most excellent book recs not to be ignored, and then a fic
Aight. Y'all must listen close. I'm here to tell you about WP Kinsella (those of you who are already aware are cooler than Miles Davis and can take the rest of the class off). The name is haunting and familiar . . . where oh where have you heard it before? Hey, wasn't that the name of Kevin Costner's character in 'Field of Dreams'? Why yes, wise kids, it was.
A good reason behind it. Kinsella wrote the book on which the movie is based, it's called 'Shoeless Joe' and better be next on your fuckin' list. But wait there's more!
This boy is rock star on a cosmic scale. He's one of the few American writers to embrace magical realism in the manner of Gabriel Garcia Marquez (another is Zora Neale Hurston, who is three steps beyond rock star in her own right), and all he writes about is baseball. A style and subject manner that complement each other perfectly, I think we can all agree, because there's superstition and there's luck and when you believe in something immense and utterly indefinable, when you're fascinated by the history and machinery of faith but faithless in your own life, you can see miracles in this game, you can see the hand of God.
Go read 'Shoeless Joe.' Read 'The Dixon Cornbelt League,' and 'The Thrill of the Grass.' For chrissake, read 'The Iowa Baseball Confederacy.' Be reminded why you love the game with this kind of force.
*
Finally saw the last half of 'Finding Nemo.' Adorable, necessarily, and for some reason the parent-child reunion (never done better in cartoon form than the first 'American Tail,' a favorite of mine since I was a very small Candle) hits me as hard as just about anything. This is what I get for having a stupidly fucked up relationship with my own folks.
One question: what is *up* with the total stoner sea turtles? Not that they weren't absolutely the best part, but dude. You can't smoke pot underwater! Not that I've ever tried, but it's not the kind of thing that really seems to require experimentation to be disproved.
*
Aaaaaand. So I wrote this thing. I'm posting it right this second, 11 minutes into Independence Day, cos if I don't, I'll just keep fiddling with it until I've fucked it up unrecognizable, and then I'll think, fuck, why'd I keep fiddling, why'd I have to fuck another one up?
Sooo.
Title: Stop Playing by the Rules
Author: Candle Beck
Email: meansdynamite@yahoo.com
Category: MLB, Oakland A’s (does anyone remember a time when I had the ability to write something *other* than the A’s? Stupid hot ballplayers.)
Pairing: Mark Mulder/Eric Chavez
Rating: R
Archive: You know I’m all about it.
Feedback: Pile it on.
Disclaimer: Bwahaha. Not a shred mine.
Summary: Chavez fucks up a buddy for good.
Notes: See, Rhod wrote a story about Chavez getting married in Hawaii last December, and I was all about being inspired. But then the thing went all berserk on me, as has a tendency to happen. Still, though, blame her and her inspiring ways.
Note #2: Didn’t see the ALDS. If I had, you better motherfucking believe they would have won. Anyway, I doubt I got much about that night right, besides what they put in the papers the next day. Jesus, why’d I write a story about the ALDS. Now I’m all fuckin’ depressed again.
Stop Playing by the Rules
By Candle Beck
Hawaii’s a good place for a wedding, but not in motherfucking December. Stupid fucking third basemen.
The rain doesn’t let up. It’s not sheets; it’s blankets, comforters. Each drop could fill a Dixie cup. They wanted to get married out on the grass, by the ocean, a huge tent strung with chains of white lights for the party, but they picked the wrong season for that, so it’s the hotel ballroom and Mulder keeps thinking that this is just another road trip, just somewhere else to come home from.
They get married and everyone cheers, applauds, wolf-whistles. Jermaine bet Chavez fifty bucks he wouldn’t slip Alex some tongue in front of both their families, and the outfielder collects his money as they stream towards the open bar, not refraining from calling the other man a punk on this sacred day.
Zito dances like a white boy with no shame, which is about right.
When Mulder raises his champagne glass and starts tapping on it with a tiny little sugar spoon to get everybody’s attention, he’s composing the toast in his head. He’s reminding himself not to swear, because there are several sets of parents here and little kids in yellow-spotted bowties and suspenders are running around with their legs pumping like pistons, their hands balled up into chubby fists.
Mulder’s gonna talk about how Eric’s one of the better friends he’s ever had (even if that’s not really true anymore), ‘cause Mulder’s been drinking like a fish all night long and probably isn’t gonna remember much of this in the morning. The whir and the steady red eye of the video camera don’t quite penetrate his brain, and he is foolishly certain that this doesn’t count, that alcohol-induced amnesia will take away any humiliation he might be about to bring down upon himself.
