Heroes: Day-to-Day [2/2]
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Notes: for Heroes_BigBoom
Date: September 2007
Part 1 / Part 2
Day-to-Day
The roster for the All-Star Game comes down, and Claude is absolutely livid that he's not on it. Frankly, Peter's surprised by how much it affects him. Claude is pacing back and forth in the clubhouse, and at one point actually yells, "don't they know who I am?" and glares down at the Chicago Tribune like it's done him wrong. Peter, who had no illusions about his own chances, and wouldn't have been eligible anyway, finds himself suppressing giggles at Claude's sporadic bursts of outrage.
Parkman says, "look, you've got your name in the running for this... Monster.com vote."
Claude looks at Parkman like something he's had to scrape off the bottom of his cleats and says, "yes, except that the part of the American population that uses the internet was still in nappies when I won the fucking Cy Young four times! I'm not young, and I'm not handsome, and I'm not Derek fucking Jeter. What I am is talented, and if Tony La Russa's got his head too far up Fat Albert Pujols' arse to see that, then he's a fucking idiot."
Claude loses the special election to the rabid Padres fans, as expected, and walks around like a black cloud of anger and determination for the couple days leading up to the break. Peter thinks, nothing like a punch-up, and feels sort of sorry for the next line-up Claude's going to face.
---
Nathan's going to the All-Star Game, of course, so Peter has to call him and congratulate him. Nathan, to his credit, doesn't sound smug, and really sounds like he means it when he says he's proud of Peter. He says, "five for five, Pete, that's really something."
Peter can't always tell if Nathan's being nice or sarcastic, so he says, "shut up, how many home runs do you have now? Four hundred and what?" It's pathetic to be so complacent in Nathan's shadow for so long. Sometimes Peter finds himself desperately wishing he could exorcise the last residual traces of Nathan hero worship from his life.
Nathan chuckles and Peter can picture his huge, toothy grin as he says, "well, we can't all be as handsome and talented as I am, Pete. Some of us have just got to hit singles up the middle and get caught stealing second."
Peter hangs his head and mutters, "I do it one time in the major leagues, one time." Nathan laughs again, that strange politician's laugh he picked up from playing too long with the Yankees.
Peter casts around inside his head for something else to talk about, fixes suddenly on something he's been thinking about recently, and asks, "did you know Claude Raines? In Montreal? When we were growing up?" Claude and Nathan had been about the same age, and just because Peter can't remember Raines coming around the house, it doesn't mean it didn't happen. Peter wouldn't have known if they'd been friends, at the time; Peter had known Nathan back then about as well as he had known his father.
Peter can practically hear Nathan's jaw lock as he says, "not really," and then, "Raines and I never got along." It doesn't surprise Peter, actually. Nathan had been so angry, all the time, when he was young, so desperate to prove himself above and beyond the legacy of their father. And lord knows that Claude's always been volatile, the man could fight with a rock. When Peter thinks about it, he realizes that the two of them must have hated each other. It's funny, now, how everything's turned out.
Peter says, "he's pissed about not making the All-Star team. He should be going, Nathan. God, you should see him throw."
Nathan says, "it doesn't work like that, Peter. He can't get in now on past achievements alone. He just didn't have the numbers this year." The smugness is creeping back into Nathan's voice, the easy confidence he always has when talking about his freakishly stellar statistics. His 499 career home runs have secured him a free pass to San Francisco, even though he's on a team with a losing record, one that's trailing pathetically in their division.
Peter says, "yeah, Nathan, you're right," but the whole conversation is just reminding him that he's only ever really had two settings with Nathan: hero worship and wanting to punch him in the face.
---
Peter never knows what to do with himself over the All-Star break. Even when he gets a day off with the team, he usually just bums around his apartment watching highlights on ESPN or watching everybody else in the league play. The days before and after the All-Star break are the only days between March and October without anybody playing baseball anywhere, and Peter absolutely doesn't want to spend the day watching NASCAR or golf.
Peter spends the morning cleaning up his hotel suite, but by noon has to admit that he doesn't actually have enough stuff to have really made a mess in the first place, and gives up.
He can't call Parkman, because he's actually in a good place with Janice, for once, and Peter doesn't want to get between them. DL's out, too, because Nikki and Micah are coming up to Chicago for the weekend and doing little-kid tourist stuff, like Navy Pier and Six Flags. Peter doesn't call Hiro because he suspects Hiro's idea of fun might involve mini-golf, and he's frankly a little too frightened to ask.
Peter is basically bored out of his mind, with only one person left to call.
He has stares at the phone for half an hour and drinks a bottle of beer very quickly before he works himself up to actually dialing the number. It's the first time Peter's sought him out deliberately, instead of relying on their schedule to throw them together, and Peter's still not completely sure it's a welcome gesture.
Claude picks up saying, "yeah?" in a sort of sharp, angry way, and Peter is just about to hang up as Claude says, "you're calling a bloody cell phone, Peter, I know it's you."
Peter says, "I, um, well," and Claude laughs a short, barking laugh, and says, "you're bored and there's no baseball on the telly. Right. Come on over." Peter doesn't know whether to be relieved or even more nervous.
When he actually gets to Claude's gigantic house on the north shore, having gotten lost three times, Claude is watching something that Peter assumes is cricket on a huge television in his living room.
He hands Peter a glass of the same bitter, dark beer from the pub in New York, and half-shoves Peter down on the couch.
Peter watches the game, silently, for a few minutes, takes in the all-white uniforms, the strange underhand way the pitcher throws the ball, the oval shape of the field. But when the guy with the bat hits a ball clear over the heads of the outfielders and then just stands there, that is when Peter breaks down and asks what the hell is going on.
It takes Claude what feels like hours to explain the game, which is apparently still a few days shorter than it takes to actually play a game of cricket. By the end of it, Peter understands that you don't actually have to run when you hit the ball, but it still feels wrong.
Claude has tons of stories about being a bowler in the British equivalent of little league, almost the exact same stories Peter lived through as a kid, an ocean and a decade away. It's nice to know that some things are basically the same, no matter where you go.
After a while, Peter looks up at the screen and watches for a few minutes, really tries to pay attention and understand what's going on. He tries to fix on the things that are similar to baseball, the things that make sense, except everyone's wearing bright white and playing on what looks like somebody's front lawn and at five they break for tea. One of the announcers says, "oh, what a catch, what a throw, what a man!" and he sounds like he could be narrating Oliver Twist.
Peter looks around Claude's giant mansion on the lakefront and says to Claude, "lucky you got out when you did."
---
In the middle of July, DL gets sent back to Iowa to make room for Geovany Soto, a catcher who's hitting .341 in Des Moines. DL doesn't quite throw his stuff from his locker into his duffle bag when he's packing, but there are other ways to tell he's pissed off. Peter knows the feeling, but with DL there's nothing he can do, DL's more mad at himself than he is at anybody else. It's not the front office's fault that he's only batting .216.
Parkman starts to look nervous again, starts panicking every time he has to go out and bat. There isn't a team in the league that wants to carry three catchers down the stretch and Ando's the only one that's safe, because it's actually in Hiro's contract that Ando catches his games.
Your name gets big enough, you get the right agent, and you can get anything. Hiro's contract also states that he gets a $400,000 housing allowance, a translator, and a lifetime supply of five-toed socks. Claude is making $12.4 million just to pitch one season.
Peter gets $400,000 a year if he keeps his shit together with Chicago and $20 a day for meals back in Des Moines if he doesn't.
For him, for Parkman and DL and everybody else, there's a lot on the line every day, every game.
---
Soto gets sent down two games after he's called up, and though DL doesn't come back, Parkman stops looking so terrified, and Peter takes always takes a win where he can.
Coming back from the All-Star break, Claude is determined like Peter's never seen him. He wasn't half-assing his starts before the break or anything, but now it's like there's something inside him that's been lit on fire. Even his eyes are more defiant when they're glaring up at you over his glove.
Claude wins his first two starts after the break, becomes the first pitcher in the national league to reach 12 wins, and Peter takes him out after to celebrate. On the way there, Claude gives him the same significant look when the cabbie asks for some absurd quantity of money. Peter mutters, "twelve million dollars and you're making me pay for the taxi."
Claude swats at his shoulder as he gets out of the cab, says, "now I'm teaching you about humility."
Peter says, "yeah, well next time we're taking the fucking El."
---
Mid-July the Cubs hammer the Giants for 12 runs and Parkman gets a career-high 5 batted in. Hitting against the Giants is actually kind of fun: all you have to do is roll the ball down the left-field line towards Barry Bonds and know he doesn't care enough about the game to actually hustle after it.
After, Parkman wants to go home, but Peter strong-arms him into going out for just one drink. All night long he looks like he's working his way up to saying something, until he finally blurts out, "Janice is pregnant," in the same voice he uses to say, "I'm out of eye-black." Peter has to take a moment to decide whether this is good news or bad news.
Parkman, though, breaks into the biggest smile Peter has ever seen and catches Peter up in a giant bear-hug that lifts him up off his feet. Peter can't breathe, but when Parkman lets him up for air, he manages to choke out a weak, "congratulations."
Parkman says, "I'm going to be a father!" and looks overjoyed, enthusiastic, like a little kid himself. Then, a few seconds later, he says, "I'm going to be someone's father," in a completely different tone and has to sit down and breathe for a minute.
Peter sits down next to him and hits him on the back in what he hopes is a soothing manner. Peter says, "I have it on good authority that raising a family is actually easier than hitting a fastball. You'll do great."
---
On July 19th, Cesar Izturis is traded to the Pittsburg Pirates for cash and a player to be named later. Izturis is a decent guy and all, but Peter can't say he's sad to see him go. For Piniella, this means freeing up a spot on the 25-man roster, but for Peter this means that he's the official backup infielder. It means that Ryan can keep playing shortstop, they're not going to have three second basemen to squeeze into one infield position, they're not going to try to rehab Izturis into the shortstop they need, and they're not going to send Peter back to Iowa.
For the first time, Peter thinks about getting an apartment in Chicago.
Peter knows Ryan from way back, from playing second and short together with the LSU Tigers, and he forgoes going out with the guys to hang out with Ryan, toast their new-found job security. They don't have too much in common anymore, besides glory days stories from Louisiana. Ryan was always a little bit older, a little bit taller, his career moved a little bit faster. It's like having an older brother on the team, which would be great, except that Peter already has an older brother.
---
All of a sudden it's the middle of July and the guys on ESPN are calling the Cubs the hottest team in baseball.
