Fic: Bottom of the Ninth
Game Two: the AU fic!
Title: Bottom of the Ninth
Rating: PG
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Category: AU
Length: ~2300 words
Summary: Bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded-John Sheppard at bat.
A/N: Many thanks to honey_babes, shusu, and wychwood for their help and suggestions. (And for the occasional bits of baseball squee!)
Bottom of the Ninth
They said Acastus Kolya got the scar on his face from a flying splinter of wood-the result of a shattered bat blown to smithereens by one of his own fastballs. John was wary but respectful of legends. He knew there were still ones told about him, back from his brief and even more briefly illustrious career in the majors. Or maybe they were cautionary tales. That's what becomes of cocky swingers like Sheppard. Be careful-it could happen to you, kid.
John stopped and shook his head, scuffing his foot against the packed dugout dirt. He was psyching himself out. Doing Kolya's job for him. Bottom of the ninth, Lanteans down by three, one out, Emmagan on third, Lorne on second. Even that much seemed like a miracle. He was pretty sure Coach Weir hadn't taken a breath since the inning started.
Ford was at bat. He was a good kid, Ford-he could have a promising career ahead of him, John thought, and tried not to think it with bitterness or jealousy. John watched him: wide-eyed and fresh-faced, not afraid of Kolya at all. He took a firm, fast swing at a not-so-great pitch and fouled off over the third base line. No tension in his shoulders, all smiles, even with one strike against him. John could remember feeling like that. It seemed like eons ago.
As Ford swung and missed again, John turned and tried to shake out his shoulders. Everything about this game, this day, had filled him with dread. If they lost, they'd be out of the playoffs, but John really had to ask himself if it even mattered anymore. His career was over. All this, working the minors, helping train up younger players: he was just killing time until age or injury or plain incompetence took him off the roster for good. Until then, he might as well be playing baseball in Antarctica for all that it mattered.
And yet...in spite of all that, he did care. He couldn't help caring if the Lanteans won. For better or worse, they were his team. His.
This had been driven home for him about four months earlier when a hard slide into third had left his shoulder dislocated and his right arm so bruised it was practically blue. For two weeks, he was not only benched but practically bedded. He tried to tell himself a break was what he needed, but he always got itchy around game time. So he joined his team the only way he could: by radio. Suddenly, he was six years old again. Listening to the announcer's clever, quick, incisive voice, John found that he was seeing the game like he first had. It had been years since he'd felt such excitement, such warm, innocent love for the sport. Years since he'd looked at baseball as anything other than a job. Yet hearing the radio commentator's dry, humorous analysis, praise and cutting but affectionate scorn doled out by someone who obviously cared about the game as much as John once had...well, it made him care again. Enough for him to really want to make this season count.
And they'd come close. Just, John was beginning to think, not close enough.
"Strike three!" John refocused just in time to see Ford stomp back into the dugout, eyes black with rage as he threw his helmet to the ground below the bench. Dex took his place in the batter's box, his impressive size promising strength but also a depressingly large strike zone. Who had he first heard say that? But of course, John knew.
"Sheppard!" Coach Weir was giving him a look. Eyebrow raised: "You're on deck."
He tried to smile, some faint shadow of that old cocky grin. His hand found his favorite bat and he walked head up onto the field.
From the on-deck circle he could just see the press box. Only in shadow, but there: the intent, hunched form. John could hear his voice in his head: the words that were going out to listeners for miles and miles around. Witty and sure. John wanted to feel those clever blue eyes on him and pretend they were signaling support, that someone was rooting for him. Over a couple of post-game beers, McKay had once told him, "You know, I really shouldn't be friends with you. It goes against my highly developed journalistic integrity, to always want the Lanteans to win."
"How 'bout we make you an honorary member of the team?" John had said, half-joking-until he'd seen the way McKay's face had positively glowed.
