin’ Papelbon.”
“Papelbon’s a little bitch,” Verlander agrees. “Speaking of bitches…”
“What, you wanna fuck Papelbon?”
“I almost don’t care at this point, so long as it’s warm and breathing and has holes.” Verlander thinks that over momentarily and makes a face, sticking out his tongue. “Yeah, never mind, gross. That would include, like, dogs and cows and shit. Forget I said that.”
“Watch what you do with that thing,” Zumaya warns, flicking Verlander’s outstretched tongue with a finger. “And I’ll never forget it. Cowfucker.”
Verlander sticks out his tongue even farther, talking around it. “Yea I gueth a elethant ne’er thorgets. An what you gonna do, ite it?”
Zumaya’s really bored. There’s nothing at all to do except sit here and banter back and forth with Verlander like usual, like they’ve done a thousand times before. Nothing new happens and he just wants to get through the night, keep going so he doesn’t die of boredom before he falls asleep, so they can wake up the next morning and Verlander can pitch and Zumaya can maybe pitch and they can hopefully win.
He’s bored, and that’s probably why he leans down, why he does bite Verlander’s tongue, why when Verlander’s mouth drops open in surprise he leans in and covers the shocked O with his own lips.
There’s dead silence when he sits back up. Verlander’s staring at him with huge, startled eyes, and Zumaya licks his lips nervously. It’s a little scary how fast the atmosphere in the room changed. He coughs, and Verlander starts, a body-sized twitch.
“Is. Is that gonna happen again?” He's staring at Zumaya as though he’s afraid that if he closes his eyes for a second Zumaya’s going to pull out a knife and gut him.
Zumaya can’t think of anything to say. He looks down at the bed and picks at a stray thread in the sheets, thinking that the team is paying too much for this place to have the sheets be crappy like this. He risks a look back up and Verlander is still staring at him warily.
“Dunno,” he mumbles, dropping his eyes to the sheet again. “Um. Do you want it to?”
There’s another longish pause during which Zumaya picks a small hole in the sheet, and Verlander chews on his lower lip. “I dunno,” he finally says, narrowing his eyes and sharpening his gaze. “Do. Do you want it to?”
“I dunno either,” Zumaya admits. He looks over and Verlander has gone back to chewing on his lower lip. He stares without trying to look like he’s staring. Verlander chews on his lip all the time, whenever he’s thinking about something. It’s a habit Zumaya had noticed but never really paid attention to before. He’s paying attention to it now, though. He’s got the insane desire to pry Verlander’s teeth off his lip with his own, and it’s freaking him out in about 8 separate ways.
“Guess we’ll never know unless we try it,” Verlander announces, voice airy and forced. “Uh. Again.”
Zumaya nods emphatically. “Right. Definitely.” He slides forward so that when Verlander sits up they’re facing each other. He’s got no idea where to go from there, though. Verlander awkwardly puts a hand on his shoulder and Zumaya even more awkwardly cups a palm around the side of Verlander’s face. It’s early evening and Verlander has the stubble of a shadowy beard growing. Zumaya can feel it under his hand and he adds a 9th variety of freaking out. “Er. So. Uh.”
“Yeah,” Verlander says, simultaneously trying to boldly look Zumaya in the face and completely avoid his eyes, and failing somewhat at both. “Right, well, I guess we just…”
He leans forward a little, his hand on Zumaya’s shoulder tensing. Zumaya leans in to meet him and there’s an uncomfortable moment where they’re kind of pressing their lips together and neither one of them wants to be the one to open his mouth first and implicitly admit they’re actually doing this. Zumaya can feel Verlander’s hand shaking on his shoulder and Verlander’s cheek twitching under his fingers and figures, fuck it. He parts his lips and gently teases at Verlander’s mouth with his tongue until Verlander takes a deep breath through his nose and lets Zumaya in.
Granderson calls Zumaya’s phone at 2 am. It turns out he does have a lot of girls with him, and they’d just love to meet some more nice young ballplayers, so if Zumaya gets the message please call back and a good time is guaranteed.
