Interlude
So apparently Derek Lowe showed up in Florida and was working out with the Sox until the boys upstairs kicked him out. Derek Lowe, you great big cutie! Awww he just wants to stay with his friends and he's OK with being a Dodger but not with leaving these guys he's played with for what, 7 years? People. Please. The story writes itself.
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.
Fort Myers is bright sun, fresh-cut grass, stately palm trees and glaring red jerseys. Lowe's always felt comfortable here. His kids go to school here, his wife waits for him at home here. He spends the offseason here, and when the offseason is over he trots over to City of Palms Park and tosses some balls around, works some weights, does some stretches, because that's what he's always done. He's not wearing a red jersey, but a lot of the guys are wearing team-neutral tanks and shorts anyways, so it's not really worth a thought.
Lowe's lying on his back on a slick black bench, handweights resting securely at his sides, lifted up to clink together high over his chest, lowered again. Something drifts past his field of vision in a blur of red, pauses, and moves closer to resolve itself by his head as Kevin Youkilis, incongruously dressed in a red plaid shirt with cutoff sleeves. Lowe raises the weights again, clink, and giggles a little. Youkilis looks absolutely ridiculous in the shirt. If Schilling wasn't in town Lowe would think that Youks could easily capture the title of the whitest guy within a 10 mile radius.
Youks is looking down at him now, pale colorless face peering confusedly. "Hey, Derek?" he says, hands toying with the fringed edges of his shirt. "Uh. How's it goin', man?"
Clink. Giggle. Clink. Giggle. Lowe screws up one of his eyes, sticks his tongue in the corner of his mouth, and looks up at Youkilis. "That shirt [clink] looks totally ridiculous [clink] on you. [giggle]" Clink.
This is familiar territory, and the confusion clears off of Youkilis' face to be replaced by amused annoyance. "Oh, fuck you dude. At least I'm not wearing pansy shorts."
"Pansy shorts?" Lowe cannot believe it. These are nice shorts. These are athletic shorts. "Pansy shorts?!" These are fantastically breathable shorts. These are
"Pansy shorts!" Youkilis declares, pointing triumphantly. "They have mesh on the sides! They're... they're shiny! They have little purple stripes on them!"
"Those are brand stripes! And they're royal blue!" Lowe protests, dumping the handweights and standing up to lend credence to his argument. "At least I'm not wearing a hick shirt!"
"At least I'm not wearing a sweatband!"
"At least I'm not wearing a trucker hat!"
"At least I'm not wearing shiny!"
"At least I'm not wearing grunge!"
"At least I'm still...!" Youkilis stops himself, shakes his head. Lowe stares at him, minutely frozen, until Youkilis looks down. "Pansy shorts," he mutters, walking away, pulling defensively at his collar to settle the plaid shirt more securely over his shoulders.
Lowe tightens his jaw, mutters "red plaid", and goes back to the handweights. Clink. Clink. Clink.
---------------------
Lowe is out in the sunshine, running short little sprints up and down the first baseline, just because it's there, and the orange-brown length of it just begs to be followed. A couple of guys walk over to one of the fences across the field, blurry unresolved figures in the bright sun. They both look a little bulky, and they have their heads together like they're discussing something. Lowe spares them a single glance, continues to trot up and down the line, kicking up little puffs of dust with his sneakers. He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and one of the bulky figures has detached itself and is coming over at a slow, unhurried lope. The other one is leaning on the fence, and in the glare of the early afternoon light could be looking in any direction at all.
So Lowe keeps his eye on the approaching figure, which trots sedately up into the form of Doug Mirabelli, bulkiness explained by full catcher's gear. He doesn't say anything, falls into step next to Lowe, up and down the first baseline a few times, until Lowe pauses at home plate to stretch out his quads, capturing one ankle and pulling it back until it's up by his back pockets. He slaps his other hand onto Mirabelli's shoulder for balance, hearing the solid whack of a hand onto catcher padding. He digs his fingers slightly into the spongy red, shifts some weight to his palm, and pulls up on his ankle.
Doug asks him inane questions about his kids, his wife, how they're all doing, did Derek have a good offseason? They go back to trotting up and down the baseline, and Lowe asks him the same stuff. Florida and Boston, Boston and Florida, October and New Years and February. Doug says something about April but immediately bites it back, looks over at the palm trees rising above the opposite field fences, and goes back to last autumn.
