Magnitude 8, Part Four
Title: Magnitude Eight, Part IV
Author: 2theletter
Rating: PG (language)
Pairing: Buster Posey/Madison Bumgarner
Synopsis: Buster returns to his damaged apartment, and Madison finds what he's looking for. And we jump ahead to life in the wake of a catastrophe.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Repeat -- this is only fiction. If this had been an actual emergency, you would have been instructed where to tune to find more information.
San Francisco -- 5:57 p.m. PST
The sun was setting. The warm hues of its fading rays were enhanced by the smoke in the air. The lights were out across most of the city, but an eerie orange glow filled in the horizon north of Buster's house. The Marina District was burning.
Buster found an old battery-powered radio hidden in the back of his bedroom closet. He didn't know how old the batteries were, but when he switched it on, the dial lit up and static emanated from the speaker. He fiddled with the dial until he found the KQED. Buster didn't realize how much he missed hearing human voices until the news anchor's calm bass rumbled out of the little radio. Maybe he should have invited Zito to stay with him for the night, or asked if he could stay with Barry for a while. Buster gathered up some flashlights and sat in his kitchen floor as the sunlight faded, listening to reports of crumpled bridges and crushed buildings and unknown numbers of victims. His stomach turned when he thought of Bumgarner driving on 101 that morning.
A few minutes before six, as the hills swallowed up the last of the sunlight and cast Buster's neighborhood into near-total darkness, he decided he might as well eat something. He flicked on a battery-powered lantern he kept under the bed. It was close to the sum total of his emergency kit, and he wished he'd taken the idea more seriously. Posey instinctively reached for the freezer door, and stopped himself. He wandered over to a cabinet instead and found a can of Spaghetti-Os. He shrugged and rummaged through a drawer to find a can opener. He emptied the pasta into a bowl and sat down at the kitchen table. He swept some broken glass off the tabletop with that morning's newspaper. He grabbed the radio off the floor and put it in front of him.
He was halfway through the bowl when he heard something click behind him. Oh, shit, he thought. Did I lock the door? He'd heard stories about looting the wake of disasters, and the thought immediately leapt into his mind. Some criminal or crazy person was breaking into his house. Maybe the person would hear the radio on and leave.
He heard the doorknob latch open and a slight squeal as the hinges flexed to allow the door open. Posey's blood ran cold. He didn't keep a gun in the apartment, and now he wished he did. His mind flashed back to a baseball bat he kept in the closet. If he moved now, and didn't make any noise, he might be able to get to it before the intruder got far into the house. Quietly, he put down his spoon and slid out of his chair. He crouched slightly and tiptoed across the linoleum, praying his shoes wouldn't squeak. He made it to the carpeted hallway as he heard slow footsteps coming toward the kitchen. Working without a flashlight, Posey had to feel around in the dark for the closet and thence for the bat itself. His heart was thumping furiously with adrenalin as his grip finally found the cool shaft of the bat. He seized it and pulled it close to him. Turning around, he walked back toward the kitchen, where he now heard the intruder's shoes crunching against the glass in the floor.
Steeling himself, Posey gripped the bat tightly and raised it over his shoulder. He walked into the room and saw the figure silhouetted in the light from the electric lantern. He stepped on a loose board, which gave a groan. Posey's heart stopped. He raised the bat as the tall figure turned to face him. Posey began to swing, and then he saw eyes.
Wide, fearful eyes. Familiar eyes. Eyes that could belong to only one person.
"Madison."
Bumgarner was himself terrified, and threw up his hands to block the bat. Posey was able to lay off the swing in enough time not to hit the pitcher. He let the bat drop to the floor and raised his hands to his face.
"Fuck. I almost killed you."
Madison stood speechless.
"I thought you were some crackhead breaking in to the place."
Buster felt strong arms embrace him. Madison nearly lifted him off the ground.
"Ow. Ow, Bum."
"Sorry," Bumgarner replied, but he didn't loosen his grip. "My God, I'm so glad to see you."
Buster freed an arm and wrapped it around Bumgarner's back. "I'm glad to see you. I was so worried."
Madison nodded against Posey's shoulder. "I never thought I'd see you again. I went to Cain's house, and you weren't there."
"It's okay now, buddy. I'm okay."
"No, you're not," came the reply. "Your head is all bandaged up."
"I know. But I'm going to be fine."
Buster could feel Madison's heart beating against his chest. He also felt lightheaded.
"Bum, I'm going to need to breathe sometime tonight."
"Sorry," Madison said again, this time releasing the catcher.