Ever since his injury John had wanted to tell McKay what his broadcasts had meant to him, how they'd made him love the game again, reminded him that there was something to love. But of course he could never say that, so instead he just skulked around the press box like he had nothing better to do, bringing McKay boxes of Cracker Jack which John knew he ate on-air while somehow managing not to sound like his mouth was full. Then two nights ago, after a game they'd not only won but had seen John go two for three, John had slapped his third empty glass down on the bar and said, "I've got an idea-c'mon." The next thing he knew he was listening to McKay's mostly cursory protests as he picked the lock and snuck them onto the deserted field. Lit only by the stars, by the bright sphere of the moon, it looked spooky and magical. McKay touched his toe to home plate with something close to reverence. "How many times do you think you've crossed this plate? Any home plate? In triumph?"
John shrugged. Tried not to think, Not often enough, anymore.
"You had 34 home runs, your rookie season," McKay said contemplatively.
"Yeah." John's voice was flat. He was beginning to think it had been a mistake bringing a broadcaster here. Trusting him.
Then McKay sighed. "One!" he said. "How hard would it have been for me to hit one? Do you know how frustrating it is, to understand a game perfectly, to intellectually know it inside and out, but physically-" He stopped. "Well, obviously, you wouldn't, would you?"
John swallowed, but didn't say anything. They stared at each other, across the empty field in the dark.
"Strike three!"
John looked up in shock: could it really have ended, while he was lost in some stupid memory of nothing, a blurry drunken pout? But wait: the Genii catcher had dropped the ball on the third strike; Dex was breaking, lightning fast, for first base. It seemed impossible that he should make it in time, but Dex charged forward with single-minded intent, and his foot touched down on the bag a second before ball hit glove. John couldn't help being impressed: now that was a runner!
Unfortunately, it was now up to him to be a hitter. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, but he found his stance and didn't flinch when Kolya's lip curled, a clear challenge in his eye.
Emmagan on third, Lorne on second, Dex on first. It was up to John to bring his people home.
"Could there be any place more perfect than this?" McKay had asked later. They were lying in the outfield; they seemed to have come to an understanding. McKay had taken off his jacket, and John was surprised to see that beneath his dopey checked coat, despite his short, fat tie that fell at just the wrong place to emphasize his belly, he had strong, broad shoulders. John could imagine him swinging a bat or fielding a ball. John could suddenly imagine him doing a lot of things.
He flushed and turned away. It was too late in his career to give in to such impulses. Too late.
He let himself be lulled by the rise and fall of McKay's voice.
"Strike one!"
John felt his shoulders tremble. He thought it was going to go wide, he was sure it was going to go wide.
He saw Kolya smirk.
He needed to stop lying to himself. Face facts: he'd been afraid.
"That year, my rookie year, when I hit 34 homers," John told McKay. Lying side by side in the wet grass. "I was fearless. I would swing at anything remotely near the plate. Didn't matter what the third base coach was telling me. Every ball was mine. Crack of the bat. I could make 'em soar."
McKay breathed in his words. "I got a job offer," he said after a minute. "They want me covering major league games. Nationally." When John didn't say anything, he continued: "The offer's long overdue, of course. With my unmatchable talent-! But..."
But of course they both recognized the irony. They were almost exactly the same age. McKay's career was just getting started. John's was finished.
"Strike two!"
John grit his teeth. At least he'd swung this time. But the pitch had been too fast, much to quick for him. His whole body ached. He was weary and stiff and cold. Drained: an old man.
McKay said: "I'm going to miss it, you know." Rolling to look at John, face oddly young. "Being an honorary Lantean."
John wanted to say: Once a Lantean, always a Lantean. But it wasn't true. There was no hall of fame for washed up minor league players. What happened was: you crashed and burned and were forgotten. He'd seen it happen-who else besides him remembered Mitch? Remembered Holland?