---------------------
Lowe is throwing a baseball up against a wall, letting it bounce back to his glove, throwing it again. Over on the pitchers mound are two big guys, one in a red tank top and one in a black tshirt and baseball pants. He is not interested in seeing either one of them. Keith Foulke walks by with another solidly built pitcher, pauses and catches the other guy's sleeve to watch Lowe pound the wall. Lowe catches the ball and turns, letting his biggest rock star smile through. Foulke pulls the other guy over and introduces him, Matt, Derek Lowe, DLowe, Matt Mantei.
Mantei looks perfectly confused so Lowe is nice to him. "Sure, I know that name, Millar's always talking about his old buddy from the Marlins, great to finally meet you, how's the arm feeling?" Mantei's answers are mild and polite, obviously skirting the partner-in-crime implications that come from being an old buddy of Kevin Millar's, and when Foulke leads him off Lowe can see him lean in, urgently clearing up some point with Foulke, who nods and shrugs, starting pitchers man, no fathoming why they do the crap they do.
Lowe has half a mind to go over there and demand to know exactly what they're talking about, he's gripping the baseball a little too hard, when a heavy hand alights on his shoulder. He turns around and looks down to meet the eyes of Jason Varitek, catchers mask pushed up on top of his helmet, goatee twisted with a wry smile.
"Derek," he says, cautiously, with a small and slightly sad smile. He holds up his round glove, waggles it. "Doug's got them covered over there... Catch for a bit?"
Lowe carefully lets the tension out of body and relaxes his hold on the ball. He shifts it with his fingers and watches the red seams slide by. Baseball, he thinks unconnectedly, is about red and white and maybe green, he doesn't see why blue has to figure into it at all. He eyes Varitek, who steps back, looks up preperatory to falling into his crouch. There's a mild question in his eyes.
Lowe flexes his hand, rolls the ball, and stares up at the sky for a minute. When he looks back Varitek has flipped his mask down and is squatting in the dust, glove perched on his thigh, waiting. "OK," Lowe says, hopping back a few steps. "OK. Catch."
Hmm, well, short and kind of pointless, but I figure that's about all I'm up for right now. One day I will write something with absolutely no angst whatsoever in it. And on that day, there will be much rejoicing.
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.
Fort Myers is bright sun, fresh-cut grass, stately palm trees and glaring red jerseys. Lowe's always felt comfortable here. His kids go to school here, his wife waits for him at home here. He spends the offseason here, and when the offseason is over he trots over to City of Palms Park and tosses some balls around, works some weights, does some stretches, because that's what he's always done. He's not wearing a red jersey, but a lot of the guys are wearing team-neutral tanks and shorts anyways, so it's not really worth a thought.
Lowe's lying on his back on a slick black bench, handweights resting securely at his sides, lifted up to clink together high over his chest, lowered again. Something drifts past his field of vision in a blur of red, pauses, and moves closer to resolve itself by his head as Kevin Youkilis, incongruously dressed in a red plaid shirt with cutoff sleeves. Lowe raises the weights again, clink, and giggles a little. Youkilis looks absolutely ridiculous in the shirt. If Schilling wasn't in town Lowe would think that Youks could easily capture the title of the whitest guy within a 10 mile radius.
Youks is looking down at him now, pale colorless face peering confusedly. "Hey, Derek?" he says, hands toying with the fringed edges of his shirt. "Uh. How's it goin', man?"
Clink. Giggle. Clink. Giggle. Lowe screws up one of his eyes, sticks his tongue in the corner of his mouth, and looks up at Youkilis. "That shirt [clink] looks totally ridiculous [clink] on you. [giggle]" Clink.
This is familiar territory, and the confusion clears off of Youkilis' face to be replaced by amused annoyance. "Oh, fuck you dude. At least I'm not wearing pansy shorts."
"Pansy shorts?" Lowe cannot believe it. These are nice shorts. These are athletic shorts. "Pansy shorts?!" These are fantastically breathable shorts. These are
"Pansy shorts!" Youkilis declares, pointing triumphantly. "They have mesh on the sides! They're... they're shiny! They have little purple stripes on them!"
"Those are brand stripes! And they're royal blue!" Lowe protests, dumping the handweights and standing up to lend credence to his argument. "At least I'm not wearing a hick shirt!"