"It's okay. I, uh, was eating dinner when you came in. Least, best I could."
Bumgarner started salivating. "Dinner," he repeated, his voice carrying a reverence unparalleled outside of religious fanaticism.
Buster grabbed another can out of the cupboard and started opening it. He turned around to see Bumgarner tearing into a loaf of bread, stuffing a piece into his mouth.
"You're pretty hungry, huh?"
Madison nodded emphatically. He sat down at the table, relieved to take the weight off his tired legs.
"Where's your truck?" Buster asked.
"Huh?"
"Your truck, Bum. I didn't hear you drive up. Did you park on another block or something?"
"No," Madison said. "It's down on 101."
Buster looked at the younger man like he was crazy. "On 101."
"Yeah."
"You left your truck down the peninsula."
"Yeah."
"Why?"
Madison turned the volume down on the radio. "The, uh...the pavement dropped. Broke, I guess. You couldn't use the road."
"How the hell did you get here?"
Madison shrugged. "Walked. I mean, I was able to get a ride from a guy driving power truck. But mostly, I walked. That's why it took me so long."
Buster poured the can's contents into a bowl and set it in front of Bumgarner. "You walked?"
"I had to," Madison said, between bites. "Had to find you."
"Madison, that's more than ten miles from here. You could have gotten hurt. God knows what could have happened."
Bumgarner looked up from his bowl. He put the spoon down and stood up, walking to look Buster in the eyes.
"Buster, you don't understand," he said. His large hands grasped Posey's arms. "I didn't know what happened. I was driving, and then it started shaking...when they told me that there was an earthquake, and everything looked real bad--" His voice began to break. Tears formed at the edges of his eyes. "I thought...I thought--somethin' coulda happened to you. That you'd be hurt...or..."
He swallowed hard, trying to come up with the words. "And then I got to Matt's house, and there was your phone, all broken on the floor. And there was blood. Buster, your blood."
He closed his eyes, unable to finish the thought. He choked back a sob. "Sorry. Guys ain't supposed to cry."
Buster embraced Bumgarner, stifling back his own tears. "I think under the circumstances, you'll get away with it."
Madison's voice wavered. "That earthquake scared me to death. I thought it was the scariest thing that's ever happened to me. And then, all I could think about was you. And that's what really scared me. I'd never been so scared in my life."
The pitcher's broad shoulders heaved as he closed his eyes, his emotions finally getting the best of him. Buster stood there, his hands roaming over Bumgarner's back. He let Bumgarner unleash his frustrations for a solid ten minutes. Eventually, Madison's eyes dried and his breathing slowed from choked gasps to an even, steady flow. He pulled away from Buster.
"I had to," he said.
Buster understood. "I know."
Bumgarner wiped his nose on his sleeve and nodded. He sat back down at the table and finished eating.
After the improvised dinner, Madison took a flashlight and helped Buster round up bottles of water, band-aids and batteries from boxes and drawers around the apartment. At one point, he asked, "Where are we gonna stay tonight?"
Buster shrugged. "Here, I guess."
"Is it safe?"
"Safe as anywhere."
Another rumble emanated from the ground. The apartment creaked and groaned around the two men. Bumgarner gritted his teeth and held on to the kitchen counter for stability. Buster braced himself against the wall.
"Jesus," Madison drawled. Buster didn't say anything, wishing the firm earth would go back to being firm again.
They shoved chunks of plaster off Buster's bed and had sex that night in the pitch black, surrounded by broken bookshelves and cracked walls. It was slow and languid with no real purpose other than to confirm that they were still alive. They got a few hours of sleep and did it again in the pre-dawn gloom, the grunting of men and squeaking of springs punctuated by the occasional passage of an emergency vehicle. Its lights would flash through the bedroom window, briefly illuminating whoever was on top in red and blue, a surreal sight thrown into what was already the most surreal day either of them had ever lived.
After round two, Madison lay awake next to Buster, his skin still damp with sweat.
"Buster?" he whispered.
"What?"
"What are we supposed to do?"
Posey grasped Bumgarner's hand. "Let's worry about later, later."
They both drifted off into a half-sleep. When Buster awoke later, the sun was up. The pitcher's long arms were wrapped around Posey's torso and Madison's chest moved against his back with the steady breaths of a man in deep slumber. For a second, he forgot about the earthquake. And then it all flashed back into sharp relief. There was a disaster that awaited them once they woke up and started the new day.
So he pulled the sheets up over himself and Bumgarner and went back to sleep. He would worry about later, later.