Kolya went into the wind up and delivered another fireball. Wide again, John thought, but no matter what he wanted to go out swinging, so he extended his arms, connecting with the ball in less than the time it'd take the average man to blink. The crack was beautiful, music to his ears, but John knew right away that it was no good. Foul ball. He imagined McKay tightening his grip on his microphone. Still rooting for him? Maybe.
"This game sucks you dry," John had said. Staring up at the stars, feeling sorry for himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched McKay struggle to push himself up on his elbows.
"Are you kidding me?" he sputtered. "You're amazing. You'll always be amazing. A natural-born talent." He blushed, tried to cover it with a smug lift of his chin. "Now if only such things were assigned fairly, instead of as a totally random characteristic..."
"You think life's random?" John asked. He thought of his injury, how it had landed him in bed with McKay whispering in his ear. Then he was blushing.
"I think life would be a lot better if it were like baseball," McKay said, with drunken solemnness.
"Yeah? How?"
"There's always the possibility of a last-minute spark of inspiration. An elegant solution. Ninth-inning redemption," he mumbled, and passed out an inch away from John's arms.
John took a breath and squared his shoulders. He had to forget about himself. His team-they were all that mattered...
"You make me feel it."
McKay was murmuring so softly John could hardly hear, especially over his own huffing as he helped him out of the car and up the walk. "Uh..."
"I've always known it inside out, but watching you play makes me feel it." McKay's head rolled back, and he stared into John's eyes. "The soul of baseball."
"You're drunk," he said. And John wanted to cry because what he meant was, You're wrong.
The next pitch was good. Really good. But even as John swung, in the back of his mind he knew he had messed up. The bat hit the ball but at the wrong angle, and it fouled up behind him, over the stands, over the crowd whose eyes John had trained himself not to feel, crashing into the press box, hitting the wooden roof just above the glass.
He could definitely see McKay now, more solid than shadow. He had stood, his microphone still in his hand; John could imagine him saying, Well, folks, it looks like the Lanteans' right fielder is finally trying to kill me. Then he saw that McKay had his hand pressed against the glass. John shuddered: he could feel it, the warmth of that palm, as if it were pressed against his own skin.
He turned back to Kolya.
Emmagan on third, Lorne on second, Dex on first. And what was John going to do-just keep fouling off for the rest of his life, for what remained of his tattered career? Or worse, would he stand here frozen, too afraid to even try? He glanced at the third base coach, who was relaying a message from Coach Weir: just go for a simple base hit, bring Emmagan in. Pin the real heat on the next guy at bat. Kolya grinned and spat: he could do this all day.
But not John. The moment was now. It was all or nothing.
"Even alcohol can't dilute my genius," McKay had murmured as John helped him over to the bed. Then he'd reached up and touched a hand to John's cheek. "I know what I see."
He was waiting, John knew in retrospect, for John to make a move, to walk away or step up to the goddamn plate. But John had done nothing, and so after a moment, a breath held too long, McKay had rolled back onto the crumpled sheets. "Thanks for the tour," he mumbled. "You-you just keep swinging. Eventually you'll hit something. If you want it." The last words buried in his pillow; possibly John's imagination.
But he used to be fearless.
Feel it, John thought, raising his bat, staring Kolya down. Want it. Feel it.
Emmagan on third, Lorne on second, Dex on first.
McKay in the press box, his palm pressed to the glass.
John squared his shoulders. He stared out, out across the diamond, over right field, and into whatever lay beyond. Feel it. Want it. Don't be afraid.
It didn't have to end today. But it could change.
Kolya went into the wind-up and released another fireball.
On third, on second, on first-all poised to run-
The smell of the dirt, the sun on his face like a warm hand touching his cheek-
The soul of baseball. Him.
"If you want it," McKay had said.
"Yes," he mouthed.
John closed his eyes and made that connection.
NOTES:
I should probably add that I owe parts of this fic to pretty much every baseball movie ever (except Field of Dreams *snobbishly turns up nose*). And also to my own failed baseball career (and my slightly more successful stint as a scorekeeper). Go Lightning Photo! Go Dodgers!