"At least I'm not wearing a sweatband!"
"At least I'm not wearing a trucker hat!"
"At least I'm not wearing shiny!"
"At least I'm not wearing grunge!"
"At least I'm still...!" Youkilis stops himself, shakes his head. Lowe stares at him, minutely frozen, until Youkilis looks down. "Pansy shorts," he mutters, walking away, pulling defensively at his collar to settle the plaid shirt more securely over his shoulders.
Lowe tightens his jaw, mutters "red plaid", and goes back to the handweights. Clink. Clink. Clink.
---------------------
Lowe is out in the sunshine, running short little sprints up and down the first baseline, just because it's there, and the orange-brown length of it just begs to be followed. A couple of guys walk over to one of the fences across the field, blurry unresolved figures in the bright sun. They both look a little bulky, and they have their heads together like they're discussing something. Lowe spares them a single glance, continues to trot up and down the line, kicking up little puffs of dust with his sneakers. He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and one of the bulky figures has detached itself and is coming over at a slow, unhurried lope. The other one is leaning on the fence, and in the glare of the early afternoon light could be looking in any direction at all.
So Lowe keeps his eye on the approaching figure, which trots sedately up into the form of Doug Mirabelli, bulkiness explained by full catcher's gear. He doesn't say anything, falls into step next to Lowe, up and down the first baseline a few times, until Lowe pauses at home plate to stretch out his quads, capturing one ankle and pulling it back until it's up by his back pockets. He slaps his other hand onto Mirabelli's shoulder for balance, hearing the solid whack of a hand onto catcher padding. He digs his fingers slightly into the spongy red, shifts some weight to his palm, and pulls up on his ankle.
Doug asks him inane questions about his kids, his wife, how they're all doing, did Derek have a good offseason? They go back to trotting up and down the baseline, and Lowe asks him the same stuff. Florida and Boston, Boston and Florida, October and New Years and February. Doug says something about April but immediately bites it back, looks over at the palm trees rising above the opposite field fences, and goes back to last autumn.
---------------------
Lowe is throwing a baseball up against a wall, letting it bounce back to his glove, throwing it again. Over on the pitchers mound are two big guys, one in a red tank top and one in a black tshirt and baseball pants. He is not interested in seeing either one of them. Keith Foulke walks by with another solidly built pitcher, pauses and catches the other guy's sleeve to watch Lowe pound the wall. Lowe catches the ball and turns, letting his biggest rock star smile through. Foulke pulls the other guy over and introduces him, Matt, Derek Lowe, DLowe, Matt Mantei.
Mantei looks perfectly confused so Lowe is nice to him. "Sure, I know that name, Millar's always talking about his old buddy from the Marlins, great to finally meet you, how's the arm feeling?" Mantei's answers are mild and polite, obviously skirting the partner-in-crime implications that come from being an old buddy of Kevin Millar's, and when Foulke leads him off Lowe can see him lean in, urgently clearing up some point with Foulke, who nods and shrugs, starting pitchers man, no fathoming why they do the crap they do.
Lowe has half a mind to go over there and demand to know exactly what they're talking about, he's gripping the baseball a little too hard, when a heavy hand alights on his shoulder. He turns around and looks down to meet the eyes of Jason Varitek, catchers mask pushed up on top of his helmet, goatee twisted with a wry smile.
"Derek," he says, cautiously, with a small and slightly sad smile. He holds up his round glove, waggles it. "Doug's got them covered over there... Catch for a bit?"
Lowe carefully lets the tension out of body and relaxes his hold on the ball. He shifts it with his fingers and watches the red seams slide by. Baseball, he thinks unconnectedly, is about red and white and maybe green, he doesn't see why blue has to figure into it at all. He eyes Varitek, who steps back, looks up preperatory to falling into his crouch. There's a mild question in his eyes.
Lowe flexes his hand, rolls the ball, and stares up at the sky for a minute. When he looks back Varitek has flipped his mask down and is squatting in the dust, glove perched on his thigh, waiting. "OK," Lowe says, hopping back a few steps. "OK. Catch."
Hmm, well, short and kind of pointless, but I figure that's about all I'm up for right now. One day I will write something with absolutely no angst whatsoever in it. And on that day, there will be much rejoicing.