Peter still can't really believe it, though. Back in March, he'd started to think that he was never going to make it at all, was just gonna stick it out one more year in Des Moines until he was a free agent. Even now, it still feels like they're getting away with something, that tomorrow Piniella will wake up and realize that he's trying to make a run for it with a half a dozen rookies and bust them all back down to Des Moines.
Talking to anybody about it feels like bad luck, Peter won't even respond to his mother when she brings it up on the phone. This leaves nothing to talk about except Nathan's 499 home runs, and Peter spends half of the conversation with the phone away from his ear, yelling back "uh-huh," and, "that's great," at what he feels are appropriate intervals. When he actually starts listening again, his mother scolds him for a few seconds, for being a jerk, but afterwards she says, with absolute conviction, that she thinks he's doing well, that it's a good team.
Peter doesn't know what to do with her for a minute, but he starts her talking again about how she doesn't like the people who are putting in the new floor in the bathroom and they're back on even footing.
---
Trading away Izturis has the downside of opening up a spot on the roster for Jake Fox from the Cubs AA affiliate, the Tennessee Smokies. Parkman gets the news, says, "not another fucking catcher," and gets even more nervous than last time. Piniella gets quoted in the paper saying that team doesn't really need three catchers down the stretch, and though Parkman may be Big Z's lucky penny, but he's still hitting well below the Mendoza line.
Parkman says, "look, they send me back down now, I get designated for assignment, I have to go through waivers. Who the hell all knows where I'll end up if that happens."
Peter knows he's living a charmed life, but it's not that charmed, it's not charmed enough to take his friends with him. Parkman looks scared and lost and Peter can't help at all, and it's tearing him up inside a little bit. He awkwardly pats Parkman on the back and understands, for the first time, that this is what Claude meant about distractions.
---
Lee starts serving his suspension for the fight with Chris Young, and Daryle Ward and Cliff Floyd both get injured in the same game, which leaves both the infield and the outfield temporarily short-handed.
Piniella shifts everybody around as best they can, but with Fox left as their only utility man, he's has to pull up a position player for a few days, and that position player ends up being Ted. It's not the greatest circumstances, filling in for a slightly injured regular doesn't mean an immediate ticket to the 40-man roster, but it's fun to pick Ted up at the bus station, show him around the locker room. It's like having a friend visit from out of town.
---
Lee's suspension ends on the 24th of July and Ted, with two strike-outs and no hits in five at bats, gets sent back to Iowa.
There's something about the Greyhound terminal that always gets Peter on a gut level. Going through this terminal, you're either having one of the happiest moments of your life, or one of your worst. Making the trip back to Des Moines is an experience Peter doesn't want to repeat, ever.
Peter drives Ted from the hotel to the terminal and the whole way out, Ted looks grayed-out and unhappy, the skin under his eyes nearly the same color as his scraggly beard. Peter can handle Ted angry, it's one of Ted's default settings, but it's harder to see him so defeated. Baseball's been the only thing giving him hope since Karen, and even then it hasn't been that much hope.
Ted says, "well, it was nice," and Pete says, "take care of yourself," and watches helplessly as the bus rolls its way out of the station.
---
Peter starts to worry about Ted a little less when the day after he gets back to Iowa, Ted gets angry and kicks a fire hydrant, hurting his right foot and putting himself on the disabled list in Des Moines.
Peter calls him that night, after he's gotten back from the hospital but before he's too loopy on pain meds to talk. Peter asks, "did it get in your way? Did it insult your mother? Do you object to that particular shade of red?"
Ted says, "no," and "shut the hell up, man."
Peter stops laughing long enough to say, "serves you right."
Ted says, "you know, Pete, no offense, but I really sort of hate you guys right now."
Peter muffles his laughter in his sleeve and Ted sighs really loud and exaggerated. Peter says, "hey, at least Chicago bought your contract," and at that, Ted finally cracks up, too.
---
Another day in July, another attempt at getting the roster right. Jake Fox gets sent back to Iowa and Parkman breathes a little easier because that means, until Blanco's shoulder is feeling healthy again, they've basically exhausted all the other third-catcher possibilities.
Matt Murton gets called up to play right field, and everybody's a little confused that it isn't DL, who's hitting great again in the minors. Peter calls him that night, says, "tough break."
DL doesn't sound like Peter expects him to, instead he says, "nah, man, it's ok."
Peter had called with every intention of talking shit about Murton, for DL's sake, even though he actually liked the guy pretty well. Instead, DL's saying, "look, I play there, I'm part-timing with Floyd, I'm not gonna be happy with that."
All Peter can think to say is, "whoa. You sound oddly mature all of a sudden." If DL was actually in the room, Peter's pretty sure he'd get punched in the arm for saying it.
DL laughs and says, "this way, I play every day and work on my swing, and in September I can come back and help you guys kick some post-season ass, alright?"
Peter says, "yeah," but he's still a little confused about DL's attitude. And then something else occurs to him, and he says, "Nikki's still in Iowa, right, 'cause she didn't want to take Micah out of school?"
DL sounds nothing but smug when he says, "I'm not saying anything you don't already know here, but my wife is a very attractive woman."
Peter says, "she is at that," and then, because they're old friends and he can say it and it's still funny, he says, "I still can't believe you married a stripper."
DL says, "fuck you, man, I'm hanging up," but Peter can hear him laughing as he does.
---
End of July, the Cubs get a day off, and Milwaukee gets swept by the Cardinals in a day-night double-header. The Cubs pick up a game and a half in the division without ever lifting a bat, closer on Milwaukee's heels than they've been all year.
Peter and Parkman watch the whole thing in Claude's living room because Claude still has the biggest TV Peter's ever seen, and Parkman's just happy to get away from a cranky and pregnant Janice for a little while.
At the end of the first game, after the Cards score three runs in the ninth to walk off with the win, Parkman says, "you know what, it's crazy, but we're this close to leading the division, we've got Milwaukee on the ropes, and now I'm starting to worry about St. Louis."
Peter knows the feeling. The Cards had a rocky start this year, but you can't ever count out the reigning World Series winner, even if they only won 83 games in the regular season last year. The Cubs know, more than anybody, that you can't judge a team in August based on what they did in April.
Claude says, "take it one game at a time, friend. That's just about all you can do."
---
Claude wins five starts in July, one right after the other. He's the first pitcher in the National League to 12 wins, to 13, to 14. On the 29th of July he throws a two-hit shut-out against Cincinnati, the Cubs rolling to an easy 6-0 win. He's leading the league in earned run average and he's on pace to be the Cubs' first 20 game winner since 2001.
The club pulls within half a game of the Brewers and everywhere Peter looks, in the clubhouse, on the streets of the north side, the whole city's holding their breath. Chicago isn't a town that's used to winning. Before the White Sox championship in 2005, the south side hadn't seen a World Series win since 1917, and the north side still hasn't brought home a trophy since 1908. The Cubs have had 99 seasons of heartbreak, everybody just sets themselves up for annual disappointment. It's gotten too hard for most fans to hold on to hope, to set yourself up every season just to get your hopes crushed again this year.
But still, Peter can feel it on the streets, in the clubhouse: a quiet hope, nothing anybody wants to talk about too loud. The feeling that finally, finally, this could be the year.
---
Peter's still covered in infield dirt, his left knee twinging a little from the ground ball he ran down in the ninth, when Paul Sullivan from the Tribune catches him in the tunnel. He went 0-for-5 with two strikeouts, but still can't help feeling stupidly giddy about the win, the weekend, the whole month of July, so when Sullivan asks him what he thinks about the team, the young bench, the pennant race, he just goes with what he's thinking.
"It's like the Braves, right? They keep bringing guys up and they keep winning. It was guys that had played together, and they kept them together throughout the whole journey and ended up winning division after division," Peter says into Sullivan's tape recorder. "I think a lot of that has to do with the comfort level with the guys next to you." Parkman walks by, swearing and rubbing at his knees every few steps. "Realistically, you're going to have to be here 162 games. You're going to have to like the people you're with, and get to know them and trust them." Claude walks by, catches Peter's eye, and Peter can feel his face heat, but hopes it just looks like he's hot and tired and worn-out.
Sullivan gives him a pointed look and he realizes he's trailed off in thought, comes back with, "yeah. And, you know, that stuff doesn't happen overnight. As you saw that with this team, it took us a little while to get to that comfort level, but once we got our mix together... You know, it's kind of a young core, minus DL, that have all been together for four, five years." He thinks of Claude sneering and saying your little gang, again, and smiles. "It makes it very rewarding."
---
Peter talks Claude into going out that night, and he says yes in that somewhat begrudging, but mostly fond way that Peter's come to know and love. The three of them go to a stupidly trendy bar in downtown Cincinnati with ridiculously expensive décor and overpriced watered-down drinks.
Everywhere Peter looks there are gorgeous, skinny women in short skirts, acres of skin on display, but all Peter can think is that Claude looks fantastic in the low light. Peter tries to pull up the usual things to remind himself it's a terrible idea: that Claude is too old for him, that Claude is friends with his mother, that Claude is better and cranky and mean. These things have held him back in the past, but they just don't hold up under the tide of emotion Peter feels when Claude deigns to smile, when he actually tips his head back and laughs at some stupid joke that Parkman's making.
Peter pours Parkman into a cab around two, decides to call Janice and apologize in the morning. He sincerely hopes that there weren't any Cubs fans with camera-phones in the bar; the Parkman marriage has enough problems on its own.
Peter talks Claude into coming back to Peter's room with him, though later he doesn't remember how, and doesn't know why Claude agrees, not really. He unlocks the door, thankful he's got a single, thankful that the key works on the first try, thankful for that girl in Arizona's advice about magnets.
Peter doesn't really understand why Claude lingers with him in the doorway, why Claude doesn't just walk back to his own suite. Peter knows what he wants, even if he hasn't let himself think about it more than in a surface way, but he's never understood why Claude does anything, anything at all. He knows, though, that sometimes Claude has this way of looking at Peter, and Claude looks oddly soft in those moments, edges smoothed out. Peter knows that he's the only one that gets to see those moments and he thinks that that those moments have to mean something.
Before he lets himself get swallowed up into the welcoming dark of his hotel room, alone, he lets himself lean in towards Claude, lets himself breathe, "come inside."
Claude asks, "what are you doing?" his voice unexpectedly soft. At the sound of Claude's voice, the look on his face, something breaks wide open inside of Peter and everything he's been pushing down rushes up the surface in a sudden wave.
Peter sways a little, light-headed and unsteady on his feet. He says, "something unexpected," pushes himself up on the balls of his feet, and kisses Claude in the shadow of the open doorway.
