(no subject)
i remember the writing of this with fair specificity, actually. there was the hour before i had to go to class, and then the half-hour immediately afterwards, before we went out for the night. and it got written completely and, though evidentally not in one shot, for all intents and purposes it was. i didn't even read over what i'd had so far when i got back to it. it was important to, like, preserve the train of thought that was producing the train of thought. or something. anyway, one of the easiest things i've ever written, it fell in completely formed.
Title: Thinking Too Much
Author: Candle Beck
Email: meansdynamite@yahoo.com
Category: MLB, Oakland A’s
Pairing: Mulder/Zito
Rating: PG/PG-13, depending on whether or not you believe there are such things as ‘bad words’ (I personally do not).
Archive: Wherev.
Feedback: Why, yes, that’d be nice.
Disclaimer: I *still* don’t have access to the inner thoughts of ballplayers. So this remains fictional.
Summary: “Don’t think. You’ll only hurt the ballclub.” --Bull Durham
Thinking Too Much
By Candle Beck
He’s doing all right today, he’s looking good.
Got his curveball working, but he’s sticking mainly to the fastball and the change to get ahead in the count, which is seriously messing up the batters. Curve like his, ridiculous-looking thing that it is, crazy Little League hook, it’s all people think about when they see him pitch, that knee-buckler, that twelve-to-six loop, he’s had enough written about it, enough talked about it, so when he goes back, goes old school to the change and the heater, it throws them off, they don’t know how to deal.
It’s not just the change of speed thing, it’s not just the baffling otherworldly nature of the curve that works for him, it’s that he’s got his motion fine-tuned, his release points all look the same, you can never tell what’s coming. That’s how you do it. Deception.
He’s not so intimidating, like people say I am, or Johnson, or Clemens or anybody like that. Probably on account of if I get in a jam, I can always send one into their ear, back off the plate, punk, it belongs to me. A little moral victory, if nothing else. Helps to be tall. You think people would be as scared as they are of Johnson if he wasn’t six foot ten? No fucking way.
But Zito’s not a little guy, he’s a good six four, shorter than me, but then most people are. He doesn’t have that badass thing going on, though, he doesn’t send batters shaking from the box, their minds stunned by the 100 mile an hour pitch that nearly skimmed their jersey. Maybe it’s ‘cause people know a lot about him, when he’s off the field. He gets a lot of press, more than just about everyone else on the team. Playing the guitar and surfing, good-looking in that wide-eyed boy-next-door way of his, he’s definitely a fan favorite. All his interviews, he comes off this chill guy, not insane-competitive, kind of laid-back and a bit flaky. He is a flake, though, so I guess it’s accurate. Not really the kind of guy who inspires the fear of God in a person.
That’s deception too, I guess. They underestimate him, they’ve been doing it for years. He’s got a fastball that doesn’t break ninety, he’s too young, his head’s in the clouds, he’s gonna get figured out by major league hitters. All these reasons why he wasn’t gonna be any good. Then he comes up and wins more games than anybody else in the bigs for two years. That shut them up.
Doesn’t look much like a major league pitcher, though, does he? With those high socks and his spiky hair that he keeps dyeing different colors. And his clothes . . . man. I wouldn’t want to walk down the street in some of what he wears, but he goes on national TV like it’s nothing. He’s got style, I guess. His own, crazy-ass Zito style, but style.
Fuck, Zito, don’t throw that junk on two-and-one. You think Rodriguez can’t see that coming? You’re lucky the foul pole’s not two feet over, else that sucker was out of here. Home run in Egypt, Jon Miller would say. Apparently they don’t have foul lines over there. I didn’t even know they had baseball over there, so I gotta take his word for it.
All right, two-and-two. Why are you shaking off Hernandez? He knows what he’s talking about, listen to him.
Okay. Careful, Zito. Don’t give him anything too good. Careful, careful.
