Er. Boonecest, actually.
Right then. This is for kibosh, who is an inspiration to us all. It is also for rhoddlet because she puts up with my Andy love and told me this didn't suck. I debated whether I should friends-lock this or not, and I'm going to only because Rhod sufficiently freaked me out about actual ballplayers finding my p0rn. Eek!
Jorge/Andy, Aaron/Bret is what you'll find within.
is our season over? / no four leaf clover / i feel it's getting colder now that it's late fall /
can you still remember april to november? / you and i were members of the best team in baseball - Ozma
Shiver in the Dark
Rated R. Feedback ownz me.
When it starts raining hard and the field is so huge that home runs look impossible, no one likes a hotshot young pitcher who looks likely to pick up your wife in some redneck bar and not apologize for it later. Who, if he shows any remorse at all, will only be sorry that he didn’t get a chance to take her for a test run. It is at that point, when your team has been walked, hit with 90 mile an hour curveballs, and struck out a fair number of times, that it does not really help that a shit load of people have seen your wife’s tits on the glossy pages of a magazine, especially since there is a possibility that the shmuck on the mound has seen them too.
--
Sometimes when Aaron makes errors it’s because he’s thinking about Laura. He knows his head should be in the game, and he knows he really cannot mess up anymore, but- he starts thinking about Laura, he cannot stop himself. Aaron married a Playboy model for the obvious perks, and then remembered that half of America had seen her breasts for first time exactly when he did. Or maybe even before. Sometimes it’s a turn-on, sometimes it’s the worst thing in the world because whoever the guy standing on home plate is, there’s the off-chance he’s seen your wife naked. And if he reads the stupid little question and answer Playboy does with their models, then he knows Laura loves the scent of vanilla and that her life ambition is, apparently, “to have lots and lots of babies.”
Aaron did not realize until after he and Laura were married that he was going to have to share the wealth. He didn’t realize that his delicate, blond, 5’5” wife had belonged to the perverts who masturbated above her picture long before she belonged to him. He can usually manage to forget for a while, at least until baseballs are flying in his direction, and he is momentarily distracted by the looming mental image of Laura’s breasts. They hit him like a fast ball to the shoulder.
When Aaron goes home to her, he does not always want to touch her. Her breasts upset him. They throw off his game. Their tanned roundness perched above her slim waist looks strange and too perfect to him. He gets annoyed at how pert they are. Laura feels so public. When he says no, or feigns tiredness, Laura pouts and sprays vanilla around their bedroom, but what she doesn’t realize is that vanilla is her turn-on. It only makes Aaron feel nauseous.
--
Bret had been jealous or at least aware for about five minutes and Aaron had been blissfully happy. She was Miss October, right? Bret had asked and Aaron had nodded yes with one of his sheepish grins and a lowered glance. Won’t Dad be surprised, Bert had said and then Aaron stopped grinning.
What? Bret had put a hand on Aaron’s shoulder and laughed, pressed down a little too hard-brotherly, brotherly. Aren’t I allowed to kid around with you?
--
When the Yankees go to Florida, Aaron is happy because he leaves Laura in New York with a few of her girlfriends and a promise to call when his plane sets down, and before the game, and after the game, and before he goes to sleep. He promises, promises, promises and leaves Laura with a kiss and a farewell nod to her breasts that she does not notice.
--
Florida is hot and even though they all have spring training in the sunshine state, no one is ready for the humidity after playing in New England for so long. When the air hits them for the first time, Derek says something about the old people being kept alive down here only because they live in a giant humidor.
“Like cigars, man, like cigars,” Bernie says.
Everyone laughs and Aaron pushes a hand through his hair. It sticks up and stays that way. His hat is somewhere at the bottom of his carry-on. Aaron is no stranger to hat-head.
On their way to the bus that is going to take them to the hotel, Derek sidles up to him, luggage in hand, and smiles slyly.
“Ready for the game, Boonie?” he asks, and ruffles Aaron’s hair like a playful uncle.
“Sure am,” Aaron answers neutrally.