Claude kisses him back, hands coming up to frame Peter's face, and pushes him back into the dark room, the door falling closed behind them. The light coming in through the one window isn't enough to see by and they trip over the coffee table and bruise their shins on the couch, trying to get to the bed.
It's awkward, they're both a little drunk, but Peter just pushes on, steamrolls over Claude when he hesitates. As prickly and imposing as Claude is in everything else, with Peter, like this, he's oddly gentle, careful.
---
Peter wakes up the next morning and thinks, in quick succession: Oh my god, I slept with Claude Raines. Oh my god, I slept with Claude Raines. Oh my god, I slept with Claude Raines.
Thankfully, Claude sleeps through each one of Peter's freak-out permutations and barely changes position when Peter slinks out of the bed to go panic in the bathroom. Last night, in the dark, everything had felt simple and easy and obvious, the path clearly marked. Now, with everything lit up bright in the early morning sunlight, Peter isn't exactly sure what the hell he's doing.
He's slept with men before, in college and afterwards, but never another ballplayer and absolutely never a teammate. He doesn't even begin to know how to handle this kind of thing.
It's difficult enough trying to deal with the fact that he's slept with Claude, but more than that, everything's out in the open now. It's not just Claude he's worried about, he can't hide from himself any more. All season long. he's been keeping everything just off to the side, just out of sight, where he didn't have to think about it, or own up to anything. Now, though, that precious control that he was holding on to for dear life is just shot, just wrecked.
In the cold light of day, Peter's real problem is that he's probably in love with Claude. Claude, who's emotionally impassive, who's completely wrapped up in trust issues, who only trusted at all to start with was Peter because Peter didn't pry and didn't push. Well, Peter can pretty much count what he did last night as pushing. He just doesn't know how much Claude is going to push back.
When Peter finally talks himself out of the bathroom, Claude is up, sitting on the couch in his boxers, watching an early repeat of last night's SportsCenter. He says, cheerily, "good morning," and Peter has a moment of panic that he's actually woken up in someone else's life.
Claude, who is obviously taking this much better than Peter is, says, "I can hear the gears turning in your head, Peter, it's bloody exhausting." He tilts his head like he's daring Peter to do something about it and Peter fumbles around for something to say, off-balanced.
He ends up blurting out, "I've had a picture of you up in my room since I was 13." Claude just raises and eyebrow at him and goes back to watching TV.
Peter sits down, confused, and watches the highlights from the American League, notes absently that Nathan still hasn't hit number 500.
Claude says, "the show's gone down-hill since they really started counting NASCAR as a sport." Peter nods, tries to remember how to breathe normally, concentrates on getting his heart-rate back to steady.
Eventually, Peter pries himself off the couch and pokes his head out the door of the suite long enough to grab the Tribune he'd requested off of the fake welcome mat. Peter flips through the sports section, where there's a picture of him on page four that he has to remember to send to his mother, and he notices that Sullivan's printed his whole interview in the wrap-up.
He hands off the paper to Claude when he's done with it, hears Claude's snort of derision at his ridiculous optimism. Claude looks up at him and says, sarcastically, "very rewarding?"
This time, though, Peter knows he's right, and they've got the record to prove it.
---
Peter shows up at the clubhouse before the next game not exactly sure how he's supposed to act. Claude had gone back to his room early to get his stuff before the buses left, and in the moment before Claude had opened the door, Peter had leaned in on instinct, kissed him goodbye. Claude had said, "keep this up and I'll start thinking you've just got a thing for doorways," and left. It's only now, hours and hours later, that Peter realizes that they hadn't actually settled anything, anything at all.
Peter changes into his uniform, gets an exuberant armful of Hiro, who always hugs him for good luck before a start, and watches Parkman slink in, wearing a pair of sunglasses and looking terribly hung over. Peter remembers that he was going apologize to Janice, and he's putting together what he could possibly say that wouldn't lead to her ripping his face off, when he realizes that, basically, this day is exactly the same as any other. Peter is still fundamentally the same, and nobody else has really changed. They still have a game to play, just like any other day.
During the game, as always, Claude ignores him for the first five innings, reading Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance and pretending he's somewhere other than Wrigley Field. Half-way through the top of the fifth, after Iguchi hits a home run off of Hiro, Claude looks up from his book and says, "you know, your friend Parkman has a gift."
Peter looks where Claude's looking, and sees Parkman, sitting in the corner of the dugout, talking on his cell phone with his head in his hands and a sort of pinched expression on his face. Peter looks back at Claude, confused, and has no idea what he's talking about.
Claude says, "he gets in the batter's heads," and that, Peter gets. Parkman's the reason they stopped having Friday night poker games in Des Moines. Sometimes, though, Peter suspects that some of the other in guys in triple-A have kept it going and just stopped inviting them.
Peter's never really thought much about Parkman as a catcher, what it's like for him behind the plate. Parkman knows Peter well enough to know it's a bit over his head, and Peter doesn't try to fool himself that he understands the strange alchemy between battery-mates. Parkman doesn't really talk about how he calls a game, about why he chooses the pitches he does. Something he does has obviously impressed Claude, though; Ando used to catch all his games, but he's had better luck with Parkman since he came up. With Parkman behind the plate Claude has a 1.46 earned run average, and has only given up 26 hits in 55 innings of work.
Even Big Z, who keeps claiming to the press that he doesn't care who catches him, has been treating Parkman like his personal good luck charm ever since the All-Star break.
Peter still doesn't know what exactly happened in the dugout before Big Z tried to claw Barrett's eyes out. The people's he's asked have all said they couldn't make out what Big Z was saying, anyway, but everybody knows that Big Z was never happy with the way Barrett called pitches during a game. As much trouble as Parkman's been having at the plate with his hitting, he's had none of the problems Barrett had behind the plate.
Claude says, "shame he can't hit." Peter chokes on a swallow Gatorade, and tries to glare at Claude, but by the time Peter can breathe again, Claude's focus is back in his book.
Peter goes back to watching the game.
Hiro has been having a fantastic month, but he gets pounded by Philadelphia. He never seems to let losses get to him, though, he's always got the same sort of happy, excited outlook, no matter how the game is actually going.
After the game, as Peter's walking towards his car, he's mildly surprised to find Claude follows him. Claude says, "Give me a ride home, yeah? I never got a proper license." Which means that all this time, Claude's been taking a taxi from Wrigley to the north shore after every home game. It makes Peter's head hurt to think about how much that must cost, before he remembers that Claude is making twelve million dollars and can probably afford it.
Peter just shakes his head and says, "get in."
---
What surprises Peter the most about their change in relationship is how little actually changes. They don't talk to each other in the dugout or the clubhouse any more than they did before. Claude still ignores him during games, works his way through pretentious novels, Peter still dicks around with his friends. Outwardly, almost nothing is different, except that Peter goes home with Claude some nights, Claude comes back to Peter's hotel room some nights.
Peter still feels on-edge, like's he's getting away with something, like he's going to get caught-out at any moment. He doesn't know why he expected Claude to be more freaked out about the whole thing, the way Claude lets everything else roll of his back.
---
Peter always finds the week around the trade deadline disorienting. It's a bit like nobody is who they said they were anymore. Peter keeps seeing familiar faces in unfamiliar uniforms. It's pretty damn disorienting to watch the Cubs' pitching staff get lit up by Aaron Rowand and Tadahito Iguchi, former White Sox from the championship team. Peter keeps looking at the scoreboard and forgetting where the hell he is.
A couple of days before the deadline, DL's name starts showing up in the trade rumors. It doesn't mean a lot, not really. When Peter got traded out of Baltimore, it'd been without warning. He'd been one of the "at least two minor-leaguers" tacked onto a the Sammy Sosa deal, his name wasn't even in the leading paragraph in the local paper.
Nikki calls after the rumors show up on the internet, sounds genuinely nervous when she asks him if there's any truth to anything, if he knows anything more than they do back in Des Moines. She says, "DL won't admit to anything, you know how he is, but I know he doesn't want to go anywhere. None of us do."
Peter doesn't pretend he understands what's going on in the general manager's office, but he reassures Nikki as best he can. At least 90% of all trade rumors are absolutely untrue: Manny Ramirez is still playing for Boston, Jermaine Dye isn't going anywhere except the south side, and Peter's still waiting for that Barry Bonds deal to go through. It's is just bored sports writers stirring stuff up because they can.
The next day, Bennet is quoted in the Trib saying, basically, no way in hell. No fewer than four articles have the same basic quotes: "DL Hawkins has never been talked about," and, "he's not going anywhere in any deal," and, "there will be no trade of DL Hawkins to anyone."
Peter calls Nikki back, and all she says is, "never mind." He can hear DL asking something in the distance, right before he hears Nikki say, "wrong number," and hang up. Sometimes Peter wonders about their trust issues.
---
Everybody's nervous on trade day anyway. Parkman spends the morning at the Holy Trinity Lutheran Church down Addison, and Peter only ever sees Parkman near religion when he's worried about baseball. Peter tries to take the Tribune to heart, tries to believe all the articles about how Piniella's not worried, Bennet's not worried, how they want to keep a winning team like this together. That doesn't mean he doesn't find himself on July 31st chewing on his thumbnail, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and hoping the phone doesn't ring before three.
All morning, Bennet's office remains blissfully silent.
Peter finds out later from the Tribune, source of all important and interesting information, that during the hour leading up to the deadline, Piniella was getting a massage in his office.
---
The game after nobody gets traded anywhere, the Cubs beat the Phillies 7-3 and Peter punches in a pinch-hit RBI. After the game, some reporter says the Milwaukee game is still going on into extra innings, and by some unspoken agreement, everybody meets up in a local bar to watch the rest of it.
If Milwaukee loses, that puts the Cubs up into a first place tie, into contention for the first time in a long, long time. The Mets have already blown Tom Glavine's chance at getting 300 wins, and they blow perfectly good opportunities to score any time they get a man on base. The whole bar shouts themselves horse yelling at the TV when the Mets fail again! to get a man across home plate. Even Claude, calmed by his World Series rings and years and years of experience, gets into the spirit of the thing, muttering under his breath, "don't you people learn how to bunt anymore?"
The fight goes out of the whole bar when the Mets give up a 2-run homer in the bottom of the thirteenth, and the bartender wisely turns the TV back to SportsNite before they show too much of the Brewers post-game celebration.
Claude shakes his head at the whole thing and Parkman curses a blue streak between swigs of Miller Lite.
Peter is undaunted, though. He says, "we'll get 'em tomorrow, or we'll get 'em next week, but good fucking god, we're gonna get them soon."
---
The Cubs catch the Brewers the next day.