Mulder’s gonna tell some off-color anecdotes that skim the edge of an R rating (as he considers his sworn duty, even in front of small children and smaller grandparents), and Mulder’s gonna say, “you know, we were teammates and then we were friends and the best moments of my life, he’s been right there. More important, the worst moments of my life, he’s been there too.”
The guys are gonna rag him about this toast for *years*.
But Mulder gets lucky, ‘cause he still doesn’t know his own strength and shatters the thin crystal of the champagne glass with the spoon, so that when the room’s eyes turn to him, he’s just staring down in bemusement at his suddenly wet hand, sparkles of glass in the dents of his knuckles, the stem held between his fingers like an invisible cigarette. There’s a slender track of blood running down the back of his hand that no one sees, and the champagne stings in the cut, high-pitched and sharp as a bone splinter.
Chavez stands and calls over the crowd, “Mulder, you silver-tongued son of a bitch, give someone else a chance to talk,” and everyone laughs and Mulder blushes before he sits down again, misses his chance, the one chance he had.
Fuck Chavez for getting married. Fuck him for moving out.
* * *
The day after the wedding, getaway day, the sky is Dodger blue and they keep squinting upwards, trying to figure out where the rain went. All that rain . . . it couldn’t have all disappeared overnight, it’s impossible.
Alex goes out shopping with her mother and sisters, kissing Chavez good-bye about fourteen times, her hands on his shoulders, his curved neatly around her hips, and they keep grinning at each other, giggling like teenagers, they keep pressing their palms together and clinking their new rings against each other.
His teammates are on the patio by the pool, overlooking the verdant hills, the streak down to the water. Honest to God, there’s never been anything as clear as the ocean out here, never been anything close.
Chavez pads out, barefoot with his hair jagging up in the way that means he fell asleep with it wet. The players hail him lazily, call him Mr. Alex for awhile, all of them wearing sunglasses and flipflops, slumped down in plastic furniture, drawn across by the wind.
Mulder’s thankful it’s so bright today, not hurricane-dim the way it was yesterday. His head has been split open and light is no friend to him. He likes wearing his sunglasses, likes feeling mysterious. Nobody can see his eyes, nobody can follow the path of his gaze-just what he needs.
He watches Chavez grin at the guys, flop down on one of the chairs, kicking his feet up on the low frosted-glass table. He watches Chavez scratching lethargically at his chest, his forearms worn as smooth as the barrel of a bat.
Mulder doesn’t talk much and if anybody wants to ask, he’s ready to blame it on the hangover, but nobody seems to want to ask.
He almost falls asleep out there in the sun, listening to his friends talk about everything that’s not baseball, everything that Mulder couldn’t give a shit about, and Mulder’s body is warm and loose, unspooled with exhaustion.
Somebody touches his hand, the tiny scratch from the broken glass, and Mulder blinks, sees Chavez leaning over. The guys are ribbing Ellis, the next one of them who will marry, Hatteberg bemoaning, “Shit, we’re getting so goddamn respectable,” but Scotty had a wife when he got to Oakland, he can’t say shit. Anyway, no one’s paying any attention to Mulder and Chavez.
“Hey, what’s this about?” Chavez asks, tapping his fingertip on the slit skin. “Injury-prone is one thing, dude, but I don’t think you can use that as an excuse this time.”
Mulder lets the smirk come naturally. “You call that an injury? Always knew you were a fucking pussy.”
Shit, he didn’t mean for it to come out like that.
Chavez’s expression tightens, but he laughs it off, ‘cause nothing Mulder’s ever done has stuck to him. “Be nice to me. I’m never gonna be single again.”
And Mulder can’t stop himself from saying it. (Another lie.)
“Yeah, but isn’t that what you said the first time you got married? A real fucking success, that was.”
In the beautifully clairvoyant moment right after Mulder says that, there’s no doubt in his mind that Chavez hates him.
Little cocksucker thinks he can just leave and it’s not gonna change anything.
* * *
It was a dream. It wasn’t real.
They’d won the first two games. They were gonna break the luck. Get to the second round. Go the distance. They don’t drop three games in a row, not this long after the All-Star break.
Oh, nothing was gonna stop them.
But something went wrong in Boston. Something strange crept in among them and filled up the silences, a bad omen. They should have known. The team was so locked in, they couldn’t see anything beyond the wild blast of the stadium lights, the unloosed howls of the Fenway crowds.
Nobody on this side of the Sierra Nevada range wanted them to win. Everyone was talking about the Cubs and the Red Sox and the dream Series. They were talking about 1908 and 1918 and how perfect it would be, until it was like you weren’t a real baseball fan unless you were pulling for one of the cursed teams.
