Ficlet: Peanuts and Crackerjacks
Author: rivlee
Title: Peanuts and Crackerjacks
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Leckie, Hoosier. Gen.
Summary: A small ficlet about Bob Leckie and Opening Day 2008 for the Washington Nationals.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended.
A/N: Unbeated.
Bob Leckie didn’t like to admit he worked for the local D.C. gossip and conspiracy rag, The Grassy Knoll, but he couldn’t bitch too much when it gave him an all-access pass to the Washington Nationals. He wasn’t a fan of the team, not the biggest National League fan to begin with, but he got to see other great teams wander through the Nationals Park.
Honestly, his assignment of their single Sports page was a blessing on days like this. It got him out of the office during the weekdays and no one could complain about a nice Spring day, watching some baseball and chowing down on overpriced snacks he could write off as working expenses. Even if the Nationals didn’t have a hallowed history playing America’s sport, there was just something about seeing an event that Americans watched and played going back to the 1800s with little changed in the way of game play. Even with the bullshit that was the Designated Hitter, Pete Rose’s lifelong ban, and the Age of Steroids, there was still a mythical feel about baseball that never failed to make Bob Leckie reminisce on the days of old. The sounds of leather ball meeting wooden bat always brought him back to summers on his Grandpa’s porch, flipping through cardboard baseball cards while a New York Mets game played in the background.
Not that the new Nationals Park made him feel like he was five seconds away from his own personal Field of Dreams. It wasn’t like seeing a Chicago Cubs game at Wrigley Field or a Boston Red Sox game at Fenway, where you sat in baseball parks almost one hundred years old, unable to watch an inning go by without pondering all the ghosts who wandered the stadium. Even so, this place also wasn’t a cubicle where he had to listen to Ray Person do his best impersonation of a sexline operator.
Bob didn’t like watching the game from the press boxes. He liked to get in the middle of the crowd, be among the faithful, and watch the game as it was meant to be watched, among the fans in the stands. He liked being part of the mob, surviving through snow, sleet, rain, and blazing hot summer day for a team that often failed to love them back. Sports fans in general were hopeless romantics and baseball, with its 162 game season, had a way of breaking your heart each postseason in October. But hope, like a new season, always springs eternal and come April it was time to start the dance all over again.
And so here he sat, on Opening Day in the brand new Nationals Park, under orders from Webster to check for any conspiracies obvious in the advertising. Or something like that. Bob just sort of took the tickets and ran.
“So tell me, why the hell am I here again?” Hoosier asked as he sat down, balancing a plate of nachos and a beer.
“Officially,” Leckie said, “we are here to check on possible money laundering and skimming of funds in the ballpark and the front office. Unofficially, we’re just here to watch the game.”
“And your boss lets you get away with this shit,” Hoosier said.
“Webster finally seems to comprehend that I am not just being cute when I tell him I will break every one of his fingers.”
“Ray still giving you shit too?”
“He calls me ‘The Homewrecker’ if that’s what you mean.”
Hoosier laughed. “I’ll have to tell Walt his boy is apparently missing the good old days of shacking up with me and the dogs.”
Bob shook his head and turned back to the game. The stadium was packed, people either out to see George W. Bush throw out the first pitch or just to see the new stadium. Bob couldn’t help himself, he kept checking the perimeter, knew Hoosier was doing the same. They’d been playing an on-going game of “Count the Secret Service Suits” for the past hour.
“How much you want a bet they got a sniper at each of the buildings facing home plate?” Hoosier asked.
“No bet,” Bob said. He snatched one of the nachos. “I’m not going to go against a federal employee who probably already knows the answer.”
Hoosier smirked. “Still bitter over me dating that Secret Service Agent.”
Bob shrugged. “I just never though you went for the asshole Frat Boy type.”
“Why not, you already know I go for the asshole over-educated pretentious college boy type.”
“Funny,” Bob said, “I thought you just kept me around to clean your house and walk your dog.”
“Don’t let Lucky Leckie-Smith hear you disavow any ownership. You’ll ruin his self-esteem and he’ll fall behind in obedience school.”
Bob stared at him. “Do I need to ask Vera if you’re sniffing glue at work?”
“Of the two of us, who is the official volunteer foster parent with the ASPCA and therefore knows more about dogs.”
“Point,” Bob said.
Hoosier settled back into his seat and pulled his hat down further over his eyes. “So, how, long is this shit going to take?”
“Anywhere from three hours to god knows how long. We got nine innings, nothing’s timed. You better get comfortable, Bill.”
“You owe me for this,” Hoosier said.
“I thought getting you out of that Sexual Harassment Seminar was enough.”
“Hell, that shit would’ve been over in an hour. You’re telling me we could spend half the day here.”
“I doubt the game is going to be 16 innings, you’ll survive.”
“The shit I go through for you,” Hoosier said.
Bob swiped Hoosier’s beer. “You love every minute of it.”
“Fuck you,” Hoosier said. He pulled the hat over his eyes. “Wake me up when the game’s done.”
Bob started to hum Take Me Out To The Ballgame.
“Peaches, I will fuck your shit up,” Hoosier said.