But by then Zumaya is crouched at the end of the bed with Verlander’s dick in his mouth and his hand on Verlander’s stomach to remind him to not thrash around too much, and Zumaya can’t even hear the tinny buzzing ring of his phone where it lies on the floor, and it’s too little, too late.
--------------------
Zumaya goes two and a half innings in a day game at home and doesn’t get the save, but only because the offense had spotted them a 6 run lead. It’s Verlander’s game that he finished, though, and in the clubhouse afterwards Verlander jumps on his back, sloppily plants a kiss on the top of his head, and leaps back off to head to the showers. Everyone laughs, even Leyland, and Pudge gives him an approving thumbs up.
“Very funny,” he growls at Pudge and feints in his direction. Pudge leaps backwards, grabbing Fernando Rodney around the waist and pulling him in between himself and Zumaya. Rodney rolls his eyes and folds his arms over his chest, shoving his chin out so his pointed goatee bristles. Zumaya contents himself with sticking his tongue out at Pudge and stalks off to shove his gear into his locker.
When they get back to their apartment it’s still too early to really go out for the night yet, so Granderson sets himself up at the kitchen table with a small pile of papers and tries to split their rent and utility bills for the month in an orderly way. He’s got the papers spread out and is pecking at a little calculator with a pencil in the corner of his mouth when Zumaya comes in, an hour later, to see what there is to drink in the fridge.
“I hate paying bills,” he says, popping the top on a can of coke and leaning on the counter. Granderson looks around and takes the pencil out of his mouth.
“How come? I always work ‘em out, all you gotta do is write your check.”
Zumaya frowns at his soda. “I dunno. I just hate the idea of it. It’s like, too adult and shit. And it feels weird payin’ for, like, shelter. Somethin’ like that.”
Granderson snorts and turns back to the calculator. “What, you want me to pay it for you? Dream on, cheapskate.”
“I’d pay you back in somethin’ else,” Zumaya says, thinking. “Like. Beer. Or popcorn. Or blowjobs.”
“Gross!” Granderson laughs, turns back around and throws a wadded-up piece of paper at him. “Stay away from my dick, man.”
“You’d like it.” Zumaya leers at Granderson, who pretends to gag onto the floor.
“Take your rainbow ass out and go gay up some other dude, I’m tryin’ to keep us from gettin’ evicted here.” Granderson makes like he’s going to throw the calculator at Zumaya, who leers at him again with impunity because he knows Granderson won’t actually throw it. They don’t have another calculator.
Zumaya wanders out of the room with his soda and flips open his phone, pages through his address book to ‘S’. Granderson thinks Zumaya was just joking, of course. Well, Granderson did tell him to go gay up some other dude, and Zumaya always tries to be an accommodating roommate.
--------------------
They’re thinking majors but not there yet, still dreaming of roomy private airplanes in the aisles of cramped buses. 2005, and the All Star game is in Detroit. Zumaya’s got a brand new bright orange jersey that looks a little ridiculous, but Verlander’s got the same one, so he feels OK about it. They’ve both been selected to the Futures game, where minor league kids, best of the best, are brought in to play before a crowd thirsting for Alex Rodriguez and David Ortiz. The clubhouse in Comerica is exactly as great as they’d imagined it. Verlander says he thinks it’s bigger than the entire ballpark back down in Toledo, which Zumaya kind of doubts, but he can get changed without knocking elbows with half the team, unparalleled luxury, so maybe Verlander’s right.
They stand in the dugout, which is also, Verlander claims, bigger than their entire triple-A field. The ballpark is full, all these people here just to watch them play, at least for today, until the real pros show up for their game tomorrow.
“We’ll have this next year,” Verlander says, confident, nodding to himself, sure thing.
“Right. This.” Zumaya squints skeptically into the stands. “Have they even had a sell-out this year? And anyhow, we prob’ly won’t, you’ll get called up and I won’t, or someone’ll get traded.”
“They’ll sell out when we’re up and makin’ the team good.” Verlander blows a large bubble in his gum and they both pause to admire it before it collapses under its own size. He sticks out his tongue and corrals the gum back into his mouth so he can snap it, which Zumaya hates, and Verlander only does because he knows it drives Zumaya nuts.