But the A’s were cursed too. Not in any way that counted, just four years of October failures behind them, but that four years was everything they’d known, so fuck longevity, heartbreak’s no less painful just because some other Oakland team won a world championship fourteen years ago.
That team wasn’t them, that team had the power of an earthquake on their side, and this team’s got nothing.
One of the obnoxious fucking East Coast reporters asked Zito about his disappointing season the night they got to Boston, and all the pitcher could say was, “I don’t want another Cy Young, I want a goddamn ring.” But nobody printed that.
And by the time they got back to California for Game 5, it was already too late.
For two innings, they held the skinniest lead imaginable, held it in their palms like a favorite marble, but there was a full moon and nothing matters in October except the last out, and when Ramirez hit a three-run shot in the sixth, Zito, who’d been throwing on short rest because Mulder couldn’t stop getting hurt, sank down into a catcher’s crouch and stared at the dirt of the mound for a long time, his left hand hanging useless over his knee, and they lost that game right there, before Damon lay without moving on the outfield grass, before Tejada tried to be a hero again, before they fell just barely short.
God, it was so beautiful that night, it was so close to perfect.
And Mulder left as quickly as possible, not even limping on the black asphalt of the parking lot, but as he put his hand on the cool metal of the car door, a voice rose from behind, calling his name, slightly choked.
Chavez came over and this was the fourth time Mulder had seen that kind of pain in his friend’s face, this was the fourth time and swear to God, he never thought he’d see it again, not after last year, not this again. Jesus, not this again.
Chavez stood beside him, brushed his fingertips down the fabric of Mulder’s shirt sleeve, and said, “Give me a ride home. Take the long way.”
Mulder didn’t say a word, something stuck in his throat, just unlocked the car, sat there with Chavez beside him, his hands wrapped around the wheel, watching the slow defeated tread of his teammates walking to their cars.
“Chavvy,” he tried to say, trying to do the right thing, but Chavez wasn’t having it.
“Drive, man. Just fucking drive.”
The moon slid under the headlights and Mulder drove. Not back to his house, not back to Chavez’s. Alex would be waiting for him, her own heart broken for the shatter of his, but she’d waited before.
And he got them lost, which was probably the point, because loss seemed to be the theme of the night, roping through the hills, the tightly wound roads under the thick shelter of trees, the spear of stars on the windshield.
Chavez kept squeezing a baseball, kept darting his eyes to Mulder’s profile and then back to the street again. His lips were moving soundlessly, he was below whispering, telling himself to set, step and throw, to keep his hands down, to snap his hips around on his swing, to block the sun with his glove and trust that the ball would reappear.
Their season was over. Baseball had left them behind, and the worst part about it was that all this had happened before.
No, that wasn’t the worst part about it.
Mulder was pale, not darkened by the sun, his hands were clean and all he wanted was base path dirt on his palms, all he wanted was to stand out there again.
And Chavez might not be in Oakland next year. His contract was up and maybe Beane was the smartest GM in the game, but that didn’t mean the A’s suddenly had the money to keep the best third baseman in the league.
But they weren’t talking about that.
When Chavez whispered, “Stop,” Mulder wasn’t sure if he’d heard him right, because Chavez was getting married in two months and they weren’t even that close anymore, but Chavez put an easy hand on the wheel and drifted them over to the shoulder on an abandoned road, pine needles under the windshield wipers and the moon silver-gold like a pocket watch, a million miles up.
The car slowed and stilled and Mulder shut off the engine, slamming them into the black. So he was blind, but he could hear Chavez unhooking his seatbelt, could hear the thump of the ball as it was dropped to the floor, could feel Chavez leaning towards him, and Chavez’s hand was first on his shoulder, heavy and pressing down too hard, and then Chavez’s hand dragged down his chest.
“No,” Mulder said, but Chavez was too close, biting Mulder’s shoulder, a bad angle and the raw smell of sweat and blood in the air. Chavez gnawed at Mulder’s shirt and when Mulder felt warmth on his throat, teeth serrated on his skin, he reached out and his hand collided with Chavez’s elbow, fumbled around getting his bearings, tried to push the other man away.
“This isn’t gonna make anything better,” he said helplessly, because Chavez wasn’t paying attention, tugging up his shirt, his fingers eager and curious, harsh and pulling lines of heat across Mulder’s stomach. Mulder closed his eyes, drew in air until the backs of his eyelids were scattershot with light, supernovas.
Chavez’s palm pattered on his stomach like drumming out a backbeat, muttered against Mulder’s neck, “How fucking skinny are you, Jesus.”