Fuck, that was a beautiful pitch. Jesus, made A-Rod look like a busher. He couldn’t have done anything with that even if he’d seen it coming. How in the hell can you position your curve like that? How can you get that thing to clip the outside corner? I can’t even make a ball break two feet straight down, much less make it break four feet *and* put it perfectly on the edge like that.
Yeah, he’s doing all right. He always gets that look on his face after he gets the punch-out, takes his little walk around the mound, he’s basically strutting, but I guess he’s earned it. With an out pitch like that, he’s got a right to take his time getting back to it.
Chavez is chattering away like always. Christ, but that guy’s got a mouth on him. Don’t get me wrong, Chavez is an awesome guy, I mean, I’ve been living with him for awhile now, but he could talk the ears off corn.
The ears off corn. My granddad used to say that. That’s the Midwest for you. I use some old farmland saying like that, Zito mocks me like there’s no tomorrow. Calls me hick and rube. Pretty funny. I can’t complain, I give him all manner of shit when he says groovy or radical, anachronistic flower-child words, and we both rag on Hudson a lot, that drawl of his, wide and flat like Texas. Zito got him a cowboy hat for his birthday last year, and I swear to God, I think it was the best present Huddy ever got. Looked like a kid on Christmas morning.
That’s one down, Zito, stay on top of it. Get ahead of them.
He looks kind of weird, leaning over trying to see the signs, his glove cradled against his chest. Squinting, like he’s trying to read something written in tiny letters on Hernandez’s chest protector. Guess we all look like that. Some parks, Turner Field, Wrigley, Yankee Stadium, the shadows during day games make seeing the signs a bitch, and Hernandez wraps his fingers up in white tape so we can see. Zito told him he should just go all out and put day-glo on his fingers, and next day, we’d painted Zito’s shoes neon yellow by the time he came in to the park. That was a great prank. He kind of knew I was in on it, but I always denied it, of course. He wasn’t mad, he thought it was hilarious. He was about to hit the field in them, his feet encased in screaming bright yellow, but Macha told him no way. I can hear him protesting, “But my other shoes are so boring!”
The batter’s getting wood on it, but all he can do is foul it away. Oh-and-two. But he’s catching up to it, he’s not missing by much. Don’t put it in the zone, Zito, you got some room to play with, don’t put it anywhere he can reach, throw it low, this guy can’t do shit with low pitches.
Or, pitch it belt level and watch it get smacked into left. That works too. You idiot. What were you thinking, throwing that pitch when you’ve got him in a hole?
Ah, he’s pissed off now, he knows he fucked up. Swearing the way he does when he’s on the mound, though he talks pretty clean off the field. You can read his lips pretty easy though, he’s not too subtle about it.
Wow. I didn’t even know he knew that word. Learn something new every day, I guess.
Zito with a filthy mouth. What would your mother say, man? She watches every game of yours she can, and you know the cameras are on you right now, that zoomed close-up where you can see every pore on the player’s face. Zito, your mom’s gonna wash your mouth out with soap the next time you go home, twenty-five years old or not.
He’s scuffing the dirt around, glaring. Take a breath, get your head back in the game, dude. He doesn’t like pitching out of the stretch. Makes him nervous, the runner just one more thing he has to worry about when all he wants to do is pitch. He doesn’t have much of a pick-off move, for a lefty. That leg kick of his, his whole motion is too drawn out. I once bet him ten bucks that he couldn’t kick as high as my head, but then he braced himself, judging the distance so he wouldn’t kill me, and threw that leg up, his foot flashing three inches from my nose. Flexible. Probably could do a split if he wanted to. Why he’d ever want to, I don’t know.
He’s looking for the double play ball, throwing down in the zone. Fuck, a bunt! No, rolling foul. Shit, no one saw that coming, no one thought they’d take the bat out of Blalock’s hands to try and advance the runner. Chavez is grinning all abashed, he knows he missed that, he got lucky.