He’s older than Derek. Derek doesn’t care. Derek sleeps with starlets; occasionally he sleeps with Jorge, but only in the off season. Aaron found that out by mistake, he’s kept his mouth shut, though. Still, when Aaron isn’t careful, he almost finds himself looking up to Derek-the prodigal son of the Bronx Bombers. Aaron certainly likes him well enough.
--
Baseball reminds Aaron of his family; because like some families have legacies of oil or steel, his has a firm grasp on cork and pigskin. There’s something dangerous about a family of boys bred on dreams and the magic of the game.
“Bret will be a ballplayer, like his dad,” Aaron’s father, Bob, used to say on the rare occasions they had dinner as a family. He would swell up with arrogant, fatherly pride, and Aaron would sink into his chair thinking, what about me, dad? What do you think I’ll be?
Bret though, Bret told Aaron he would be a ballplayer too, and even though Bret laughed at him when he tripped over his own feet, or fumbled a catch, Aaron always believed him.
--
At the hotel in Miami, Aaron rooms with Alfonso Soriano, because they get along pretty well. Sori has a bright smile and a lot of comfortable silence behind those perfect teeth.
Only recently has Aaron become accustomed to this playing for the Yankees thing, but Soriano was sweet to him right off. So Aaron stays with Soriano and they settle into their twin-bedded hotel room late in the afternoon.
--
During the summer of 1986, Bob was still playing in the Majors, Bret and Aaron were sharing a room, and Aaron finally learned how much older his brother actually was. Matthew, age five, had usurped Aaron’s room years ago, and no one seemed to care that Bret was always kicking him out of theirs. They had bunk beds, of course. Bunk beds, blue walls, and more baseball memorabilia than should be legal.
When Bret came home at night, Aaron would already be asleep, or pretending to sleep. It didn’t rain all that often during the year, so when it did Aaron kept the windows open to hear it fall. He listened for Bret’s car late into the night, and when he heard the garage open, he pulled the thin top sheet up to his chin and slit his eyes at the door of their bedroom.
Aaron was thirteen, Bret 17, and it was always the same.
“You smell like beer,” Aaron said.
“Yeah, don’t tell mom, okay? She’d flip out.”
“S’not like she doesn’t know.”
“Whatever, Arnie. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Bret smirked at him in the dark.
Aaron was almost taller than Bret, but where Aaron was all skin and bones and long, long limbs, Bret was stocky, maybe stronger. Aaron still thought he could kick his ass if he really wanted to. He didn’t have to let Bret talk down to him, even if Bret was older. And a better ballplayer.
“I can be up,” Aaron answered, and scowled.
“Oh-kaaay,” Bret said, and started to shuck off his clothing. Aaron watched while he pulled down his jeans and threw the dumb, beat-up jacket he insisted on wearing despite the heat over his desk chair.
Aaron sat up in bed and leaned against the wall. He could see Bret moving around in the dark and he could hear the rain outside the window. The lights from the houses across the way cast Bret’s shadow across the floor and lit his face only slightly. He had acne. Aaron could see it.
“Where did you go tonight?” he asked.
“None of your business,” Bret said and left to go brush his teeth and do whatever else he did before he went to sleep. Aaron stayed sitting up and waited.
When Bret came back, he said, “C’mon, tell me about your night. Were there any girls?” It came out like a whine.
“There are always girls.”
“It isn’t fair.” Aaron crossed his arms over his chest and Bret climbed up onto his bed. He put a big hand on Aaron’s sheet covered leg.
“Girls are just a load of problems,” Bret said, and shrugged. His hand squeezed Aaron’s knee.
“Girls aren’t a problem when they’re blowing you,” Aaron snorted.
“You’re just a kid. You’re not supposed to know about stuff like that,” Bret said, and moved so that he was sitting at the end of Aaron’s bed and so that his legs were on either side of Aaron’s, holding them still.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“You bet I am,” Bret said, and tapped his fingers on Aaron’s shins. “What do you say?”
“No,” Aaron said. He squirmed and Bret squeezed his legs together. “I don’t wanna.”