Title: Bottom of the Ninth
Rating: PG
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Category: AU
Length: ~2300 words
Summary: Bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded-John Sheppard at bat.
A/N: Many thanks to honey_babes, shusu, and wychwood for their help and suggestions. (And for the occasional bits of baseball squee!)
Bottom of the Ninth
They said Acastus Kolya got the scar on his face from a flying splinter of wood-the result of a shattered bat blown to smithereens by one of his own fastballs. John was wary but respectful of legends. He knew there were still ones told about him, back from his brief and even more briefly illustrious career in the majors. Or maybe they were cautionary tales. That's what becomes of cocky swingers like Sheppard. Be careful-it could happen to you, kid.
John stopped and shook his head, scuffing his foot against the packed dugout dirt. He was psyching himself out. Doing Kolya's job for him. Bottom of the ninth, Lanteans down by three, one out, Emmagan on third, Lorne on second. Even that much seemed like a miracle. He was pretty sure Coach Weir hadn't taken a breath since the inning started.
Ford was at bat. He was a good kid, Ford-he could have a promising career ahead of him, John thought, and tried not to think it with bitterness or jealousy. John watched him: wide-eyed and fresh-faced, not afraid of Kolya at all. He took a firm, fast swing at a not-so-great pitch and fouled off over the third base line. No tension in his shoulders, all smiles, even with one strike against him. John could remember feeling like that. It seemed like eons ago.
As Ford swung and missed again, John turned and tried to shake out his shoulders. Everything about this game, this day, had filled him with dread. If they lost, they'd be out of the playoffs, but John really had to ask himself if it even mattered anymore. His career was over. All this, working the minors, helping train up younger players: he was just killing time until age or injury or plain incompetence took him off the roster for good. Until then, he might as well be playing baseball in Antarctica for all that it mattered.
And yet...in spite of all that, he did care. He couldn't help caring if the Lanteans won. For better or worse, they were his team. His.
This had been driven home for him about four months earlier when a hard slide into third had left his shoulder dislocated and his right arm so bruised it was practically blue. For two weeks, he was not only benched but practically bedded. He tried to tell himself a break was what he needed, but he always got itchy around game time. So he joined his team the only way he could: by radio. Suddenly, he was six years old again. Listening to the announcer's clever, quick, incisive voice, John found that he was seeing the game like he first had. It had been years since he'd felt such excitement, such warm, innocent love for the sport. Years since he'd looked at baseball as anything other than a job. Yet hearing the radio commentator's dry, humorous analysis, praise and cutting but affectionate scorn doled out by someone who obviously cared about the game as much as John once had...well, it made him care again. Enough for him to really want to make this season count.
And they'd come close. Just, John was beginning to think, not close enough.
"Strike three!" John refocused just in time to see Ford stomp back into the dugout, eyes black with rage as he threw his helmet to the ground below the bench. Dex took his place in the batter's box, his impressive size promising strength but also a depressingly large strike zone. Who had he first heard say that? But of course, John knew.
"Sheppard!" Coach Weir was giving him a look. Eyebrow raised: "You're on deck."
He tried to smile, some faint shadow of that old cocky grin. His hand found his favorite bat and he walked head up onto the field.
From the on-deck circle he could just see the press box. Only in shadow, but there: the intent, hunched form. John could hear his voice in his head: the words that were going out to listeners for miles and miles around. Witty and sure. John wanted to feel those clever blue eyes on him and pretend they were signaling support, that someone was rooting for him. Over a couple of post-game beers, McKay had once told him, "You know, I really shouldn't be friends with you. It goes against my highly developed journalistic integrity, to always want the Lanteans to win."
"How 'bout we make you an honorary member of the team?" John had said, half-joking-until he'd seen the way McKay's face had positively glowed.