Zito’s good chasing down bunts, he’s got that bare handed scoop, that quick spin, he doesn’t get panicked, he knows how much time he’s got. He’s been on Web Gems, on Baseball Tonight. He holds that over me, saying I’m too slow to make good plays. I say that if I strike the batter out, then I don’t have to bother with making the play.
Throw away a couple of pitches, settle down. You’ve got time. Hold the runner on . . . good. Hatteberg’s gotten good picking the low balls out of the dirt. He used to be a catcher, I guess that translates. I’ve never been anything but a pitcher. Not since Little League, when everybody played everywhere. Zito likes to pretend that he was once a shortstop, back in high school. I mean, I’m sure he was a shortstop, but the way he talks about it, you’d think he’d won a Gold Glove or something.
Oh, come on. How do you not call that pitch, blue? That had to have crossed the plate. Zito can’t believe it either. Staring at the ump like he can will him to change the call, then snaps the ball out of the air when Hernandez throws it back, slamming it into his glove a few times, frustrated.
That’s okay, man, settle down, you’re not in any real trouble yet. Three-and-one, that’s a hitter’s count, but you’re a better pitcher than Blalock is a hitter. You’re a better pitcher than all the hitters in the league, man, just settle down. Settle down.
Leave the runner *alone*, Zito, he’s not going anywhere. Shit, he doesn’t have any legs. You should be hoping that he tries to steal, that’s a free out, right there.
Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, Blalock got that one, shit, he got all of it, did he get all of it? Fuck, that thing’s moving fast. Back up, Byrnsie, keep going, keep going, run, rookie, use your damn legs!
Damn. Warning track, straight away center. That thing was belted a mile. But Byrnes has got it, he’s winging it in. Runner tagging up and down to second, but two outs, now, two down.
Zito was scared by that one, he was watching it go, his shoulders pulled up. I know what that’s like. Batter gets some good wood on it, all you can do is watch and pray, and you see it going over the wall a hundred times before the catch is made, you’re already thinking way ahead to who’s up in our half of the inning, how to get the runs back. And then the catch is made, and you breathe out, like the first breath after you come up from the bottom of the ocean, this huge release, but you know how close you’ve come, you know what that mistake nearly cost you.
Two outs, Zito. One more. Chavez is yelling it, his hand up in the devil horns gesture, like he’s at a rock concert or something.
Leaning in, Zito’s not gonna make the same mistake twice. Keeps sneaking looks over his shoulder at second. Get the batter, dude, fuck the runner, what’s he gonna do?
Right. Right. Here he goes. I think I could probably sculpt him in the middle of his motion from memory. Or paint him. Something. I don’t know how to sculpt or paint or anything, stick figures are pretty much beyond me, but I know what he looks like when he’s pitching so well, I know him like I know the back of my hand. Although I don’t really know the back of my hand. Weird phrase, anyway.
Oh, awesome pitch, dude, wonderful. The batter was definitely looking for some first ball heat, damn, you made him look dumb.
All right. That fucking runner needs to calm the fuck down, he’s not going anywhere. Okay, Zito, stay on, stay on.
Jesus, he’s something when he’s pitching.
Okay, ball called low, not a problem, not a problem. He gets it back quick and sets himself immediately, wasting no time. But maybe he should have, ‘cause that pitch is called low too, and now he’s fallen behind, two-and-one, take your time, Zito, find your rhythm.
Can’t see his face when he’s setting to pitch, can’t see his eyes, he’s turned away. Kinda enjoy going to other parks, because at least then our dugout is on the first base side and I can see him properly. I can imagine, though. The slight drop of his mouth, his lips moving wordlessly, his eyes intent, before he straightens up, his arms up against his chest, holding the ball in the pocket of his glove, angling a sly look under his lashes at the runner, then his leg rears up and his whole body strives forward, his arm flying out, and for an instant he’s frozen like that, just as the ball’s left his hand, his back leg trailing in the dirt, his eyes fled-wide, following the path of the ball, like he’s directing it with his mind.