“Sure you don’t,” Bret said after a moment.
Aaron looked down at the sheets and at his hands. In the dark, Bret’s legs looked thick and too tan. He gulped in air.
The next morning, Bret said he had to be quieter. “You don’t want to wake Mom, do you?”
--
During the rain delay, Aaron sits with Sori and Derek. They don’t really talk much. Even though Moose is pitching, everyone can see that Andy’s nerves are getting the better of him. He marches back and forth in the dugout and drinks cup after cup of Gatorade.
Derek shakes his head. “No one gets Andy,” he says. “Can’t tell if he’s more nervous when he’s pitching or when he isn’t.
Andy sits down and counts the number of shoes in the dugout. He counts the number of sections in the stadium. He starts talking.
“I’m tense,” he says. “I’m so fucking tense. Tense, man.” It’s directed at no one in particular, but Aaron sees Jorge Posada look up.
Aaron certainly doesn’t get Andy. He doesn’t get Jorge either, but he trusts him. He really, really trusts him. Jorge is kind of grounding. Kind of matronly. Takes a lot to be a catcher, Aaron thinks. My father was a catcher. The rain delay has taken ten minutes already. It’s coming down damn hard. Aaron leans his head back on the bench. He still likes the sound of rain. Andy keeps talking.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says, and buries his head in his hands, starts rocking on his ass.
Finally, Joe T. looks up and nods at Jorge, who takes it as his cue to go to Andy Pettitte, to talk him down. To do something. Aaron watches Jorge walk him back into the clubhouse, his hands on Andy’s shoulders.
They come back just as the rain is slowing down. Andy is humming one of those gospel tunes he likes. Jorge is wiping his lips.
Steadily, steadily, Aaron is getting used to this sort of thing. The announcers called the Yankees baseball royalty. Royalty, Aaron figures, is always a little fucked.
--
Aaron and Bret used to play baseball in the street like good old-fashioned American kids and if their father were around, he’d give a fiver to any kid who broke a window at least 300 feet away. That’s a homerun, he would say, and almost smile. They never really broke windows.
And Bret stopped letting Aaron play after a while any way.
--
The bus is quiet on the way back to the hotel, even though they’ve won. Andy falls asleep and Derek spends the ride talking on his cell phone to some girl. The rest of the team either sleeps, or talks about the Marlins and Florida and why Josh Beckett could have kicked their asses single-handedly. Aaron thinks about calling Laura.
Next to him, Sori is brooding about flubbed-up plays, and trying to explain why he just cannot seem to hit the ball any more.
--
Aaron opens the windows in his and Sori’s hotel room in case it rains again. He brushes his teeth and crawls under the sterilized hotel room sheets in his boxers. Sori crashes down next to him.
“Tonight was weird,” Aaron says with some conviction, but little understanding of exactly what he means.
“Yeah,” Sori says, “I think I know what you mean.”
Aaron sighs. The series is almost over and the weight that settled on his chest at some point in his childhood hasn’t let up yet. He thinks they’re going to lose this World Series. His only World Series.
“I’m not going to be able to sleep,” he says.
“Think about that pretty wife you’ve got,” Sori says with a grin, then his expression turns serious. “Think of a new ring on those knuckles.” He pats Aaron’s hand.
“Yeah,” Aaron says. “Yeah.”
Rain starts to fall late in the night, and Aaron lies awake listening to it. He looks over at Sori, who is splayed out across the sheets and snoring. He likes Sori. Likes him a lot. He thinks about Laura who never heard from him, and Bret who is probably at home in California. Aaron wishes he were home. He wishes he were asleep.
They have another game tomorrow night.
End
Note: The title comes from the song "Sultans of Swing" by Dire Straits, which is a great song. I realize that this piece is sort of disjointed and I want to apologize for the tenses, in case they are really messed up. I think there could be several stories in one here and I need to work further on it, but for now it's done. Aaron was born in '73, Bret in '69-- I think I may have messed up their ages here, but I hope not.