Mulder got his hands wrapped around Chavez’s arms, forced him off. “We weren’t gonna do this anymore.”
Mulder’s eyes were adjusting to the dimness. He could make out the shadows of the other man’s face, the smear of hair on his chin, the carved arcs of his eyebrows. Chavez’s eyes were swollen and half-lidded, and he said, cutting and pissed off, “We weren’t gonna lose in the playoffs anymore, either.”
His hand moved on Mulder’s stomach, the bumps of his knuckles against the muscles, and Mulder exhaled, a low whistling breath. “Eric, please don’t,” he said, not expecting for his voice to break quite as badly as they did.
Chavez worked Mulder’s belt open and Mulder didn’t stop him. Chavez snuck his other hand up to the side of Mulder’s neck and hauled him close, kissing him hard, and Chavez still tasted the same, all cinnamon gum and sunflower seeds and clear and fresh. Chavez scraped his teeth across Mulder’s lower lip and somehow Mulder’s mouth opened, letting Chavez in, and the slide and the breath of it.
Chavez pulled back, licking his palm, and Mulder tried one more time, all he had left in him, “Please, you gotta knock it off.”
Chavez was pressed against him, knee to shoulder and his hand slicked across Mulder’s stomach, lowering his head to pester quick bites on Mulder’s chest through his shirt, and Mulder could feel him mumbling, “Shut up, Mark, quit saying please,” his breath southern, damp as Chavez flattened his tongue against Mulder’s collarbone.
Mulder lost his protest, lost his faith and he couldn’t really claim that he didn’t want this, because Chavez’s hand was on him now, tight and familiar, tangled up in Mulder’s shorts, his jeans open like getting to third base on a school night, and Mulder spread his legs as far apart as the confines of the front seat would allow him, dropped his head back and felt a brief shattering crack of pain in his hip, digging his teeth into his lip and holding back his cry.
He was finished quick enough for Chavez to snort a laugh at him, so he twisted his hand in Chavez’s hair and kissed him until he was quiet, kissed him until he was shaking, panting. He sucked a mark into Chavez’s neck, something else for him to explain to Alex when he finally got home, and the rough scrape in Chavez’s moan was just like he remembered, too.
Mulder wished he could hold the other man down, wished he could press Chavez’s shoulders to some flat surface and do this right, because he was pretty sure this was the last time this was going to happen, but they were fucked up and fucking in a car, so all he could do was push Chavez’s knee against the door, saying hoarsely, “It’s all your fault this time, so you better not say shit to me later,” before he bent down, his forehead on Chavez’s thigh and his back aching.
Somewhere, this had everything to do with the game Chavez had just played and Mulder had just watched from the bench. With Chavez’s fingers carding through his hair and the zipper of his jeans scoring Mulder’s cheek, Mulder knew for sure that this was just one more thing they had to lose.
* * *
Chavez flies back with Alex a couple of hours before his teammates, who’ve all booked the same flight to L.A. to better terrorize the airline, before they’ll split off for their final destinations, Mulder out to Scottsdale, Zito getting picked up by his sister and driving to Hollywood, Hatteberg up to Washington, most of the others back to Oakland.
When Chavez says good-bye, he shakes each of their hands, the gold of his wedding ring a cold stripe on Mulder’s skin, right where the scratch is. Huddy says, “Take care of her, man, or I’ll have to kick your ass,” and Zito snags his hand through Chavez’s tousled hair, saying with a smile, “Lookit you, you’re all grown-up now.”
There don’t look to be any hard feelings from Chavez because of what Mulder said to him that morning. Chavez just grins and says, “Stay outta trouble, dude,” which is what he’s been telling Mulder ever since they stopped living together, mainly ‘cause Chavez doesn’t want Mulder getting into any trouble that doesn’t involve him too.
Mulder kisses Alex on the cheek and tells her, “Remember, you get sick of him, you got my number,” and everybody laughs. Mulder’s always liked Alex.
The couple walks out through the lobby, leaving the ballplayers standing at the elevators. Chavez has got his arm around Alex’s shoulders. Through the broad front windows, Mulder can see them waiting for a taxi to get called over, can see Eric lean over to press a kiss to Alex’s temple.
And Mulder thinks, disastrously, traitorously, that maybe there will be a full moon in October next year, maybe they’ll lose another Game 5 and with their broken hearts stop playing by the rules again.
THE END
wasn’t I supposed to write a happy story? what the fuck.
*
Tomorrow, today, in . . . twelve hours, where will I be? The Phone Booth, kids, which is what they're calling the Giants park when they want to be clever. Mulder's up and it's the fourth of July and where else would I be?