It's a 4-4 tie going into the bottom of the ninth and everyone is more or less resigned to extra innings until Murton hits a double into center. Meyers, the Phillies reliever, heaves a wild pitch past the catcher that takes an ugly bounce off the brick backstop, and Murton runs to third. Meyers walks Cedeno accidentally and Jones on purpose, strikes out the next batter, and on his third pitch to Daryl Ward, manages to throw the exact same wild pitch that takes off the brick at the exact right angle, and Murton scrambles past home before the catcher can get back to the plate.
Peter's up out of the dugout before he realizes he's moving, grabbing Murton by the back of his jersey and jumping up and down in front of the dugout like an idiot, every muscle in his body alive. He knows it's just a tie for first, that it's August and teams are made in September, but still, all he can think is: first place! first place! first place!
For once, when they go out afterwards, Claude pays for the cab.
---
The thing with Claude, it only really feels dangerous during a game, when the team's up by a few runs or down by so many that it's pretty much hopeless. It's easy to go into your head, then, lose sight of the real world.
Once, while Claude's on the mound and Peter's playing second, they're playing with the infield in so close that he can almost smell Claude's sweat, and it's distracting. He starts thinking about the way Claude smells, the way he sounds, what they did the night before. It takes him a moment after Claude releases the pitch, every time, to get his head back into the game, back on what's happening.
With baseball, though, a moment is everything, anyone who says differently should talk to Bill Buckner. It only took a moment, almost a split-second to commit an error, to let a simple ground ball get between his legs, but it turned that game around, and the whole fucking city of Boston still hasn't forgiven him for it.
Peter doesn't want to get so distracted during a game that he commits that kind of error. He doesn't want to explain to Piniella that he was too busy thinking about having sex with the starting pitcher to pay attention to the game and that's how the go-ahead run ended up on base. Sweet Lou hasn't been showing his sweet side around the north side too often recently, his legendary temper hasn't exploded at full strength in months, but Peter doesn't really want to tempt that.
Peter's always a little relieved when Claude comes out in the late innings and Piniella calls in the relievers. Having Wuertz or Eyre or Howry on the mound puts a damper on those kinds of thoughts pretty fucking quickly.
---
Early August, they're playing the Sunday Night Game on ESPN against the Mets, Tom Glavine trying for the seventh time to get his 300th win as a starting pitcher.
Claude, who Peter typically considers a loyal and sane man, tries to convince Peter that everybody should just throw the game. Peter knows that Claude and Glavine played together with the Braves in the mid-90s, but when Claude goes so far as to call Glavine a mate and go on about how he's such a good guy, Peter just gets more and more confused.
Eventually he cuts Claude off and asks, "wait, wait, the only time you have nice things to say about people is when they're pitching against us?" Claude half-shrugs and Peter just gives up on making any sense out of the guy, basically ever.
In the end, it doesn't matter whether or not Peter wants to throw it, the Mets win 8-3, Glavine finally gets his win, and Alfonso Soriano, the Cubs' 136 Million Dollar Man, pulls a quad running from second to third. Piniella puts Soriano on the 15-day disabled list, but the odds aren't great on him coming back to the lineup before September.
As much as Peter wants the world to be fair, for baseball to be an absolute team effort, for one star not to make or break the whole team, having Soriano out for a month, that pretty much means they're all screwed.
---
Parkman and DL keep giving him shit about not having a girlfriend, and he's wearing out the inside of his bottom lip from biting it, keeping himself from saying anything. Every once in a while, he thinks about saying something, coming out, coming clean, whatever. Thinks about the way they'd all react. They're good guys, they wouldn't hit him or anything, but he knows they'd get uncomfortable, things would get awkward. The whole thing makes him feel like he's leading a secret double life, which is not nearly as glamorous as movies make it seem.
Peter says something about it to Claude one night, and Claude says something back that sounds suspiciously like, "that's what they all say."
It throws Peter off, the casual reference to a previous relationship. He had assumed, foolishly, that this kind of thing, being teammates and sneaking around and everything, that Claude was new to it, as well. Except, of course, Claude had taken everything in stride easily, too easily, and Peter had been thanking his luck too much to question it. Peter had been half asleep before, but he's wide awake now, asking, "how many, before me?"
Claude looks exasperated at him and says, "not your bloody father, if that's what's got you looking all bent out of shape." Peter shakes his head to clear it, but everything is still pretty muddled. Claude says, "you're what, twenty-seven? Don't tell me you've never?"
Peter says, "not with a teammate, not like this." Inside, the part of him that that acts like a 14-year-old girl is yelling, I thought this was different. Inside, the part of him that's a 26-year-old baseball player is asking, is this why he left San Francisco? Outside, Peter pretends to be falling asleep, but he's pretty sure Claude isn't buying it.
Claude props himself up on one arm, leans over Peter, and when Peter gives up on faking sleep, he opens his eyes and finds Claude just looking at him. He doesn't say anything, but his face looks unguarded in a way Peter's never seen it before. Peter recognizes the expression in his eyes, though, it's the one from the picture on his bedroom door, the expression that Claude is hiding from the rest of the world.
What Peter realizes now, that he didn't then, is that the Claude in that picture wasn't angry, or glaring, or triumphant, he was just focused. He was looking at something that, at the time, was the most important thing in the world. Except now, instead of looking at a World Series win, now, he's looking at Peter.
Peter gets it, why Claude hides his face the way he does after an inning, understands that some things are important enough that you have to hide them from everyone else. Almost everyone.
---
The first two and a half weeks in August, the Cubs drop 10 out of 14 games. It's like April and May all over again, everything that had been working just falls apart, one thing after another. When they can hit, they can't pitch, and they lose games 10-6 and 11-9. When they can pitch, they can't hit and they lose 2-1. Most of all, though, there are just games where nothing goes right, one after another, 8-3, 5-2, 8-2, 15-2. Hiro and Claude, who carried them through June and July, who were the most winning combination after the All-Star break, suddenly can't find the strike-zone with two hands and a map.
Peter's average slumps from above .300 to around .280, and nothing feels like it's going right. Every once in a while, when he's feeling most desperate, Peter thinks about punching someone, getting in a fight with Parkman, seeing if he can get something started again. Nothing like a punch-up.
DL gets called up again, in the middle of it, and Peter would be happier to have back if he wasn't so damn miserable about the whole slump. At least, though, with DL and Parkman and Claude and everyone, Peter's not drinking alone.
There's one bright spot, at least, in that as far as Chicago is skidding, Milwaukee is skidding right along with them. The Cubs hardly fall behind in the divisional race, though now the Cardinals are creeping back into it like scavengers, picking up the scent of blood.
The thing about it is, it's just horribly frustrating. Peter keeps thinking, every game, that they could have had that game, he knows they could have. Every game, if it'd been played two weeks ago, would have been an easy win, there was no real reason why they should have lost like that. He can't help but feel like they should be ten games up on Milwaukee by now, not a game and a half back.
---
Claude loses a start 6-5 against the reds, gets a no-decision or a loss for his third start in a row. All anybody from the press asks about is how Claude feels about throwing a game without striking anybody out, how he feels about giving up 13 hits in seven innings of work. Claude's been in the game too long to let the press in on what's going on in his head, mutters something about being a ground-ball pitcher, not putting too much faith in strike-outs. Peter can tell, though, that he's angry, that this loss is bothering him more than any other.
Peter isn't blameless in it, either. He made the last out of the game, hit a ball that went very nearly out of the park, but the wind wasn't with it, the legendary Wrigley wind was blowing in the wrong direction. The ball drifted down to an outfielder to end the game instead of giving the team the game-tying shot the they needed.
Peter gives Claude a ride back to his house after the game, and the ride passes in defeated silence, the lights of Chicago streaking by the window. They don't usually bring their work home with them, and in baseball, how could you, but tonight, when Claude gets out of the car and storms his way into the entry hall of the house, he's visibly agitated.
Claude says, like he's finishing an argument Peter started in the car, "I was fine on my own. My life wasn't pretty or glamorous, but I made my own rules. I was living how I wanted, before your Bennet came to find me, before the whole bloody city of Chicago brought its baggage to my door."
Claude is pacing back and forth like a caged animal, and Peter hasn't seen him this agitated since the All-Star break. It's driving Peter crazy, but he knows better than to try and get him to stop, knows it's a better idea to just let him go and he'll wear himself down, eventually. Except, Claude stops pacing for a moment and just looks at Peter, glares, and Peter realizes that Claude means him. That Claude thinks it's Peter's fault that he's losing the way he is, that it's Peter's fault he's lost velocity off his fastball or precision of his curve.
Claude says, "it's always the same old story. First sign of weakness and they jump all over you and tear you to shreds."
It's that one word, weakness, that finally gets through to Peter, gets his head sorted out well enough to respond. He says, "you don't make me weak."
Claude finally looks up at Peter without glaring, without accusations, and Peter knows what he sees. Peter knows, absolutely, that he's stronger and faster and smarter since March, since meeting Claude and starting this, whatever the hell it is. Claude slows down his pacing, just a fraction, and Peter presses his advantage, says, "I don't think I'm making you weak, I don't think that what we have here is a weakness."
Peter says, "I don't think it's a sign of weakness to trust somebody else." If Peter knows nothing else anymore, he knows that Claude trusts him. He knows because he's had to work for it, taking every inch, ever millimeter that Claude was willing to give him. He's not going to lose it, not yet, not now, when he's come so far.
Peter says, "I don't know what happened to you to make you run away like you did, before, and I know that you're not going to believe me, whatever I say here, but I want you to know that I'm stronger for having met you. For having been with you." It's out there, the only declaration of love that Peter thinks Claude is willing to accept: I don't regret you.
Peter says, "whatever happened to you then, it's not going to happen now. Whatever you think is happening with your pitching right, it's not going to last. You're gonna wake up one day and win three in a row. That's just baseball, that's just the game. This slump isn't going to last forever."
Peter says, "and you know what I think? I think we're gonna win the division. You and me and Parkman and probably DL and maybe even Ted. We're going to win this division and then we're going to win the World Series. And I know that's old hat for you, but it's not for me, and it's not routine for the city of Chicago. The Cubs have gone 99 years without winning it all, and we're going to change that. And if it's not this season, then it's going to be next year. But we're going to do it. Not because we're machines and we're perfect ball players, but because we're people and we're complicated and stupid and messy and we need each other. I need you."
He says, "Piniella and Bennet, they're giving me a chance, they're giving us all a chance. They brought you back to life. And yeah, we're a stupidly young team right now, but we've come farther than anyone could have imagined. Because they gave us a chance. That's all. Jesus, Claude, you've just got to give it a chance."