Ever since his injury John had wanted to tell McKay what his broadcasts had meant to him, how they'd made him love the game again, reminded him that there was something to love. But of course he could never say that, so instead he just skulked around the press box like he had nothing better to do, bringing McKay boxes of Cracker Jack which John knew he ate on-air while somehow managing not to sound like his mouth was full. Then two nights ago, after a game they'd not only won but had seen John go two for three, John had slapped his third empty glass down on the bar and said, "I've got an idea-c'mon." The next thing he knew he was listening to McKay's mostly cursory protests as he picked the lock and snuck them onto the deserted field. Lit only by the stars, by the bright sphere of the moon, it looked spooky and magical. McKay touched his toe to home plate with something close to reverence. "How many times do you think you've crossed this plate? Any home plate? In triumph?"
John shrugged. Tried not to think, Not often enough, anymore.
"You had 34 home runs, your rookie season," McKay said contemplatively.
"Yeah." John's voice was flat. He was beginning to think it had been a mistake bringing a broadcaster here. Trusting him.
Then McKay sighed. "One!" he said. "How hard would it have been for me to hit one? Do you know how frustrating it is, to understand a game perfectly, to intellectually know it inside and out, but physically-" He stopped. "Well, obviously, you wouldn't, would you?"
John swallowed, but didn't say anything. They stared at each other, across the empty field in the dark.
"Strike three!"
John looked up in shock: could it really have ended, while he was lost in some stupid memory of nothing, a blurry drunken pout? But wait: the Genii catcher had dropped the ball on the third strike; Dex was breaking, lightning fast, for first base. It seemed impossible that he should make it in time, but Dex charged forward with single-minded intent, and his foot touched down on the bag a second before ball hit glove. John couldn't help being impressed: now that was a runner!
Unfortunately, it was now up to him to be a hitter. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, but he found his stance and didn't flinch when Kolya's lip curled, a clear challenge in his eye.
Emmagan on third, Lorne on second, Dex on first. It was up to John to bring his people home.
"Could there be any place more perfect than this?" McKay had asked later. They were lying in the outfield; they seemed to have come to an understanding. McKay had taken off his jacket, and John was surprised to see that beneath his dopey checked coat, despite his short, fat tie that fell at just the wrong place to emphasize his belly, he had strong, broad shoulders. John could imagine him swinging a bat or fielding a ball. John could suddenly imagine him doing a lot of things.
He flushed and turned away. It was too late in his career to give in to such impulses. Too late.
He let himself be lulled by the rise and fall of McKay's voice.
"Strike one!"
John felt his shoulders tremble. He thought it was going to go wide, he was sure it was going to go wide.
He saw Kolya smirk.
He needed to stop lying to himself. Face facts: he'd been afraid.
"That year, my rookie year, when I hit 34 homers," John told McKay. Lying side by side in the wet grass. "I was fearless. I would swing at anything remotely near the plate. Didn't matter what the third base coach was telling me. Every ball was mine. Crack of the bat. I could make 'em soar."
McKay breathed in his words. "I got a job offer," he said after a minute. "They want me covering major league games. Nationally." When John didn't say anything, he continued: "The offer's long overdue, of course. With my unmatchable talent-! But..."
But of course they both recognized the irony. They were almost exactly the same age. McKay's career was just getting started. John's was finished.
"Strike two!"
John grit his teeth. At least he'd swung this time. But the pitch had been too fast, much to quick for him. His whole body ached. He was weary and stiff and cold. Drained: an old man.
McKay said: "I'm going to miss it, you know." Rolling to look at John, face oddly young. "Being an honorary Lantean."
John wanted to say: Once a Lantean, always a Lantean. But it wasn't true. There was no hall of fame for washed up minor league players. What happened was: you crashed and burned and were forgotten. He'd seen it happen-who else besides him remembered Mitch? Remembered Holland?
Kolya went into the wind up and delivered another fireball. Wide again, John thought, but no matter what he wanted to go out swinging, so he extended his arms, connecting with the ball in less than the time it'd take the average man to blink. The crack was beautiful, music to his ears, but John knew right away that it was no good. Foul ball. He imagined McKay tightening his grip on his microphone. Still rooting for him? Maybe.