Happy 228th birthday to this violent place with all the potential in the world and remember, no country that invents rock n roll and baseball can really be all bad, despite every one of these baffling attempts to the contrary.
A good reason behind it. Kinsella wrote the book on which the movie is based, it's called 'Shoeless Joe' and better be next on your fuckin' list. But wait there's more!
This boy is rock star on a cosmic scale. He's one of the few American writers to embrace magical realism in the manner of Gabriel Garcia Marquez (another is Zora Neale Hurston, who is three steps beyond rock star in her own right), and all he writes about is baseball. A style and subject manner that complement each other perfectly, I think we can all agree, because there's superstition and there's luck and when you believe in something immense and utterly indefinable, when you're fascinated by the history and machinery of faith but faithless in your own life, you can see miracles in this game, you can see the hand of God.
Go read 'Shoeless Joe.' Read 'The Dixon Cornbelt League,' and 'The Thrill of the Grass.' For chrissake, read 'The Iowa Baseball Confederacy.' Be reminded why you love the game with this kind of force.
*
Finally saw the last half of 'Finding Nemo.' Adorable, necessarily, and for some reason the parent-child reunion (never done better in cartoon form than the first 'American Tail,' a favorite of mine since I was a very small Candle) hits me as hard as just about anything. This is what I get for having a stupidly fucked up relationship with my own folks.
One question: what is *up* with the total stoner sea turtles? Not that they weren't absolutely the best part, but dude. You can't smoke pot underwater! Not that I've ever tried, but it's not the kind of thing that really seems to require experimentation to be disproved.
*
Aaaaaand. So I wrote this thing. I'm posting it right this second, 11 minutes into Independence Day, cos if I don't, I'll just keep fiddling with it until I've fucked it up unrecognizable, and then I'll think, fuck, why'd I keep fiddling, why'd I have to fuck another one up?
Sooo.
Title: Stop Playing by the Rules
Author: Candle Beck
Email: meansdynamite@yahoo.com
Category: MLB, Oakland A’s (does anyone remember a time when I had the ability to write something *other* than the A’s? Stupid hot ballplayers.)
Pairing: Mark Mulder/Eric Chavez
Rating: R
Archive: You know I’m all about it.
Feedback: Pile it on.
Disclaimer: Bwahaha. Not a shred mine.
Summary: Chavez fucks up a buddy for good.
Notes: See, Rhod wrote a story about Chavez getting married in Hawaii last December, and I was all about being inspired. But then the thing went all berserk on me, as has a tendency to happen. Still, though, blame her and her inspiring ways.
Note #2: Didn’t see the ALDS. If I had, you better motherfucking believe they would have won. Anyway, I doubt I got much about that night right, besides what they put in the papers the next day. Jesus, why’d I write a story about the ALDS. Now I’m all fuckin’ depressed again.
Stop Playing by the Rules
By Candle Beck
Hawaii’s a good place for a wedding, but not in motherfucking December. Stupid fucking third basemen.
The rain doesn’t let up. It’s not sheets; it’s blankets, comforters. Each drop could fill a Dixie cup. They wanted to get married out on the grass, by the ocean, a huge tent strung with chains of white lights for the party, but they picked the wrong season for that, so it’s the hotel ballroom and Mulder keeps thinking that this is just another road trip, just somewhere else to come home from.
They get married and everyone cheers, applauds, wolf-whistles. Jermaine bet Chavez fifty bucks he wouldn’t slip Alex some tongue in front of both their families, and the outfielder collects his money as they stream towards the open bar, not refraining from calling the other man a punk on this sacred day.
Zito dances like a white boy with no shame, which is about right.
When Mulder raises his champagne glass and starts tapping on it with a tiny little sugar spoon to get everybody’s attention, he’s composing the toast in his head. He’s reminding himself not to swear, because there are several sets of parents here and little kids in yellow-spotted bowties and suspenders are running around with their legs pumping like pistons, their hands balled up into chubby fists.
Mulder’s gonna talk about how Eric’s one of the better friends he’s ever had (even if that’s not really true anymore), ‘cause Mulder’s been drinking like a fish all night long and probably isn’t gonna remember much of this in the morning. The whir and the steady red eye of the video camera don’t quite penetrate his brain, and he is foolishly certain that this doesn’t count, that alcohol-induced amnesia will take away any humiliation he might be about to bring down upon himself.
Mulder’s gonna tell some off-color anecdotes that skim the edge of an R rating (as he considers his sworn duty, even in front of small children and smaller grandparents), and Mulder’s gonna say, “you know, we were teammates and then we were friends and the best moments of my life, he’s been right there. More important, the worst moments of my life, he’s been there too.”