And he does.
Notes: for Heroes_BigBoom
Date: September 2007
Part 1 / Part 2
Day-to-Day
The roster for the All-Star Game comes down, and Claude is absolutely livid that he's not on it. Frankly, Peter's surprised by how much it affects him. Claude is pacing back and forth in the clubhouse, and at one point actually yells, "don't they know who I am?" and glares down at the Chicago Tribune like it's done him wrong. Peter, who had no illusions about his own chances, and wouldn't have been eligible anyway, finds himself suppressing giggles at Claude's sporadic bursts of outrage.
Parkman says, "look, you've got your name in the running for this... Monster.com vote."
Claude looks at Parkman like something he's had to scrape off the bottom of his cleats and says, "yes, except that the part of the American population that uses the internet was still in nappies when I won the fucking Cy Young four times! I'm not young, and I'm not handsome, and I'm not Derek fucking Jeter. What I am is talented, and if Tony La Russa's got his head too far up Fat Albert Pujols' arse to see that, then he's a fucking idiot."
Claude loses the special election to the rabid Padres fans, as expected, and walks around like a black cloud of anger and determination for the couple days leading up to the break. Peter thinks, nothing like a punch-up, and feels sort of sorry for the next line-up Claude's going to face.
---
Nathan's going to the All-Star Game, of course, so Peter has to call him and congratulate him. Nathan, to his credit, doesn't sound smug, and really sounds like he means it when he says he's proud of Peter. He says, "five for five, Pete, that's really something."
Peter can't always tell if Nathan's being nice or sarcastic, so he says, "shut up, how many home runs do you have now? Four hundred and what?" It's pathetic to be so complacent in Nathan's shadow for so long. Sometimes Peter finds himself desperately wishing he could exorcise the last residual traces of Nathan hero worship from his life.
Nathan chuckles and Peter can picture his huge, toothy grin as he says, "well, we can't all be as handsome and talented as I am, Pete. Some of us have just got to hit singles up the middle and get caught stealing second."
Peter hangs his head and mutters, "I do it one time in the major leagues, one time." Nathan laughs again, that strange politician's laugh he picked up from playing too long with the Yankees.
Peter casts around inside his head for something else to talk about, fixes suddenly on something he's been thinking about recently, and asks, "did you know Claude Raines? In Montreal? When we were growing up?" Claude and Nathan had been about the same age, and just because Peter can't remember Raines coming around the house, it doesn't mean it didn't happen. Peter wouldn't have known if they'd been friends, at the time; Peter had known Nathan back then about as well as he had known his father.
Peter can practically hear Nathan's jaw lock as he says, "not really," and then, "Raines and I never got along." It doesn't surprise Peter, actually. Nathan had been so angry, all the time, when he was young, so desperate to prove himself above and beyond the legacy of their father. And lord knows that Claude's always been volatile, the man could fight with a rock. When Peter thinks about it, he realizes that the two of them must have hated each other. It's funny, now, how everything's turned out.
Peter says, "he's pissed about not making the All-Star team. He should be going, Nathan. God, you should see him throw."
Nathan says, "it doesn't work like that, Peter. He can't get in now on past achievements alone. He just didn't have the numbers this year." The smugness is creeping back into Nathan's voice, the easy confidence he always has when talking about his freakishly stellar statistics. His 499 career home runs have secured him a free pass to San Francisco, even though he's on a team with a losing record, one that's trailing pathetically in their division.
Peter says, "yeah, Nathan, you're right," but the whole conversation is just reminding him that he's only ever really had two settings with Nathan: hero worship and wanting to punch him in the face.
---
Peter never knows what to do with himself over the All-Star break. Even when he gets a day off with the team, he usually just bums around his apartment watching highlights on ESPN or watching everybody else in the league play. The days before and after the All-Star break are the only days between March and October without anybody playing baseball anywhere, and Peter absolutely doesn't want to spend the day watching NASCAR or golf.
Peter spends the morning cleaning up his hotel suite, but by noon has to admit that he doesn't actually have enough stuff to have really made a mess in the first place, and gives up.
He can't call Parkman, because he's actually in a good place with Janice, for once, and Peter doesn't want to get between them. DL's out, too, because Nikki and Micah are coming up to Chicago for the weekend and doing little-kid tourist stuff, like Navy Pier and Six Flags. Peter doesn't call Hiro because he suspects Hiro's idea of fun might involve mini-golf, and he's frankly a little too frightened to ask.
Peter is basically bored out of his mind, with only one person left to call.
He has stares at the phone for half an hour and drinks a bottle of beer very quickly before he works himself up to actually dialing the number. It's the first time Peter's sought him out deliberately, instead of relying on their schedule to throw them together, and Peter's still not completely sure it's a welcome gesture.
Claude picks up saying, "yeah?" in a sort of sharp, angry way, and Peter is just about to hang up as Claude says, "you're calling a bloody cell phone, Peter, I know it's you."
Peter says, "I, um, well," and Claude laughs a short, barking laugh, and says, "you're bored and there's no baseball on the telly. Right. Come on over." Peter doesn't know whether to be relieved or even more nervous.
When he actually gets to Claude's gigantic house on the north shore, having gotten lost three times, Claude is watching something that Peter assumes is cricket on a huge television in his living room.
He hands Peter a glass of the same bitter, dark beer from the pub in New York, and half-shoves Peter down on the couch.
Peter watches the game, silently, for a few minutes, takes in the all-white uniforms, the strange underhand way the pitcher throws the ball, the oval shape of the field. But when the guy with the bat hits a ball clear over the heads of the outfielders and then just stands there, that is when Peter breaks down and asks what the hell is going on.
It takes Claude what feels like hours to explain the game, which is apparently still a few days shorter than it takes to actually play a game of cricket. By the end of it, Peter understands that you don't actually have to run when you hit the ball, but it still feels wrong.
Claude has tons of stories about being a bowler in the British equivalent of little league, almost the exact same stories Peter lived through as a kid, an ocean and a decade away. It's nice to know that some things are basically the same, no matter where you go.
After a while, Peter looks up at the screen and watches for a few minutes, really tries to pay attention and understand what's going on. He tries to fix on the things that are similar to baseball, the things that make sense, except everyone's wearing bright white and playing on what looks like somebody's front lawn and at five they break for tea. One of the announcers says, "oh, what a catch, what a throw, what a man!" and he sounds like he could be narrating Oliver Twist.
Peter looks around Claude's giant mansion on the lakefront and says to Claude, "lucky you got out when you did."
---
In the middle of July, DL gets sent back to Iowa to make room for Geovany Soto, a catcher who's hitting .341 in Des Moines. DL doesn't quite throw his stuff from his locker into his duffle bag when he's packing, but there are other ways to tell he's pissed off. Peter knows the feeling, but with DL there's nothing he can do, DL's more mad at himself than he is at anybody else. It's not the front office's fault that he's only batting .216.
Parkman starts to look nervous again, starts panicking every time he has to go out and bat. There isn't a team in the league that wants to carry three catchers down the stretch and Ando's the only one that's safe, because it's actually in Hiro's contract that Ando catches his games.
Your name gets big enough, you get the right agent, and you can get anything. Hiro's contract also states that he gets a $400,000 housing allowance, a translator, and a lifetime supply of five-toed socks. Claude is making $12.4 million just to pitch one season.
Peter gets $400,000 a year if he keeps his shit together with Chicago and $20 a day for meals back in Des Moines if he doesn't.
For him, for Parkman and DL and everybody else, there's a lot on the line every day, every game.
---
Soto gets sent down two games after he's called up, and though DL doesn't come back, Parkman stops looking so terrified, and Peter takes always takes a win where he can.
Coming back from the All-Star break, Claude is determined like Peter's never seen him. He wasn't half-assing his starts before the break or anything, but now it's like there's something inside him that's been lit on fire. Even his eyes are more defiant when they're glaring up at you over his glove.
Claude wins his first two starts after the break, becomes the first pitcher in the national league to reach 12 wins, and Peter takes him out after to celebrate. On the way there, Claude gives him the same significant look when the cabbie asks for some absurd quantity of money. Peter mutters, "twelve million dollars and you're making me pay for the taxi."
Claude swats at his shoulder as he gets out of the cab, says, "now I'm teaching you about humility."
Peter says, "yeah, well next time we're taking the fucking El."
---
Mid-July the Cubs hammer the Giants for 12 runs and Parkman gets a career-high 5 batted in. Hitting against the Giants is actually kind of fun: all you have to do is roll the ball down the left-field line towards Barry Bonds and know he doesn't care enough about the game to actually hustle after it.
After, Parkman wants to go home, but Peter strong-arms him into going out for just one drink. All night long he looks like he's working his way up to saying something, until he finally blurts out, "Janice is pregnant," in the same voice he uses to say, "I'm out of eye-black." Peter has to take a moment to decide whether this is good news or bad news.
Parkman, though, breaks into the biggest smile Peter has ever seen and catches Peter up in a giant bear-hug that lifts him up off his feet. Peter can't breathe, but when Parkman lets him up for air, he manages to choke out a weak, "congratulations."
Parkman says, "I'm going to be a father!" and looks overjoyed, enthusiastic, like a little kid himself. Then, a few seconds later, he says, "I'm going to be someone's father," in a completely different tone and has to sit down and breathe for a minute.
Peter sits down next to him and hits him on the back in what he hopes is a soothing manner. Peter says, "I have it on good authority that raising a family is actually easier than hitting a fastball. You'll do great."
---
On July 19th, Cesar Izturis is traded to the Pittsburg Pirates for cash and a player to be named later. Izturis is a decent guy and all, but Peter can't say he's sad to see him go. For Piniella, this means freeing up a spot on the 25-man roster, but for Peter this means that he's the official backup infielder. It means that Ryan can keep playing shortstop, they're not going to have three second basemen to squeeze into one infield position, they're not going to try to rehab Izturis into the shortstop they need, and they're not going to send Peter back to Iowa.
For the first time, Peter thinks about getting an apartment in Chicago.
Peter knows Ryan from way back, from playing second and short together with the LSU Tigers, and he forgoes going out with the guys to hang out with Ryan, toast their new-found job security. They don't have too much in common anymore, besides glory days stories from Louisiana. Ryan was always a little bit older, a little bit taller, his career moved a little bit faster. It's like having an older brother on the team, which would be great, except that Peter already has an older brother.
---
All of a sudden it's the middle of July and the guys on ESPN are calling the Cubs the hottest team in baseball.