Obviously, Aaron Boone and Bret probably never had any sort of sexual relationship, and I doubt Jorge and Derek are having sex. Andy and Jorge, on the other hand... Consider this a disclaimer. RPS makes me f-ing nervous, man.
All right, All right, I'm done quibbling.
Jorge/Andy, Aaron/Bret is what you'll find within.
is our season over? / no four leaf clover / i feel it's getting colder now that it's late fall /
can you still remember april to november? / you and i were members of the best team in baseball - Ozma
Shiver in the Dark
Rated R. Feedback ownz me.
When it starts raining hard and the field is so huge that home runs look impossible, no one likes a hotshot young pitcher who looks likely to pick up your wife in some redneck bar and not apologize for it later. Who, if he shows any remorse at all, will only be sorry that he didn’t get a chance to take her for a test run. It is at that point, when your team has been walked, hit with 90 mile an hour curveballs, and struck out a fair number of times, that it does not really help that a shit load of people have seen your wife’s tits on the glossy pages of a magazine, especially since there is a possibility that the shmuck on the mound has seen them too.
--
Sometimes when Aaron makes errors it’s because he’s thinking about Laura. He knows his head should be in the game, and he knows he really cannot mess up anymore, but- he starts thinking about Laura, he cannot stop himself. Aaron married a Playboy model for the obvious perks, and then remembered that half of America had seen her breasts for first time exactly when he did. Or maybe even before. Sometimes it’s a turn-on, sometimes it’s the worst thing in the world because whoever the guy standing on home plate is, there’s the off-chance he’s seen your wife naked. And if he reads the stupid little question and answer Playboy does with their models, then he knows Laura loves the scent of vanilla and that her life ambition is, apparently, “to have lots and lots of babies.”
Aaron did not realize until after he and Laura were married that he was going to have to share the wealth. He didn’t realize that his delicate, blond, 5’5” wife had belonged to the perverts who masturbated above her picture long before she belonged to him. He can usually manage to forget for a while, at least until baseballs are flying in his direction, and he is momentarily distracted by the looming mental image of Laura’s breasts. They hit him like a fast ball to the shoulder.
When Aaron goes home to her, he does not always want to touch her. Her breasts upset him. They throw off his game. Their tanned roundness perched above her slim waist looks strange and too perfect to him. He gets annoyed at how pert they are. Laura feels so public. When he says no, or feigns tiredness, Laura pouts and sprays vanilla around their bedroom, but what she doesn’t realize is that vanilla is her turn-on. It only makes Aaron feel nauseous.
--
Bret had been jealous or at least aware for about five minutes and Aaron had been blissfully happy. She was Miss October, right? Bret had asked and Aaron had nodded yes with one of his sheepish grins and a lowered glance. Won’t Dad be surprised, Bert had said and then Aaron stopped grinning.
What? Bret had put a hand on Aaron’s shoulder and laughed, pressed down a little too hard-brotherly, brotherly. Aren’t I allowed to kid around with you?
--
When the Yankees go to Florida, Aaron is happy because he leaves Laura in New York with a few of her girlfriends and a promise to call when his plane sets down, and before the game, and after the game, and before he goes to sleep. He promises, promises, promises and leaves Laura with a kiss and a farewell nod to her breasts that she does not notice.
--
Florida is hot and even though they all have spring training in the sunshine state, no one is ready for the humidity after playing in New England for so long. When the air hits them for the first time, Derek says something about the old people being kept alive down here only because they live in a giant humidor.
“Like cigars, man, like cigars,” Bernie says.
Everyone laughs and Aaron pushes a hand through his hair. It sticks up and stays that way. His hat is somewhere at the bottom of his carry-on. Aaron is no stranger to hat-head.
On their way to the bus that is going to take them to the hotel, Derek sidles up to him, luggage in hand, and smiles slyly.
“Ready for the game, Boonie?” he asks, and ruffles Aaron’s hair like a playful uncle.
“Sure am,” Aaron answers neutrally.
He’s older than Derek. Derek doesn’t care. Derek sleeps with starlets; occasionally he sleeps with Jorge, but only in the off season. Aaron found that out by mistake, he’s kept his mouth shut, though. Still, when Aaron isn’t careful, he almost finds himself looking up to Derek-the prodigal son of the Bronx Bombers. Aaron certainly likes him well enough.