“Anyhow,” he adds, “how come you gotta be such a downer? We’ll both be up next year. We’ll be the best one-two pitchin’ punch in the majors.”
Zumaya looks at Verlander out of the corner of his eye and shakes his head. He can’t help but smile, though. He rests his forearms on the padded dugout railing and tries to imagine playing here almost every day. “One-two, huh? What ‘bout Bonderman?”
“He can be the best number three starter in baseball. We’ll do it. Wouldn’t be in the Futures game if we didn’t have a future,” Verlander adds, as though every prospect here is a sure thing.
“They might want me in the bullpen,” Zumaya admits, something the coaches had just begun telling him, don’t fall in love with starting, kid. “I been workin’ on that knucklecurve, you know, like Mussina’s got. But if I don’t get it quick, I don’t think I got enough pitches to do, you know, up here.”
Verlander waves this off with airy unconcern. “So we’ll be the best starter-closer duo in baseball. Whatever. Point’s the same.” He blows another giant bubble, takes the gum out of his mouth and sticks the small, chewed up wad on the hat of one of their teammates as he walks by, some big kid from the Braves, so that the huge pink bubble wobbles unsteadily around at the top of his cap. Zumaya watches the kid continue on down the length of the dugout, oblivious. It’s an old trick, gum on hats since the stuff was brought into the majors. Several other players are snickering and Verlander is looking immensely pleased with himself.
“You’re crazy,” Zumaya says. “I ain’t never closin’ in this city. We got Farnsworth, we got Ugie, we got Percy. That’s three closers right there, man, and what’s-his-name, Fernando, I bet he can close too if he’s gotta, they don’t hardly need no one else in the bullpen period with all that, let alone another closer.”
“Just you wait and see. It’ll happen.”
“Three closers, man. Three!”
Verlander claps Zumaya on the shoulder and laughs. “It’ll happen, man. I don’t know how, but it’ll happen. We’re gonna play together a long time. It’s just too perfect to not happen.”
“Well I don’t know how I’m gonna jump over three damn good closers even if I ever get called up here.” Verlander’s hand is still on Zumaya’s shoulder and it’s a solid, warm grip, like one of the bronzed statues out in center field had come down and patted him on the back.
“It’ll happen,” Verlander repeats. “Just has to.” Zumaya turns his head to look at him full on and Verlander grins, broad and cocksure. Zumaya grins back. He still doesn’t see how Verlander’s crazy dreams would ever come true, but they’re playing together for now, in what he’s firmly convinced is the most beautiful ballpark in baseball, and hey, who knows, maybe, just maybe.
--------------------
With a one run lead, Zumaya comes out to pitch the 8th inning. He sets down the side, one-two-three, audible collective gasps in the crowd when he hits triple digits, so he doesn’t even have to look at the radar readings. Pudge pats his back as they run back into the dugout and tells Leyland that the fastball has “good pop,” meaning it’s going so hard today that the umpire can hear it clearly popping when it hits the pocket of Pudge’s glove square. Leyland stares, sphinx-like, out at the homeplate umpire for a second before inclining his head ever so slightly towards Zumaya and telling him he’s going out for the 9th.
Zumaya drops onto the bench and carefully wraps a towel around his pitching arm, keeping the joints as warm and loose as possible. Granderson vaults into the space next to him, making Andy Van Slyke, who had been sitting there taping a bat handle, jump about a foot off his seat and then glare. Granderson ignores him and stretches his legs out far in front of him, high blue socks making them look a mile long.
“Hey, we goin’ out tonight?” he asks, modulating his voice low so the coaches won’t hear.
“If we win.” Zumaya closes his eyes and tips his head back. He visualizes the next three batters he’ll have to face and tries to remember what pitches they feast on. Joe Mauer. Good breaking ball hitter. Blow him away with the fastball. Michael Cuddyer. Middle zone hitter, pitch him inside. Justin Morneau. Morneau. Hmm.