The guys are gonna rag him about this toast for *years*.
But Mulder gets lucky, ‘cause he still doesn’t know his own strength and shatters the thin crystal of the champagne glass with the spoon, so that when the room’s eyes turn to him, he’s just staring down in bemusement at his suddenly wet hand, sparkles of glass in the dents of his knuckles, the stem held between his fingers like an invisible cigarette. There’s a slender track of blood running down the back of his hand that no one sees, and the champagne stings in the cut, high-pitched and sharp as a bone splinter.
Chavez stands and calls over the crowd, “Mulder, you silver-tongued son of a bitch, give someone else a chance to talk,” and everyone laughs and Mulder blushes before he sits down again, misses his chance, the one chance he had.
Fuck Chavez for getting married. Fuck him for moving out.
* * *
The day after the wedding, getaway day, the sky is Dodger blue and they keep squinting upwards, trying to figure out where the rain went. All that rain . . . it couldn’t have all disappeared overnight, it’s impossible.
Alex goes out shopping with her mother and sisters, kissing Chavez good-bye about fourteen times, her hands on his shoulders, his curved neatly around her hips, and they keep grinning at each other, giggling like teenagers, they keep pressing their palms together and clinking their new rings against each other.
His teammates are on the patio by the pool, overlooking the verdant hills, the streak down to the water. Honest to God, there’s never been anything as clear as the ocean out here, never been anything close.
Chavez pads out, barefoot with his hair jagging up in the way that means he fell asleep with it wet. The players hail him lazily, call him Mr. Alex for awhile, all of them wearing sunglasses and flipflops, slumped down in plastic furniture, drawn across by the wind.
Mulder’s thankful it’s so bright today, not hurricane-dim the way it was yesterday. His head has been split open and light is no friend to him. He likes wearing his sunglasses, likes feeling mysterious. Nobody can see his eyes, nobody can follow the path of his gaze-just what he needs.
He watches Chavez grin at the guys, flop down on one of the chairs, kicking his feet up on the low frosted-glass table. He watches Chavez scratching lethargically at his chest, his forearms worn as smooth as the barrel of a bat.
Mulder doesn’t talk much and if anybody wants to ask, he’s ready to blame it on the hangover, but nobody seems to want to ask.
He almost falls asleep out there in the sun, listening to his friends talk about everything that’s not baseball, everything that Mulder couldn’t give a shit about, and Mulder’s body is warm and loose, unspooled with exhaustion.
Somebody touches his hand, the tiny scratch from the broken glass, and Mulder blinks, sees Chavez leaning over. The guys are ribbing Ellis, the next one of them who will marry, Hatteberg bemoaning, “Shit, we’re getting so goddamn respectable,” but Scotty had a wife when he got to Oakland, he can’t say shit. Anyway, no one’s paying any attention to Mulder and Chavez.
“Hey, what’s this about?” Chavez asks, tapping his fingertip on the slit skin. “Injury-prone is one thing, dude, but I don’t think you can use that as an excuse this time.”
Mulder lets the smirk come naturally. “You call that an injury? Always knew you were a fucking pussy.”
Shit, he didn’t mean for it to come out like that.
Chavez’s expression tightens, but he laughs it off, ‘cause nothing Mulder’s ever done has stuck to him. “Be nice to me. I’m never gonna be single again.”
And Mulder can’t stop himself from saying it. (Another lie.)
“Yeah, but isn’t that what you said the first time you got married? A real fucking success, that was.”
In the beautifully clairvoyant moment right after Mulder says that, there’s no doubt in his mind that Chavez hates him.
Little cocksucker thinks he can just leave and it’s not gonna change anything.
* * *
It was a dream. It wasn’t real.
They’d won the first two games. They were gonna break the luck. Get to the second round. Go the distance. They don’t drop three games in a row, not this long after the All-Star break.
Oh, nothing was gonna stop them.
But something went wrong in Boston. Something strange crept in among them and filled up the silences, a bad omen. They should have known. The team was so locked in, they couldn’t see anything beyond the wild blast of the stadium lights, the unloosed howls of the Fenway crowds.
Nobody on this side of the Sierra Nevada range wanted them to win. Everyone was talking about the Cubs and the Red Sox and the dream Series. They were talking about 1908 and 1918 and how perfect it would be, until it was like you weren’t a real baseball fan unless you were pulling for one of the cursed teams.
But the A’s were cursed too. Not in any way that counted, just four years of October failures behind them, but that four years was everything they’d known, so fuck longevity, heartbreak’s no less painful just because some other Oakland team won a world championship fourteen years ago.