--
Baseball reminds Aaron of his family; because like some families have legacies of oil or steel, his has a firm grasp on cork and pigskin. There’s something dangerous about a family of boys bred on dreams and the magic of the game.
“Bret will be a ballplayer, like his dad,” Aaron’s father, Bob, used to say on the rare occasions they had dinner as a family. He would swell up with arrogant, fatherly pride, and Aaron would sink into his chair thinking, what about me, dad? What do you think I’ll be?
Bret though, Bret told Aaron he would be a ballplayer too, and even though Bret laughed at him when he tripped over his own feet, or fumbled a catch, Aaron always believed him.
--
At the hotel in Miami, Aaron rooms with Alfonso Soriano, because they get along pretty well. Sori has a bright smile and a lot of comfortable silence behind those perfect teeth.
Only recently has Aaron become accustomed to this playing for the Yankees thing, but Soriano was sweet to him right off. So Aaron stays with Soriano and they settle into their twin-bedded hotel room late in the afternoon.
--
During the summer of 1986, Bob was still playing in the Majors, Bret and Aaron were sharing a room, and Aaron finally learned how much older his brother actually was. Matthew, age five, had usurped Aaron’s room years ago, and no one seemed to care that Bret was always kicking him out of theirs. They had bunk beds, of course. Bunk beds, blue walls, and more baseball memorabilia than should be legal.
When Bret came home at night, Aaron would already be asleep, or pretending to sleep. It didn’t rain all that often during the year, so when it did Aaron kept the windows open to hear it fall. He listened for Bret’s car late into the night, and when he heard the garage open, he pulled the thin top sheet up to his chin and slit his eyes at the door of their bedroom.
Aaron was thirteen, Bret 17, and it was always the same.
“You smell like beer,” Aaron said.
“Yeah, don’t tell mom, okay? She’d flip out.”
“S’not like she doesn’t know.”
“Whatever, Arnie. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Bret smirked at him in the dark.
Aaron was almost taller than Bret, but where Aaron was all skin and bones and long, long limbs, Bret was stocky, maybe stronger. Aaron still thought he could kick his ass if he really wanted to. He didn’t have to let Bret talk down to him, even if Bret was older. And a better ballplayer.
“I can be up,” Aaron answered, and scowled.
“Oh-kaaay,” Bret said, and started to shuck off his clothing. Aaron watched while he pulled down his jeans and threw the dumb, beat-up jacket he insisted on wearing despite the heat over his desk chair.
Aaron sat up in bed and leaned against the wall. He could see Bret moving around in the dark and he could hear the rain outside the window. The lights from the houses across the way cast Bret’s shadow across the floor and lit his face only slightly. He had acne. Aaron could see it.
“Where did you go tonight?” he asked.
“None of your business,” Bret said and left to go brush his teeth and do whatever else he did before he went to sleep. Aaron stayed sitting up and waited.
When Bret came back, he said, “C’mon, tell me about your night. Were there any girls?” It came out like a whine.
“There are always girls.”
“It isn’t fair.” Aaron crossed his arms over his chest and Bret climbed up onto his bed. He put a big hand on Aaron’s sheet covered leg.
“Girls are just a load of problems,” Bret said, and shrugged. His hand squeezed Aaron’s knee.
“Girls aren’t a problem when they’re blowing you,” Aaron snorted.
“You’re just a kid. You’re not supposed to know about stuff like that,” Bret said, and moved so that he was sitting at the end of Aaron’s bed and so that his legs were on either side of Aaron’s, holding them still.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“You bet I am,” Bret said, and tapped his fingers on Aaron’s shins. “What do you say?”
“No,” Aaron said. He squirmed and Bret squeezed his legs together. “I don’t wanna.”
“Sure you don’t,” Bret said after a moment.
Aaron looked down at the sheets and at his hands. In the dark, Bret’s legs looked thick and too tan. He gulped in air.