“Morneau has no eye, he’ll just sit on your fastball and be fucked if you throw him any offspeed stuff,” Verlander says, voice close at hand. Zumaya opens his eyes and Verlander has somehow wedged himself onto the bench next to Granderson. Van Slyke is still taping the bat, aggressively handling it as though he’d like to beat some respect into a rookie or two, and it’s clear he’s had to move down to make room.
“Fastball’s what’s workin’ today,” Zumaya points out. There’s no use in asking how Verlander knew what he was thinking. It’s probably not that hard to figure out.
“He’ll sit on it,” Verlander insists. “Throw him that ol' knucklecurve.”
“Don’t got no knucklecurve.”
“Sure you do,” Granderson pipes up, shoving back Verlander, who had been leaning over his lap. “I saw you practicing the grip in front of the TV last night.”
Zumaya shoots him an annoyed look. He doesn’t really have a knucklecurve. If he did, that would be an extra pitch and he’d be starting. He wishes he had a knucklecurve and he’s been trying to develop one for a year and a half now, it’s getting there, he can feel it sometimes, the knowledge is there at his fingertips, he just can’t access it all the time. Not yet.
Granderson laughs at his expression. “Yeah, whatever, you can throw it for strikes if you really want to. C’mon. Then we can go to the bar after.”
“If you get him out on it, I’m buyin’,” Verlander offers, he has a knucklecurve, of course he does, that’s how he got here, ‘though he’s trying to convert it into a regular curveball now. But he’s still thirsting for it, in love with the dipping and diving and crazycontrolleduncontrolled nature of the pitch, he wants to see it and is willing to see it from Zumaya. Willing it into Zumaya.
Willing to pay for it in beer and shit, that just isn’t something Zumaya can turn down.
He goes back out for the 9th, aware of Leyland watching him closely from the top step of the dugout, poised to call for help at the first sign of any trouble. Mauer and Cuddyer both make outs harmlessly, bats swinging too far in front of his fastball in an attempt to catch up to it. Morneau digs in, waving his bat lightly, bright blonde hair curling out the bottom of his batting helmet. Zumaya can almost see his batting average, well over .300, shining in imagined neon on the front of his jersey.
Pudge puts one finger down, framed in the white of his crouching thighs. Fastball. Zumaya shakes his head. Pudge puts one finger down again and waggles it for emphasis. Zumaya shakes his head again, and Pudge half-stands in his crouch, annoyed.
Morneau steps out of the batter’s box and looks down to adjust his gloves, assuming Pudge is walking out to the mound. While Morneau’s looking away Zumaya catches Pudge’s eye and mimes the grip of a knucklecurve. Pudge’s face slackens in surprise behind his mask and he shakes his head. Zumaya stares blankly back in until Pudge sets his jaw and drops back down into his crouch, causing Morneau to look up and hurry back into the box, dirt clods skittering away from his cleats.
The knucklecurve floats in on a big, wide arc, dancing slightly in the pockets of air its relative lack of spin creates as it approaches the plate. Morneau has no idea what he’s looking at, Zumaya can tell right away, his bat coming around wildly and connecting far down on the underside of the ball.
Granderson springs to life in center field, darting forward and planting himself firmly on the grass. Zumaya watches him, fist clenched preemptively, punching into the air when the ball drops neatly into Granderson’s waiting glove.
Pudge races towards him and leaps at his chest, screaming at him in English and Spanish, calling him a crazy culo and pounding him about the shoulders. The crowd, which has been on its collective feet the entire time, is only just now registering with Zumaya, people yelling wildly in the stands. Granderson hits him from the side in a whirlwind of arms and legs and guys are leaping over the dugout rail to run out onto the field. Morneau is still standing at homeplate, bat held limply in one hand, wondering what the fuck that pitch had been.
It’s not a playoff game, but it’s big, they’ve got the series and the lead in the division and the best record in baseball, no one can touch them, sleek Tiger cats dancing high in the sky where the air is rarefied and not even pinstripes can breathe this year.
Zumaya catches Verlander’s eye through the scrum of joyous teammates. He’s going to drink Verlander out of pocket tonight, Verlander can see it in his eyes, and there’s not an ounce of regret in there, nothing but delight reflecting back.
--------------------
On to Part II.