That team wasn’t them, that team had the power of an earthquake on their side, and this team’s got nothing.
One of the obnoxious fucking East Coast reporters asked Zito about his disappointing season the night they got to Boston, and all the pitcher could say was, “I don’t want another Cy Young, I want a goddamn ring.” But nobody printed that.
And by the time they got back to California for Game 5, it was already too late.
For two innings, they held the skinniest lead imaginable, held it in their palms like a favorite marble, but there was a full moon and nothing matters in October except the last out, and when Ramirez hit a three-run shot in the sixth, Zito, who’d been throwing on short rest because Mulder couldn’t stop getting hurt, sank down into a catcher’s crouch and stared at the dirt of the mound for a long time, his left hand hanging useless over his knee, and they lost that game right there, before Damon lay without moving on the outfield grass, before Tejada tried to be a hero again, before they fell just barely short.
God, it was so beautiful that night, it was so close to perfect.
And Mulder left as quickly as possible, not even limping on the black asphalt of the parking lot, but as he put his hand on the cool metal of the car door, a voice rose from behind, calling his name, slightly choked.
Chavez came over and this was the fourth time Mulder had seen that kind of pain in his friend’s face, this was the fourth time and swear to God, he never thought he’d see it again, not after last year, not this again. Jesus, not this again.
Chavez stood beside him, brushed his fingertips down the fabric of Mulder’s shirt sleeve, and said, “Give me a ride home. Take the long way.”
Mulder didn’t say a word, something stuck in his throat, just unlocked the car, sat there with Chavez beside him, his hands wrapped around the wheel, watching the slow defeated tread of his teammates walking to their cars.
“Chavvy,” he tried to say, trying to do the right thing, but Chavez wasn’t having it.
“Drive, man. Just fucking drive.”
The moon slid under the headlights and Mulder drove. Not back to his house, not back to Chavez’s. Alex would be waiting for him, her own heart broken for the shatter of his, but she’d waited before.
And he got them lost, which was probably the point, because loss seemed to be the theme of the night, roping through the hills, the tightly wound roads under the thick shelter of trees, the spear of stars on the windshield.
Chavez kept squeezing a baseball, kept darting his eyes to Mulder’s profile and then back to the street again. His lips were moving soundlessly, he was below whispering, telling himself to set, step and throw, to keep his hands down, to snap his hips around on his swing, to block the sun with his glove and trust that the ball would reappear.
Their season was over. Baseball had left them behind, and the worst part about it was that all this had happened before.
No, that wasn’t the worst part about it.
Mulder was pale, not darkened by the sun, his hands were clean and all he wanted was base path dirt on his palms, all he wanted was to stand out there again.
And Chavez might not be in Oakland next year. His contract was up and maybe Beane was the smartest GM in the game, but that didn’t mean the A’s suddenly had the money to keep the best third baseman in the league.
But they weren’t talking about that.
When Chavez whispered, “Stop,” Mulder wasn’t sure if he’d heard him right, because Chavez was getting married in two months and they weren’t even that close anymore, but Chavez put an easy hand on the wheel and drifted them over to the shoulder on an abandoned road, pine needles under the windshield wipers and the moon silver-gold like a pocket watch, a million miles up.
The car slowed and stilled and Mulder shut off the engine, slamming them into the black. So he was blind, but he could hear Chavez unhooking his seatbelt, could hear the thump of the ball as it was dropped to the floor, could feel Chavez leaning towards him, and Chavez’s hand was first on his shoulder, heavy and pressing down too hard, and then Chavez’s hand dragged down his chest.
“No,” Mulder said, but Chavez was too close, biting Mulder’s shoulder, a bad angle and the raw smell of sweat and blood in the air. Chavez gnawed at Mulder’s shirt and when Mulder felt warmth on his throat, teeth serrated on his skin, he reached out and his hand collided with Chavez’s elbow, fumbled around getting his bearings, tried to push the other man away.
“This isn’t gonna make anything better,” he said helplessly, because Chavez wasn’t paying attention, tugging up his shirt, his fingers eager and curious, harsh and pulling lines of heat across Mulder’s stomach. Mulder closed his eyes, drew in air until the backs of his eyelids were scattershot with light, supernovas.
Chavez’s palm pattered on his stomach like drumming out a backbeat, muttered against Mulder’s neck, “How fucking skinny are you, Jesus.”
Mulder got his hands wrapped around Chavez’s arms, forced him off. “We weren’t gonna do this anymore.”