Fucking beautiful pitch, man! The batter didn’t come close, he was miles behind it! Jesus, how do you make an 88 mile an hour fastball look that good? He’s magic, I swear, he’s just supernatural.
Two-and-two. Not really a pitcher’s count, but not really a hitter’s, either. Way to even it up, dude. Zito’s had some trouble with that, falling behind, having to work himself out of hitter’s counts. He’s still young, we forget sometimes, he’s so good, but he’s still so fucking young, and sometimes he panics when he’s one ball away from walking a guy.
Once, the bases were loaded with the score tied, one out, Zito’d dropped to three-and-oh, and you could tell just by looking at him that he was going nuts, he was freaking out, there was no way he was gonna make his pitch, he was gonna walk in the go-ahead run and then get pulled, he was gonna have to take that long walk back to the dugout with his head down, his hat pulled low and tight over his eyes, not looking at anyone. Macha asked Peterson what he thought, if they should give a call to the bullpen, where a lefty and a righty were all warmed up. Peterson just said, “Let our boy finish what he started.” And sure enough, Zito worked the count full, spent what seemed like a half an hour pitching foul balls to the batter, before he finally induced a weak grounder to Miggy, tailor-made double play, and Zito came back to the dugout with his head up, grinning like a madman, like someone who’s just danced through raindrops and come out dry on the other side.
Goddamn it, ump, that’s a fucking *strike*! If it’s a strike when we’re up to bat, it goddamned well better be a strike when the Rangers are up. Fuck. Full count.
Don’t let him get to you, Zito. I know that look, I know that tilt of his head, that set to his shoulders. He’s zeroing in now, he’s not thinking about the ump or the runner or who’s coming up in our half. He’s thinking of the next pitch, he’s thinking of the strike zone, the plate, Hernandez’s glove. He’s hearing a thousand voices in his head, all those who’ve ever taught him anything about the game, his dad and his years of coaches and Peterson, and probably me, too, saying something like, “You’re doing good, Zito, you’re almost there. This punk’s got nothing, you own him, I know it, you know it, now make sure everyone else knows it too.”
Then all the voices quiet down, the thunderous roar of the stadium sinking away, losing awareness of the world around him, and he’s left with only himself, the ball, his arm, his strength, and whatever he can do with it.
Baseball’s in him now, it’s in his veins, it’s dashing through him, taking the sure steady track to his heart. At this moment, this moment, he’s seeing the game, feeling the game, breathing the game in like air, right this moment he’s doing the thing he was born to do, this place is where he belongs most in all the world, and he’s made the game into something sacred, something true.
His knee up, his body stretching forward, his arm on that whipping slash, the ball out of his hand, and Christ, look at that, look at that, look at it dive, look at it cut, look at that curveball, Jesus, how beautiful, how can something be that beautiful?
Oh, the batter never had a chance, he never had a snowball’s chance in hell, he was lucky to stay on his feet after that totally embarrassing swing, he looked like he was hacking at a tree, Jesus.
And Zito’s got that grin on his face, that hey-did-you-see-that grin, and yeah, I saw it, Zito, it was amazing, you’re absolutely fucking amazing.
I could watch him throw those hooks all day long, I swear, I could never do anything else in my life but watch him pitch, I just love that shit, I love him.
Wait.
Wait wait wait.
The fuck just went through my head?
Love *him*? Love *Zito*?
Oh fuck.
Shit, here he comes, he’s gonna sit by me, he’s gonna smile at me, he’s gonna expect me to tell him he did good, he’s gonna expect me to touch him, clap him on the shoulder, I can’t do that, not right now, please, Zito, just give me one fucking moment.
I love him?
Oh.
Sitting there with that cocky smile on his face, that last curveball dancing in his eyes, and oh, hell.
I’m in love with him.
I’ve fallen in love with him.
When the fuck did that happen?
THE END