Peter still can't really believe it, though. Back in March, he'd started to think that he was never going to make it at all, was just gonna stick it out one more year in Des Moines until he was a free agent. Even now, it still feels like they're getting away with something, that tomorrow Piniella will wake up and realize that he's trying to make a run for it with a half a dozen rookies and bust them all back down to Des Moines.
Talking to anybody about it feels like bad luck, Peter won't even respond to his mother when she brings it up on the phone. This leaves nothing to talk about except Nathan's 499 home runs, and Peter spends half of the conversation with the phone away from his ear, yelling back "uh-huh," and, "that's great," at what he feels are appropriate intervals. When he actually starts listening again, his mother scolds him for a few seconds, for being a jerk, but afterwards she says, with absolute conviction, that she thinks he's doing well, that it's a good team.
Peter doesn't know what to do with her for a minute, but he starts her talking again about how she doesn't like the people who are putting in the new floor in the bathroom and they're back on even footing.
---
Trading away Izturis has the downside of opening up a spot on the roster for Jake Fox from the Cubs AA affiliate, the Tennessee Smokies. Parkman gets the news, says, "not another fucking catcher," and gets even more nervous than last time. Piniella gets quoted in the paper saying that team doesn't really need three catchers down the stretch, and though Parkman may be Big Z's lucky penny, but he's still hitting well below the Mendoza line.
Parkman says, "look, they send me back down now, I get designated for assignment, I have to go through waivers. Who the hell all knows where I'll end up if that happens."
Peter knows he's living a charmed life, but it's not that charmed, it's not charmed enough to take his friends with him. Parkman looks scared and lost and Peter can't help at all, and it's tearing him up inside a little bit. He awkwardly pats Parkman on the back and understands, for the first time, that this is what Claude meant about distractions.
---
Lee starts serving his suspension for the fight with Chris Young, and Daryle Ward and Cliff Floyd both get injured in the same game, which leaves both the infield and the outfield temporarily short-handed.
Piniella shifts everybody around as best they can, but with Fox left as their only utility man, he's has to pull up a position player for a few days, and that position player ends up being Ted. It's not the greatest circumstances, filling in for a slightly injured regular doesn't mean an immediate ticket to the 40-man roster, but it's fun to pick Ted up at the bus station, show him around the locker room. It's like having a friend visit from out of town.
---
Lee's suspension ends on the 24th of July and Ted, with two strike-outs and no hits in five at bats, gets sent back to Iowa.
There's something about the Greyhound terminal that always gets Peter on a gut level. Going through this terminal, you're either having one of the happiest moments of your life, or one of your worst. Making the trip back to Des Moines is an experience Peter doesn't want to repeat, ever.
Peter drives Ted from the hotel to the terminal and the whole way out, Ted looks grayed-out and unhappy, the skin under his eyes nearly the same color as his scraggly beard. Peter can handle Ted angry, it's one of Ted's default settings, but it's harder to see him so defeated. Baseball's been the only thing giving him hope since Karen, and even then it hasn't been that much hope.
Ted says, "well, it was nice," and Pete says, "take care of yourself," and watches helplessly as the bus rolls its way out of the station.
---
Peter starts to worry about Ted a little less when the day after he gets back to Iowa, Ted gets angry and kicks a fire hydrant, hurting his right foot and putting himself on the disabled list in Des Moines.
Peter calls him that night, after he's gotten back from the hospital but before he's too loopy on pain meds to talk. Peter asks, "did it get in your way? Did it insult your mother? Do you object to that particular shade of red?"
Ted says, "no," and "shut the hell up, man."
Peter stops laughing long enough to say, "serves you right."
Ted says, "you know, Pete, no offense, but I really sort of hate you guys right now."
Peter muffles his laughter in his sleeve and Ted sighs really loud and exaggerated. Peter says, "hey, at least Chicago bought your contract," and at that, Ted finally cracks up, too.
---
Another day in July, another attempt at getting the roster right. Jake Fox gets sent back to Iowa and Parkman breathes a little easier because that means, until Blanco's shoulder is feeling healthy again, they've basically exhausted all the other third-catcher possibilities.
Matt Murton gets called up to play right field, and everybody's a little confused that it isn't DL, who's hitting great again in the minors. Peter calls him that night, says, "tough break."
DL doesn't sound like Peter expects him to, instead he says, "nah, man, it's ok."
Peter had called with every intention of talking shit about Murton, for DL's sake, even though he actually liked the guy pretty well. Instead, DL's saying, "look, I play there, I'm part-timing with Floyd, I'm not gonna be happy with that."
All Peter can think to say is, "whoa. You sound oddly mature all of a sudden." If DL was actually in the room, Peter's pretty sure he'd get punched in the arm for saying it.
DL laughs and says, "this way, I play every day and work on my swing, and in September I can come back and help you guys kick some post-season ass, alright?"
Peter says, "yeah," but he's still a little confused about DL's attitude. And then something else occurs to him, and he says, "Nikki's still in Iowa, right, 'cause she didn't want to take Micah out of school?"
DL sounds nothing but smug when he says, "I'm not saying anything you don't already know here, but my wife is a very attractive woman."
Peter says, "she is at that," and then, because they're old friends and he can say it and it's still funny, he says, "I still can't believe you married a stripper."
DL says, "fuck you, man, I'm hanging up," but Peter can hear him laughing as he does.
---
End of July, the Cubs get a day off, and Milwaukee gets swept by the Cardinals in a day-night double-header. The Cubs pick up a game and a half in the division without ever lifting a bat, closer on Milwaukee's heels than they've been all year.
Peter and Parkman watch the whole thing in Claude's living room because Claude still has the biggest TV Peter's ever seen, and Parkman's just happy to get away from a cranky and pregnant Janice for a little while.
At the end of the first game, after the Cards score three runs in the ninth to walk off with the win, Parkman says, "you know what, it's crazy, but we're this close to leading the division, we've got Milwaukee on the ropes, and now I'm starting to worry about St. Louis."
Peter knows the feeling. The Cards had a rocky start this year, but you can't ever count out the reigning World Series winner, even if they only won 83 games in the regular season last year. The Cubs know, more than anybody, that you can't judge a team in August based on what they did in April.
Claude says, "take it one game at a time, friend. That's just about all you can do."
---
Claude wins five starts in July, one right after the other. He's the first pitcher in the National League to 12 wins, to 13, to 14. On the 29th of July he throws a two-hit shut-out against Cincinnati, the Cubs rolling to an easy 6-0 win. He's leading the league in earned run average and he's on pace to be the Cubs' first 20 game winner since 2001.
The club pulls within half a game of the Brewers and everywhere Peter looks, in the clubhouse, on the streets of the north side, the whole city's holding their breath. Chicago isn't a town that's used to winning. Before the White Sox championship in 2005, the south side hadn't seen a World Series win since 1917, and the north side still hasn't brought home a trophy since 1908. The Cubs have had 99 seasons of heartbreak, everybody just sets themselves up for annual disappointment. It's gotten too hard for most fans to hold on to hope, to set yourself up every season just to get your hopes crushed again this year.
But still, Peter can feel it on the streets, in the clubhouse: a quiet hope, nothing anybody wants to talk about too loud. The feeling that finally, finally, this could be the year.
---
Peter's still covered in infield dirt, his left knee twinging a little from the ground ball he ran down in the ninth, when Paul Sullivan from the Tribune catches him in the tunnel. He went 0-for-5 with two strikeouts, but still can't help feeling stupidly giddy about the win, the weekend, the whole month of July, so when Sullivan asks him what he thinks about the team, the young bench, the pennant race, he just goes with what he's thinking.
"It's like the Braves, right? They keep bringing guys up and they keep winning. It was guys that had played together, and they kept them together throughout the whole journey and ended up winning division after division," Peter says into Sullivan's tape recorder. "I think a lot of that has to do with the comfort level with the guys next to you." Parkman walks by, swearing and rubbing at his knees every few steps. "Realistically, you're going to have to be here 162 games. You're going to have to like the people you're with, and get to know them and trust them." Claude walks by, catches Peter's eye, and Peter can feel his face heat, but hopes it just looks like he's hot and tired and worn-out.
Sullivan gives him a pointed look and he realizes he's trailed off in thought, comes back with, "yeah. And, you know, that stuff doesn't happen overnight. As you saw that with this team, it took us a little while to get to that comfort level, but once we got our mix together... You know, it's kind of a young core, minus DL, that have all been together for four, five years." He thinks of Claude sneering and saying your little gang, again, and smiles. "It makes it very rewarding."
---
Peter talks Claude into going out that night, and he says yes in that somewhat begrudging, but mostly fond way that Peter's come to know and love. The three of them go to a stupidly trendy bar in downtown Cincinnati with ridiculously expensive décor and overpriced watered-down drinks.
Everywhere Peter looks there are gorgeous, skinny women in short skirts, acres of skin on display, but all Peter can think is that Claude looks fantastic in the low light. Peter tries to pull up the usual things to remind himself it's a terrible idea: that Claude is too old for him, that Claude is friends with his mother, that Claude is better and cranky and mean. These things have held him back in the past, but they just don't hold up under the tide of emotion Peter feels when Claude deigns to smile, when he actually tips his head back and laughs at some stupid joke that Parkman's making.
Peter pours Parkman into a cab around two, decides to call Janice and apologize in the morning. He sincerely hopes that there weren't any Cubs fans with camera-phones in the bar; the Parkman marriage has enough problems on its own.
Peter talks Claude into coming back to Peter's room with him, though later he doesn't remember how, and doesn't know why Claude agrees, not really. He unlocks the door, thankful he's got a single, thankful that the key works on the first try, thankful for that girl in Arizona's advice about magnets.
Peter doesn't really understand why Claude lingers with him in the doorway, why Claude doesn't just walk back to his own suite. Peter knows what he wants, even if he hasn't let himself think about it more than in a surface way, but he's never understood why Claude does anything, anything at all. He knows, though, that sometimes Claude has this way of looking at Peter, and Claude looks oddly soft in those moments, edges smoothed out. Peter knows that he's the only one that gets to see those moments and he thinks that that those moments have to mean something.
Before he lets himself get swallowed up into the welcoming dark of his hotel room, alone, he lets himself lean in towards Claude, lets himself breathe, "come inside."
Claude asks, "what are you doing?" his voice unexpectedly soft. At the sound of Claude's voice, the look on his face, something breaks wide open inside of Peter and everything he's been pushing down rushes up the surface in a sudden wave.
Peter sways a little, light-headed and unsteady on his feet. He says, "something unexpected," pushes himself up on the balls of his feet, and kisses Claude in the shadow of the open doorway.