Mulder’s eyes were adjusting to the dimness. He could make out the shadows of the other man’s face, the smear of hair on his chin, the carved arcs of his eyebrows. Chavez’s eyes were swollen and half-lidded, and he said, cutting and pissed off, “We weren’t gonna lose in the playoffs anymore, either.”
His hand moved on Mulder’s stomach, the bumps of his knuckles against the muscles, and Mulder exhaled, a low whistling breath. “Eric, please don’t,” he said, not expecting for his voice to break quite as badly as they did.
Chavez worked Mulder’s belt open and Mulder didn’t stop him. Chavez snuck his other hand up to the side of Mulder’s neck and hauled him close, kissing him hard, and Chavez still tasted the same, all cinnamon gum and sunflower seeds and clear and fresh. Chavez scraped his teeth across Mulder’s lower lip and somehow Mulder’s mouth opened, letting Chavez in, and the slide and the breath of it.
Chavez pulled back, licking his palm, and Mulder tried one more time, all he had left in him, “Please, you gotta knock it off.”
Chavez was pressed against him, knee to shoulder and his hand slicked across Mulder’s stomach, lowering his head to pester quick bites on Mulder’s chest through his shirt, and Mulder could feel him mumbling, “Shut up, Mark, quit saying please,” his breath southern, damp as Chavez flattened his tongue against Mulder’s collarbone.
Mulder lost his protest, lost his faith and he couldn’t really claim that he didn’t want this, because Chavez’s hand was on him now, tight and familiar, tangled up in Mulder’s shorts, his jeans open like getting to third base on a school night, and Mulder spread his legs as far apart as the confines of the front seat would allow him, dropped his head back and felt a brief shattering crack of pain in his hip, digging his teeth into his lip and holding back his cry.
He was finished quick enough for Chavez to snort a laugh at him, so he twisted his hand in Chavez’s hair and kissed him until he was quiet, kissed him until he was shaking, panting. He sucked a mark into Chavez’s neck, something else for him to explain to Alex when he finally got home, and the rough scrape in Chavez’s moan was just like he remembered, too.
Mulder wished he could hold the other man down, wished he could press Chavez’s shoulders to some flat surface and do this right, because he was pretty sure this was the last time this was going to happen, but they were fucked up and fucking in a car, so all he could do was push Chavez’s knee against the door, saying hoarsely, “It’s all your fault this time, so you better not say shit to me later,” before he bent down, his forehead on Chavez’s thigh and his back aching.
Somewhere, this had everything to do with the game Chavez had just played and Mulder had just watched from the bench. With Chavez’s fingers carding through his hair and the zipper of his jeans scoring Mulder’s cheek, Mulder knew for sure that this was just one more thing they had to lose.
* * *
Chavez flies back with Alex a couple of hours before his teammates, who’ve all booked the same flight to L.A. to better terrorize the airline, before they’ll split off for their final destinations, Mulder out to Scottsdale, Zito getting picked up by his sister and driving to Hollywood, Hatteberg up to Washington, most of the others back to Oakland.
When Chavez says good-bye, he shakes each of their hands, the gold of his wedding ring a cold stripe on Mulder’s skin, right where the scratch is. Huddy says, “Take care of her, man, or I’ll have to kick your ass,” and Zito snags his hand through Chavez’s tousled hair, saying with a smile, “Lookit you, you’re all grown-up now.”
There don’t look to be any hard feelings from Chavez because of what Mulder said to him that morning. Chavez just grins and says, “Stay outta trouble, dude,” which is what he’s been telling Mulder ever since they stopped living together, mainly ‘cause Chavez doesn’t want Mulder getting into any trouble that doesn’t involve him too.
Mulder kisses Alex on the cheek and tells her, “Remember, you get sick of him, you got my number,” and everybody laughs. Mulder’s always liked Alex.
The couple walks out through the lobby, leaving the ballplayers standing at the elevators. Chavez has got his arm around Alex’s shoulders. Through the broad front windows, Mulder can see them waiting for a taxi to get called over, can see Eric lean over to press a kiss to Alex’s temple.
And Mulder thinks, disastrously, traitorously, that maybe there will be a full moon in October next year, maybe they’ll lose another Game 5 and with their broken hearts stop playing by the rules again.
THE END
wasn’t I supposed to write a happy story? what the fuck.
*
Tomorrow, today, in . . . twelve hours, where will I be? The Phone Booth, kids, which is what they're calling the Giants park when they want to be clever. Mulder's up and it's the fourth of July and where else would I be?
Happy 228th birthday to this violent place with all the potential in the world and remember, no country that invents rock n roll and baseball can really be all bad, despite every one of these baffling attempts to the contrary.