"This game sucks you dry," John had said. Staring up at the stars, feeling sorry for himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched McKay struggle to push himself up on his elbows.
"Are you kidding me?" he sputtered. "You're amazing. You'll always be amazing. A natural-born talent." He blushed, tried to cover it with a smug lift of his chin. "Now if only such things were assigned fairly, instead of as a totally random characteristic..."
"You think life's random?" John asked. He thought of his injury, how it had landed him in bed with McKay whispering in his ear. Then he was blushing.
"I think life would be a lot better if it were like baseball," McKay said, with drunken solemnness.
"Yeah? How?"
"There's always the possibility of a last-minute spark of inspiration. An elegant solution. Ninth-inning redemption," he mumbled, and passed out an inch away from John's arms.
John took a breath and squared his shoulders. He had to forget about himself. His team-they were all that mattered...
"You make me feel it."
McKay was murmuring so softly John could hardly hear, especially over his own huffing as he helped him out of the car and up the walk. "Uh..."
"I've always known it inside out, but watching you play makes me feel it." McKay's head rolled back, and he stared into John's eyes. "The soul of baseball."
"You're drunk," he said. And John wanted to cry because what he meant was, You're wrong.
The next pitch was good. Really good. But even as John swung, in the back of his mind he knew he had messed up. The bat hit the ball but at the wrong angle, and it fouled up behind him, over the stands, over the crowd whose eyes John had trained himself not to feel, crashing into the press box, hitting the wooden roof just above the glass.
He could definitely see McKay now, more solid than shadow. He had stood, his microphone still in his hand; John could imagine him saying, Well, folks, it looks like the Lanteans' right fielder is finally trying to kill me. Then he saw that McKay had his hand pressed against the glass. John shuddered: he could feel it, the warmth of that palm, as if it were pressed against his own skin.
He turned back to Kolya.
Emmagan on third, Lorne on second, Dex on first. And what was John going to do-just keep fouling off for the rest of his life, for what remained of his tattered career? Or worse, would he stand here frozen, too afraid to even try? He glanced at the third base coach, who was relaying a message from Coach Weir: just go for a simple base hit, bring Emmagan in. Pin the real heat on the next guy at bat. Kolya grinned and spat: he could do this all day.
But not John. The moment was now. It was all or nothing.
"Even alcohol can't dilute my genius," McKay had murmured as John helped him over to the bed. Then he'd reached up and touched a hand to John's cheek. "I know what I see."
He was waiting, John knew in retrospect, for John to make a move, to walk away or step up to the goddamn plate. But John had done nothing, and so after a moment, a breath held too long, McKay had rolled back onto the crumpled sheets. "Thanks for the tour," he mumbled. "You-you just keep swinging. Eventually you'll hit something. If you want it." The last words buried in his pillow; possibly John's imagination.
But he used to be fearless.
Feel it, John thought, raising his bat, staring Kolya down. Want it. Feel it.
Emmagan on third, Lorne on second, Dex on first.
McKay in the press box, his palm pressed to the glass.
John squared his shoulders. He stared out, out across the diamond, over right field, and into whatever lay beyond. Feel it. Want it. Don't be afraid.
It didn't have to end today. But it could change.
Kolya went into the wind-up and released another fireball.
On third, on second, on first-all poised to run-
The smell of the dirt, the sun on his face like a warm hand touching his cheek-
The soul of baseball. Him.
"If you want it," McKay had said.
"Yes," he mouthed.
John closed his eyes and made that connection.
NOTES:
I should probably add that I owe parts of this fic to pretty much every baseball movie ever (except Field of Dreams *snobbishly turns up nose*). And also to my own failed baseball career (and my slightly more successful stint as a scorekeeper). Go Lightning Photo! Go Dodgers!