Claude kisses him back, hands coming up to frame Peter's face, and pushes him back into the dark room, the door falling closed behind them. The light coming in through the one window isn't enough to see by and they trip over the coffee table and bruise their shins on the couch, trying to get to the bed.
It's awkward, they're both a little drunk, but Peter just pushes on, steamrolls over Claude when he hesitates. As prickly and imposing as Claude is in everything else, with Peter, like this, he's oddly gentle, careful.
---
Peter wakes up the next morning and thinks, in quick succession: Oh my god, I slept with Claude Raines. Oh my god, I slept with Claude Raines. Oh my god, I slept with Claude Raines.
Thankfully, Claude sleeps through each one of Peter's freak-out permutations and barely changes position when Peter slinks out of the bed to go panic in the bathroom. Last night, in the dark, everything had felt simple and easy and obvious, the path clearly marked. Now, with everything lit up bright in the early morning sunlight, Peter isn't exactly sure what the hell he's doing.
He's slept with men before, in college and afterwards, but never another ballplayer and absolutely never a teammate. He doesn't even begin to know how to handle this kind of thing.
It's difficult enough trying to deal with the fact that he's slept with Claude, but more than that, everything's out in the open now. It's not just Claude he's worried about, he can't hide from himself any more. All season long. he's been keeping everything just off to the side, just out of sight, where he didn't have to think about it, or own up to anything. Now, though, that precious control that he was holding on to for dear life is just shot, just wrecked.
In the cold light of day, Peter's real problem is that he's probably in love with Claude. Claude, who's emotionally impassive, who's completely wrapped up in trust issues, who only trusted at all to start with was Peter because Peter didn't pry and didn't push. Well, Peter can pretty much count what he did last night as pushing. He just doesn't know how much Claude is going to push back.
When Peter finally talks himself out of the bathroom, Claude is up, sitting on the couch in his boxers, watching an early repeat of last night's SportsCenter. He says, cheerily, "good morning," and Peter has a moment of panic that he's actually woken up in someone else's life.
Claude, who is obviously taking this much better than Peter is, says, "I can hear the gears turning in your head, Peter, it's bloody exhausting." He tilts his head like he's daring Peter to do something about it and Peter fumbles around for something to say, off-balanced.
He ends up blurting out, "I've had a picture of you up in my room since I was 13." Claude just raises and eyebrow at him and goes back to watching TV.
Peter sits down, confused, and watches the highlights from the American League, notes absently that Nathan still hasn't hit number 500.
Claude says, "the show's gone down-hill since they really started counting NASCAR as a sport." Peter nods, tries to remember how to breathe normally, concentrates on getting his heart-rate back to steady.
Eventually, Peter pries himself off the couch and pokes his head out the door of the suite long enough to grab the Tribune he'd requested off of the fake welcome mat. Peter flips through the sports section, where there's a picture of him on page four that he has to remember to send to his mother, and he notices that Sullivan's printed his whole interview in the wrap-up.
He hands off the paper to Claude when he's done with it, hears Claude's snort of derision at his ridiculous optimism. Claude looks up at him and says, sarcastically, "very rewarding?"
This time, though, Peter knows he's right, and they've got the record to prove it.
---
Peter shows up at the clubhouse before the next game not exactly sure how he's supposed to act. Claude had gone back to his room early to get his stuff before the buses left, and in the moment before Claude had opened the door, Peter had leaned in on instinct, kissed him goodbye. Claude had said, "keep this up and I'll start thinking you've just got a thing for doorways," and left. It's only now, hours and hours later, that Peter realizes that they hadn't actually settled anything, anything at all.
Peter changes into his uniform, gets an exuberant armful of Hiro, who always hugs him for good luck before a start, and watches Parkman slink in, wearing a pair of sunglasses and looking terribly hung over. Peter remembers that he was going apologize to Janice, and he's putting together what he could possibly say that wouldn't lead to her ripping his face off, when he realizes that, basically, this day is exactly the same as any other. Peter is still fundamentally the same, and nobody else has really changed. They still have a game to play, just like any other day.
During the game, as always, Claude ignores him for the first five innings, reading Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance and pretending he's somewhere other than Wrigley Field. Half-way through the top of the fifth, after Iguchi hits a home run off of Hiro, Claude looks up from his book and says, "you know, your friend Parkman has a gift."
Peter looks where Claude's looking, and sees Parkman, sitting in the corner of the dugout, talking on his cell phone with his head in his hands and a sort of pinched expression on his face. Peter looks back at Claude, confused, and has no idea what he's talking about.
Claude says, "he gets in the batter's heads," and that, Peter gets. Parkman's the reason they stopped having Friday night poker games in Des Moines. Sometimes, though, Peter suspects that some of the other in guys in triple-A have kept it going and just stopped inviting them.
Peter's never really thought much about Parkman as a catcher, what it's like for him behind the plate. Parkman knows Peter well enough to know it's a bit over his head, and Peter doesn't try to fool himself that he understands the strange alchemy between battery-mates. Parkman doesn't really talk about how he calls a game, about why he chooses the pitches he does. Something he does has obviously impressed Claude, though; Ando used to catch all his games, but he's had better luck with Parkman since he came up. With Parkman behind the plate Claude has a 1.46 earned run average, and has only given up 26 hits in 55 innings of work.
Even Big Z, who keeps claiming to the press that he doesn't care who catches him, has been treating Parkman like his personal good luck charm ever since the All-Star break.
Peter still doesn't know what exactly happened in the dugout before Big Z tried to claw Barrett's eyes out. The people's he's asked have all said they couldn't make out what Big Z was saying, anyway, but everybody knows that Big Z was never happy with the way Barrett called pitches during a game. As much trouble as Parkman's been having at the plate with his hitting, he's had none of the problems Barrett had behind the plate.
Claude says, "shame he can't hit." Peter chokes on a swallow Gatorade, and tries to glare at Claude, but by the time Peter can breathe again, Claude's focus is back in his book.
Peter goes back to watching the game.
Hiro has been having a fantastic month, but he gets pounded by Philadelphia. He never seems to let losses get to him, though, he's always got the same sort of happy, excited outlook, no matter how the game is actually going.
After the game, as Peter's walking towards his car, he's mildly surprised to find Claude follows him. Claude says, "Give me a ride home, yeah? I never got a proper license." Which means that all this time, Claude's been taking a taxi from Wrigley to the north shore after every home game. It makes Peter's head hurt to think about how much that must cost, before he remembers that Claude is making twelve million dollars and can probably afford it.
Peter just shakes his head and says, "get in."
---
What surprises Peter the most about their change in relationship is how little actually changes. They don't talk to each other in the dugout or the clubhouse any more than they did before. Claude still ignores him during games, works his way through pretentious novels, Peter still dicks around with his friends. Outwardly, almost nothing is different, except that Peter goes home with Claude some nights, Claude comes back to Peter's hotel room some nights.
Peter still feels on-edge, like's he's getting away with something, like he's going to get caught-out at any moment. He doesn't know why he expected Claude to be more freaked out about the whole thing, the way Claude lets everything else roll of his back.
---
Peter always finds the week around the trade deadline disorienting. It's a bit like nobody is who they said they were anymore. Peter keeps seeing familiar faces in unfamiliar uniforms. It's pretty damn disorienting to watch the Cubs' pitching staff get lit up by Aaron Rowand and Tadahito Iguchi, former White Sox from the championship team. Peter keeps looking at the scoreboard and forgetting where the hell he is.
A couple of days before the deadline, DL's name starts showing up in the trade rumors. It doesn't mean a lot, not really. When Peter got traded out of Baltimore, it'd been without warning. He'd been one of the "at least two minor-leaguers" tacked onto a the Sammy Sosa deal, his name wasn't even in the leading paragraph in the local paper.
Nikki calls after the rumors show up on the internet, sounds genuinely nervous when she asks him if there's any truth to anything, if he knows anything more than they do back in Des Moines. She says, "DL won't admit to anything, you know how he is, but I know he doesn't want to go anywhere. None of us do."
Peter doesn't pretend he understands what's going on in the general manager's office, but he reassures Nikki as best he can. At least 90% of all trade rumors are absolutely untrue: Manny Ramirez is still playing for Boston, Jermaine Dye isn't going anywhere except the south side, and Peter's still waiting for that Barry Bonds deal to go through. It's is just bored sports writers stirring stuff up because they can.
The next day, Bennet is quoted in the Trib saying, basically, no way in hell. No fewer than four articles have the same basic quotes: "DL Hawkins has never been talked about," and, "he's not going anywhere in any deal," and, "there will be no trade of DL Hawkins to anyone."
Peter calls Nikki back, and all she says is, "never mind." He can hear DL asking something in the distance, right before he hears Nikki say, "wrong number," and hang up. Sometimes Peter wonders about their trust issues.
---
Everybody's nervous on trade day anyway. Parkman spends the morning at the Holy Trinity Lutheran Church down Addison, and Peter only ever sees Parkman near religion when he's worried about baseball. Peter tries to take the Tribune to heart, tries to believe all the articles about how Piniella's not worried, Bennet's not worried, how they want to keep a winning team like this together. That doesn't mean he doesn't find himself on July 31st chewing on his thumbnail, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and hoping the phone doesn't ring before three.
All morning, Bennet's office remains blissfully silent.
Peter finds out later from the Tribune, source of all important and interesting information, that during the hour leading up to the deadline, Piniella was getting a massage in his office.
---
The game after nobody gets traded anywhere, the Cubs beat the Phillies 7-3 and Peter punches in a pinch-hit RBI. After the game, some reporter says the Milwaukee game is still going on into extra innings, and by some unspoken agreement, everybody meets up in a local bar to watch the rest of it.
If Milwaukee loses, that puts the Cubs up into a first place tie, into contention for the first time in a long, long time. The Mets have already blown Tom Glavine's chance at getting 300 wins, and they blow perfectly good opportunities to score any time they get a man on base. The whole bar shouts themselves horse yelling at the TV when the Mets fail again! to get a man across home plate. Even Claude, calmed by his World Series rings and years and years of experience, gets into the spirit of the thing, muttering under his breath, "don't you people learn how to bunt anymore?"
The fight goes out of the whole bar when the Mets give up a 2-run homer in the bottom of the thirteenth, and the bartender wisely turns the TV back to SportsNite before they show too much of the Brewers post-game celebration.
Claude shakes his head at the whole thing and Parkman curses a blue streak between swigs of Miller Lite.
Peter is undaunted, though. He says, "we'll get 'em tomorrow, or we'll get 'em next week, but good fucking god, we're gonna get them soon."
---
The Cubs catch the Brewers the next day.