The next morning, Bret said he had to be quieter. “You don’t want to wake Mom, do you?”
--
During the rain delay, Aaron sits with Sori and Derek. They don’t really talk much. Even though Moose is pitching, everyone can see that Andy’s nerves are getting the better of him. He marches back and forth in the dugout and drinks cup after cup of Gatorade.
Derek shakes his head. “No one gets Andy,” he says. “Can’t tell if he’s more nervous when he’s pitching or when he isn’t.
Andy sits down and counts the number of shoes in the dugout. He counts the number of sections in the stadium. He starts talking.
“I’m tense,” he says. “I’m so fucking tense. Tense, man.” It’s directed at no one in particular, but Aaron sees Jorge Posada look up.
Aaron certainly doesn’t get Andy. He doesn’t get Jorge either, but he trusts him. He really, really trusts him. Jorge is kind of grounding. Kind of matronly. Takes a lot to be a catcher, Aaron thinks. My father was a catcher. The rain delay has taken ten minutes already. It’s coming down damn hard. Aaron leans his head back on the bench. He still likes the sound of rain. Andy keeps talking.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says, and buries his head in his hands, starts rocking on his ass.
Finally, Joe T. looks up and nods at Jorge, who takes it as his cue to go to Andy Pettitte, to talk him down. To do something. Aaron watches Jorge walk him back into the clubhouse, his hands on Andy’s shoulders.
They come back just as the rain is slowing down. Andy is humming one of those gospel tunes he likes. Jorge is wiping his lips.
Steadily, steadily, Aaron is getting used to this sort of thing. The announcers called the Yankees baseball royalty. Royalty, Aaron figures, is always a little fucked.
--
Aaron and Bret used to play baseball in the street like good old-fashioned American kids and if their father were around, he’d give a fiver to any kid who broke a window at least 300 feet away. That’s a homerun, he would say, and almost smile. They never really broke windows.
And Bret stopped letting Aaron play after a while any way.
--
The bus is quiet on the way back to the hotel, even though they’ve won. Andy falls asleep and Derek spends the ride talking on his cell phone to some girl. The rest of the team either sleeps, or talks about the Marlins and Florida and why Josh Beckett could have kicked their asses single-handedly. Aaron thinks about calling Laura.
Next to him, Sori is brooding about flubbed-up plays, and trying to explain why he just cannot seem to hit the ball any more.
--
Aaron opens the windows in his and Sori’s hotel room in case it rains again. He brushes his teeth and crawls under the sterilized hotel room sheets in his boxers. Sori crashes down next to him.
“Tonight was weird,” Aaron says with some conviction, but little understanding of exactly what he means.
“Yeah,” Sori says, “I think I know what you mean.”
Aaron sighs. The series is almost over and the weight that settled on his chest at some point in his childhood hasn’t let up yet. He thinks they’re going to lose this World Series. His only World Series.
“I’m not going to be able to sleep,” he says.
“Think about that pretty wife you’ve got,” Sori says with a grin, then his expression turns serious. “Think of a new ring on those knuckles.” He pats Aaron’s hand.
“Yeah,” Aaron says. “Yeah.”
Rain starts to fall late in the night, and Aaron lies awake listening to it. He looks over at Sori, who is splayed out across the sheets and snoring. He likes Sori. Likes him a lot. He thinks about Laura who never heard from him, and Bret who is probably at home in California. Aaron wishes he were home. He wishes he were asleep.
They have another game tomorrow night.
End
Note: The title comes from the song "Sultans of Swing" by Dire Straits, which is a great song. I realize that this piece is sort of disjointed and I want to apologize for the tenses, in case they are really messed up. I think there could be several stories in one here and I need to work further on it, but for now it's done. Aaron was born in '73, Bret in '69-- I think I may have messed up their ages here, but I hope not.
Obviously, Aaron Boone and Bret probably never had any sort of sexual relationship, and I doubt Jorge and Derek are having sex. Andy and Jorge, on the other hand... Consider this a disclaimer. RPS makes me f-ing nervous, man.
All right, All right, I'm done quibbling.