Short story.
If I did any research I could probably find out if they were in a frat in college, or were in the same one, or whatever, but it's not really that important, right? I mean, we all know this stuff ain't real anyways...
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.
Afternoon, and you’re playing catch in the backyard with your father. You crouch in the sweet-smelling, newly cut grass and he stands at the other end of the yard, tosses the ball to you. Afterwards you stand up, broken grass blades dying on your knees, and your father smiles proudly. When you go to school the other kids want to play catch during recess, so you crouch down and hold out your hands and don’t understand when they say that’s not how it’s played.
Afternoon, and you’re playing catch with the pretty girl from homeroom with the honey blonde hair and the bright pink sweaters. You tell her funny stories from the team away games, the weird kids from other high schools, and you toss the ball underhand so she won’t hurt her hands. She giggles and smiles and throws it back to you, and you always catch it, even with your eyes caught on a lip gloss glare.
Afternoon, and you’re playing catch with your brothers in the quad. You make the pledges stand around and watch and fetch the ball if someone misses it and bring your water bottle if you want it. Your chest is straining the letter shapes across your chest in ways it doesn’t stretch across the chests of your brothers, and they shake their heads and grouse that the frat is a great thing and the team is a great thing but the catchers always get the best girls.
Afternoon, and you’re playing catch with a man in a suit, who passes you a hat with a red B on the front. You put it on your head and it fits perfectly. You smile for the cameras and wonder how long it will take to break in.
Afternoon, and you’re playing catch with your teammate, who was also your teammate in college, and the two of you are laughing about the old times and the good times. You feel so stumpy and plain next to his lanky limbs and aristocratic face, his razor-sharp jaw and aquiline nose. You think that you’re soft and unremarkable next to this, but he throws an arm around your shoulders and whispers in your ear that all the girls in the stands are looking at you, and you laugh and shove him in the ribs and think that friends are forever.
Uh huh 'til they get TRADED and you go on to WIN THE WORLD SERIES WITHOUT THEM.
I dunno, I'm in a kind of a weird mood tonight. I wish I'd gotten to see the Tigers spring training game tonight. That's about it. Longer stories in the works, really disturbing ones. Namely Manny/Millar with actual sex, which is giving me all kinds of problems, as one might expect, and Varitek/Posada. Someone gave me that idea, I didn't just start writing it on my own, but I forget who. Someone's responsible. Own up, bitches, we need to know who to blame.
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.
Afternoon, and you’re playing catch in the backyard with your father. You crouch in the sweet-smelling, newly cut grass and he stands at the other end of the yard, tosses the ball to you. Afterwards you stand up, broken grass blades dying on your knees, and your father smiles proudly. When you go to school the other kids want to play catch during recess, so you crouch down and hold out your hands and don’t understand when they say that’s not how it’s played.
Afternoon, and you’re playing catch with the pretty girl from homeroom with the honey blonde hair and the bright pink sweaters. You tell her funny stories from the team away games, the weird kids from other high schools, and you toss the ball underhand so she won’t hurt her hands. She giggles and smiles and throws it back to you, and you always catch it, even with your eyes caught on a lip gloss glare.
Afternoon, and you’re playing catch with your brothers in the quad. You make the pledges stand around and watch and fetch the ball if someone misses it and bring your water bottle if you want it. Your chest is straining the letter shapes across your chest in ways it doesn’t stretch across the chests of your brothers, and they shake their heads and grouse that the frat is a great thing and the team is a great thing but the catchers always get the best girls.
Afternoon, and you’re playing catch with a man in a suit, who passes you a hat with a red B on the front. You put it on your head and it fits perfectly. You smile for the cameras and wonder how long it will take to break in.
Afternoon, and you’re playing catch with your teammate, who was also your teammate in college, and the two of you are laughing about the old times and the good times. You feel so stumpy and plain next to his lanky limbs and aristocratic face, his razor-sharp jaw and aquiline nose. You think that you’re soft and unremarkable next to this, but he throws an arm around your shoulders and whispers in your ear that all the girls in the stands are looking at you, and you laugh and shove him in the ribs and think that friends are forever.
Uh huh 'til they get TRADED and you go on to WIN THE WORLD SERIES WITHOUT THEM.
I dunno, I'm in a kind of a weird mood tonight. I wish I'd gotten to see the Tigers spring training game tonight. That's about it. Longer stories in the works, really disturbing ones. Namely Manny/Millar with actual sex, which is giving me all kinds of problems, as one might expect, and Varitek/Posada. Someone gave me that idea, I didn't just start writing it on my own, but I forget who. Someone's responsible. Own up, bitches, we need to know who to blame.