It's a 4-4 tie going into the bottom of the ninth and everyone is more or less resigned to extra innings until Murton hits a double into center. Meyers, the Phillies reliever, heaves a wild pitch past the catcher that takes an ugly bounce off the brick backstop, and Murton runs to third. Meyers walks Cedeno accidentally and Jones on purpose, strikes out the next batter, and on his third pitch to Daryl Ward, manages to throw the exact same wild pitch that takes off the brick at the exact right angle, and Murton scrambles past home before the catcher can get back to the plate.
Peter's up out of the dugout before he realizes he's moving, grabbing Murton by the back of his jersey and jumping up and down in front of the dugout like an idiot, every muscle in his body alive. He knows it's just a tie for first, that it's August and teams are made in September, but still, all he can think is: first place! first place! first place!
For once, when they go out afterwards, Claude pays for the cab.
---
The thing with Claude, it only really feels dangerous during a game, when the team's up by a few runs or down by so many that it's pretty much hopeless. It's easy to go into your head, then, lose sight of the real world.
Once, while Claude's on the mound and Peter's playing second, they're playing with the infield in so close that he can almost smell Claude's sweat, and it's distracting. He starts thinking about the way Claude smells, the way he sounds, what they did the night before. It takes him a moment after Claude releases the pitch, every time, to get his head back into the game, back on what's happening.
With baseball, though, a moment is everything, anyone who says differently should talk to Bill Buckner. It only took a moment, almost a split-second to commit an error, to let a simple ground ball get between his legs, but it turned that game around, and the whole fucking city of Boston still hasn't forgiven him for it.
Peter doesn't want to get so distracted during a game that he commits that kind of error. He doesn't want to explain to Piniella that he was too busy thinking about having sex with the starting pitcher to pay attention to the game and that's how the go-ahead run ended up on base. Sweet Lou hasn't been showing his sweet side around the north side too often recently, his legendary temper hasn't exploded at full strength in months, but Peter doesn't really want to tempt that.
Peter's always a little relieved when Claude comes out in the late innings and Piniella calls in the relievers. Having Wuertz or Eyre or Howry on the mound puts a damper on those kinds of thoughts pretty fucking quickly.
---
Early August, they're playing the Sunday Night Game on ESPN against the Mets, Tom Glavine trying for the seventh time to get his 300th win as a starting pitcher.
Claude, who Peter typically considers a loyal and sane man, tries to convince Peter that everybody should just throw the game. Peter knows that Claude and Glavine played together with the Braves in the mid-90s, but when Claude goes so far as to call Glavine a mate and go on about how he's such a good guy, Peter just gets more and more confused.
Eventually he cuts Claude off and asks, "wait, wait, the only time you have nice things to say about people is when they're pitching against us?" Claude half-shrugs and Peter just gives up on making any sense out of the guy, basically ever.
In the end, it doesn't matter whether or not Peter wants to throw it, the Mets win 8-3, Glavine finally gets his win, and Alfonso Soriano, the Cubs' 136 Million Dollar Man, pulls a quad running from second to third. Piniella puts Soriano on the 15-day disabled list, but the odds aren't great on him coming back to the lineup before September.
As much as Peter wants the world to be fair, for baseball to be an absolute team effort, for one star not to make or break the whole team, having Soriano out for a month, that pretty much means they're all screwed.
---
Parkman and DL keep giving him shit about not having a girlfriend, and he's wearing out the inside of his bottom lip from biting it, keeping himself from saying anything. Every once in a while, he thinks about saying something, coming out, coming clean, whatever. Thinks about the way they'd all react. They're good guys, they wouldn't hit him or anything, but he knows they'd get uncomfortable, things would get awkward. The whole thing makes him feel like he's leading a secret double life, which is not nearly as glamorous as movies make it seem.
Peter says something about it to Claude one night, and Claude says something back that sounds suspiciously like, "that's what they all say."
It throws Peter off, the casual reference to a previous relationship. He had assumed, foolishly, that this kind of thing, being teammates and sneaking around and everything, that Claude was new to it, as well. Except, of course, Claude had taken everything in stride easily, too easily, and Peter had been thanking his luck too much to question it. Peter had been half asleep before, but he's wide awake now, asking, "how many, before me?"
Claude looks exasperated at him and says, "not your bloody father, if that's what's got you looking all bent out of shape." Peter shakes his head to clear it, but everything is still pretty muddled. Claude says, "you're what, twenty-seven? Don't tell me you've never?"
Peter says, "not with a teammate, not like this." Inside, the part of him that that acts like a 14-year-old girl is yelling, I thought this was different. Inside, the part of him that's a 26-year-old baseball player is asking, is this why he left San Francisco? Outside, Peter pretends to be falling asleep, but he's pretty sure Claude isn't buying it.
Claude props himself up on one arm, leans over Peter, and when Peter gives up on faking sleep, he opens his eyes and finds Claude just looking at him. He doesn't say anything, but his face looks unguarded in a way Peter's never seen it before. Peter recognizes the expression in his eyes, though, it's the one from the picture on his bedroom door, the expression that Claude is hiding from the rest of the world.
What Peter realizes now, that he didn't then, is that the Claude in that picture wasn't angry, or glaring, or triumphant, he was just focused. He was looking at something that, at the time, was the most important thing in the world. Except now, instead of looking at a World Series win, now, he's looking at Peter.
Peter gets it, why Claude hides his face the way he does after an inning, understands that some things are important enough that you have to hide them from everyone else. Almost everyone.
---
The first two and a half weeks in August, the Cubs drop 10 out of 14 games. It's like April and May all over again, everything that had been working just falls apart, one thing after another. When they can hit, they can't pitch, and they lose games 10-6 and 11-9. When they can pitch, they can't hit and they lose 2-1. Most of all, though, there are just games where nothing goes right, one after another, 8-3, 5-2, 8-2, 15-2. Hiro and Claude, who carried them through June and July, who were the most winning combination after the All-Star break, suddenly can't find the strike-zone with two hands and a map.
Peter's average slumps from above .300 to around .280, and nothing feels like it's going right. Every once in a while, when he's feeling most desperate, Peter thinks about punching someone, getting in a fight with Parkman, seeing if he can get something started again. Nothing like a punch-up.
DL gets called up again, in the middle of it, and Peter would be happier to have back if he wasn't so damn miserable about the whole slump. At least, though, with DL and Parkman and Claude and everyone, Peter's not drinking alone.
There's one bright spot, at least, in that as far as Chicago is skidding, Milwaukee is skidding right along with them. The Cubs hardly fall behind in the divisional race, though now the Cardinals are creeping back into it like scavengers, picking up the scent of blood.
The thing about it is, it's just horribly frustrating. Peter keeps thinking, every game, that they could have had that game, he knows they could have. Every game, if it'd been played two weeks ago, would have been an easy win, there was no real reason why they should have lost like that. He can't help but feel like they should be ten games up on Milwaukee by now, not a game and a half back.
---
Claude loses a start 6-5 against the reds, gets a no-decision or a loss for his third start in a row. All anybody from the press asks about is how Claude feels about throwing a game without striking anybody out, how he feels about giving up 13 hits in seven innings of work. Claude's been in the game too long to let the press in on what's going on in his head, mutters something about being a ground-ball pitcher, not putting too much faith in strike-outs. Peter can tell, though, that he's angry, that this loss is bothering him more than any other.
Peter isn't blameless in it, either. He made the last out of the game, hit a ball that went very nearly out of the park, but the wind wasn't with it, the legendary Wrigley wind was blowing in the wrong direction. The ball drifted down to an outfielder to end the game instead of giving the team the game-tying shot the they needed.
Peter gives Claude a ride back to his house after the game, and the ride passes in defeated silence, the lights of Chicago streaking by the window. They don't usually bring their work home with them, and in baseball, how could you, but tonight, when Claude gets out of the car and storms his way into the entry hall of the house, he's visibly agitated.
Claude says, like he's finishing an argument Peter started in the car, "I was fine on my own. My life wasn't pretty or glamorous, but I made my own rules. I was living how I wanted, before your Bennet came to find me, before the whole bloody city of Chicago brought its baggage to my door."
Claude is pacing back and forth like a caged animal, and Peter hasn't seen him this agitated since the All-Star break. It's driving Peter crazy, but he knows better than to try and get him to stop, knows it's a better idea to just let him go and he'll wear himself down, eventually. Except, Claude stops pacing for a moment and just looks at Peter, glares, and Peter realizes that Claude means him. That Claude thinks it's Peter's fault that he's losing the way he is, that it's Peter's fault he's lost velocity off his fastball or precision of his curve.
Claude says, "it's always the same old story. First sign of weakness and they jump all over you and tear you to shreds."
It's that one word, weakness, that finally gets through to Peter, gets his head sorted out well enough to respond. He says, "you don't make me weak."
Claude finally looks up at Peter without glaring, without accusations, and Peter knows what he sees. Peter knows, absolutely, that he's stronger and faster and smarter since March, since meeting Claude and starting this, whatever the hell it is. Claude slows down his pacing, just a fraction, and Peter presses his advantage, says, "I don't think I'm making you weak, I don't think that what we have here is a weakness."
Peter says, "I don't think it's a sign of weakness to trust somebody else." If Peter knows nothing else anymore, he knows that Claude trusts him. He knows because he's had to work for it, taking every inch, ever millimeter that Claude was willing to give him. He's not going to lose it, not yet, not now, when he's come so far.
Peter says, "I don't know what happened to you to make you run away like you did, before, and I know that you're not going to believe me, whatever I say here, but I want you to know that I'm stronger for having met you. For having been with you." It's out there, the only declaration of love that Peter thinks Claude is willing to accept: I don't regret you.
Peter says, "whatever happened to you then, it's not going to happen now. Whatever you think is happening with your pitching right, it's not going to last. You're gonna wake up one day and win three in a row. That's just baseball, that's just the game. This slump isn't going to last forever."
Peter says, "and you know what I think? I think we're gonna win the division. You and me and Parkman and probably DL and maybe even Ted. We're going to win this division and then we're going to win the World Series. And I know that's old hat for you, but it's not for me, and it's not routine for the city of Chicago. The Cubs have gone 99 years without winning it all, and we're going to change that. And if it's not this season, then it's going to be next year. But we're going to do it. Not because we're machines and we're perfect ball players, but because we're people and we're complicated and stupid and messy and we need each other. I need you."
He says, "Piniella and Bennet, they're giving me a chance, they're giving us all a chance. They brought you back to life. And yeah, we're a stupidly young team right now, but we've come farther than anyone could have imagined. Because they gave us a chance. That's all. Jesus, Claude, you've just got to give it a chance."
And he does.