Bob’s laughter was drowned out as the crowd cheered for the start of the game.
Title: Peanuts and Crackerjacks
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Leckie, Hoosier. Gen.
Summary: A small ficlet about Bob Leckie and Opening Day 2008 for the Washington Nationals.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended.
A/N: Unbeated.
Bob Leckie didn’t like to admit he worked for the local D.C. gossip and conspiracy rag, The Grassy Knoll, but he couldn’t bitch too much when it gave him an all-access pass to the Washington Nationals. He wasn’t a fan of the team, not the biggest National League fan to begin with, but he got to see other great teams wander through the Nationals Park.
Honestly, his assignment of their single Sports page was a blessing on days like this. It got him out of the office during the weekdays and no one could complain about a nice Spring day, watching some baseball and chowing down on overpriced snacks he could write off as working expenses. Even if the Nationals didn’t have a hallowed history playing America’s sport, there was just something about seeing an event that Americans watched and played going back to the 1800s with little changed in the way of game play. Even with the bullshit that was the Designated Hitter, Pete Rose’s lifelong ban, and the Age of Steroids, there was still a mythical feel about baseball that never failed to make Bob Leckie reminisce on the days of old. The sounds of leather ball meeting wooden bat always brought him back to summers on his Grandpa’s porch, flipping through cardboard baseball cards while a New York Mets game played in the background.
Not that the new Nationals Park made him feel like he was five seconds away from his own personal Field of Dreams. It wasn’t like seeing a Chicago Cubs game at Wrigley Field or a Boston Red Sox game at Fenway, where you sat in baseball parks almost one hundred years old, unable to watch an inning go by without pondering all the ghosts who wandered the stadium. Even so, this place also wasn’t a cubicle where he had to listen to Ray Person do his best impersonation of a sexline operator.
Bob didn’t like watching the game from the press boxes. He liked to get in the middle of the crowd, be among the faithful, and watch the game as it was meant to be watched, among the fans in the stands. He liked being part of the mob, surviving through snow, sleet, rain, and blazing hot summer day for a team that often failed to love them back. Sports fans in general were hopeless romantics and baseball, with its 162 game season, had a way of breaking your heart each postseason in October. But hope, like a new season, always springs eternal and come April it was time to start the dance all over again.
And so here he sat, on Opening Day in the brand new Nationals Park, under orders from Webster to check for any conspiracies obvious in the advertising. Or something like that. Bob just sort of took the tickets and ran.
“So tell me, why the hell am I here again?” Hoosier asked as he sat down, balancing a plate of nachos and a beer.
“Officially,” Leckie said, “we are here to check on possible money laundering and skimming of funds in the ballpark and the front office. Unofficially, we’re just here to watch the game.”
“And your boss lets you get away with this shit,” Hoosier said.
“Webster finally seems to comprehend that I am not just being cute when I tell him I will break every one of his fingers.”
“Ray still giving you shit too?”
“He calls me ‘The Homewrecker’ if that’s what you mean.”
Hoosier laughed. “I’ll have to tell Walt his boy is apparently missing the good old days of shacking up with me and the dogs.”
Bob shook his head and turned back to the game. The stadium was packed, people either out to see George W. Bush throw out the first pitch or just to see the new stadium. Bob couldn’t help himself, he kept checking the perimeter, knew Hoosier was doing the same. They’d been playing an on-going game of “Count the Secret Service Suits” for the past hour.
“How much you want a bet they got a sniper at each of the buildings facing home plate?” Hoosier asked.
“No bet,” Bob said. He snatched one of the nachos. “I’m not going to go against a federal employee who probably already knows the answer.”
Hoosier smirked. “Still bitter over me dating that Secret Service Agent.”
Bob shrugged. “I just never though you went for the asshole Frat Boy type.”
“Why not, you already know I go for the asshole over-educated pretentious college boy type.”
“Funny,” Bob said, “I thought you just kept me around to clean your house and walk your dog.”
“Don’t let Lucky Leckie-Smith hear you disavow any ownership. You’ll ruin his self-esteem and he’ll fall behind in obedience school.”
Bob stared at him. “Do I need to ask Vera if you’re sniffing glue at work?”
“Of the two of us, who is the official volunteer foster parent with the ASPCA and therefore knows more about dogs.”
“Point,” Bob said.
Hoosier settled back into his seat and pulled his hat down further over his eyes. “So, how, long is this shit going to take?”
“Anywhere from three hours to god knows how long. We got nine innings, nothing’s timed. You better get comfortable, Bill.”
“You owe me for this,” Hoosier said.
“I thought getting you out of that Sexual Harassment Seminar was enough.”
“Hell, that shit would’ve been over in an hour. You’re telling me we could spend half the day here.”
“I doubt the game is going to be 16 innings, you’ll survive.”
“The shit I go through for you,” Hoosier said.
Bob swiped Hoosier’s beer. “You love every minute of it.”
“Fuck you,” Hoosier said. He pulled the hat over his eyes. “Wake me up when the game’s done.”
Bob started to hum Take Me Out To The Ballgame.
“Peaches, I will fuck your shit up,” Hoosier said.
Bob’s laughter was drowned out as the crowd cheered for the start of the game.