___
Ballplayers aren't known for their introspection. The pitchers are more focused on the next start than on foreign policy. The hitters pay attention to a 3-2 count, not the stock market. Putting the earthquake into historical and cultural context is a job they leave to the historians. Just tell them when the next game is, and you've given them all the information they need to move on.
Even so, Buster was a little surprised no one was really talking about the 'quake when spring training began in earnest a few weeks later. Bochy delayed the start for a few days to make sure everyone could make it, but after that, it was business as usual. Madison theorized getting to Arizona was the kind of escape the team needed from the gloom of the city.
Bumgarner's house was pretty much wrecked, so he salvaged what he could from the place and made arrangement to move in with Buster. They both agreed it was an inevitability, anyway. Cain's house was still being worked on, so he, Chelsea and Hartley had taken up residence in an apartment in Daly City. He made a few jokes about the situation, but Buster could tell it was a stressful time for him.
Just weeks after the most devastating earthquake in a century, the signs of recovery started to appear. Streets were being repaired and businesses began to reopen as the team returned for the season opener. Stanford resumed classes, but it would Cal Berkeley months to get itself into working order. Their football games that fall had to be played on the road because Memorial Stadium was practically wrenched in two by the movement along the Hayward Fault.
But not everything could be fixed or ignored in the effort to return to normal. Traffic was a nightmare, since the bridges were all closed for inspections. The ailing Bay Bridge was out of commission for the whole summer; one of its sections had again separated and fallen onto the lower deck. The Giants who lived in the East Bay cursed the cantilever span every time they were running late and missed a BART train into the city.
Opening Day was mesmerizing. The ballpark sported cracks in its walls and concourses, but it held through the 'quake pretty well. The president was there, delivering remarks about the resiliency of the Bay Area and the spirit of California that would prevail through this latest crisis. He then threw a pitch that landed in the dirt five feet in front of Posey's mitt.
"It's the thought that counts," Aubrey Huff cracked.
But national sympathy didn't get the team to the postseason. The Giants fell behind the Padres, then the Rockies. And by September, they were in third place and ten games back from the Wild Card. The season ended with a brief morale boost as the Giants beat the Diamondbacks. It took thirteen innings. The score was 1-0.
Nate Schierholtz got married in October, not long after the season ended. The wedding was a beautiful affair in San Luis Obispo. The wedding was supposed to have been up at the Palace of Fine Arts, but Nate's fiance wanted to get far away from the city-cum-construction site that now occupied the tip of the peninsula. She wanted somewhere peaceful and beautiful, and she got it.
At the reception, the guests clumped together near the bar, and sat around the tables that ringed the dance floor. "Everlong" echoed across the room from big speakers set up on tripods at the DJ's table. Many of the guys from the team showed up. Every so often, another slightly inebriated Giant would walk up to Schierholtz and clap him on the back, slurring what a great thing this was and how super love was and Nate's wife would smile politely and take another sip of her champagne.
Bumgarner cracked a smile. "What?" Buster asked.
Madison nodded toward a table where Schierholtz and his wife sat. Finally, they had a moment to themselves without interruption. Their words were inaudible, but they kept laughing about something. Nate's grin glowed as brightly as his wife's white dress. She looked back at him with a mixture of awe and pride. They both looked like they'd just discovered the most magical thing on Earth, a secret only the two of them shared.
"They look great together," Buster said.
"Yeah, they do." Madison replied. He'd been twirling the stem of his wine glass between his thumb and forefinger, but suddenly stopped. "I need some air. You wanna take a walk?"
Posey nodded. "Sure."
The two men stood and walked out a set of double doors, into a warm breeze and a world tinted red as the sun sank toward the horizon. The view was spectacular, looking right off a bluff and onto the Pacific Ocean stretching wide in front of them.
Madison immediately loosened his tie and drew in a deep breath. "I hate wearin' these damn things."
Posey chuckled. "You can take the boy out of the country..."
Madison brushed a thumb over one of his nostrils, trying to satisfy an itch. "You ever think about it?"
"Think about what?"
The younger man hooked a thumb back toward the open doors of the reception hall. "That. What it'd be like to get married."
Posey cocked his head to one side, considering the question. "Yeah, sometimes."
Bumgarner couldn't suppress a mischievous smile. "To who?"
Posey didn't miss a beat. "Zito."
Madison laughed and shook his head in wonder.
"Why," Posey said. "Got someone in mind?"
"I dunno. Maybe."
"You know, people always say they'd walk through fire for someone." Posey glanced at Bumgarner. "But how many of them can say they actually did? You walked through fire and chaos and calamity. For me. You did that for me."
Madison blushed and ducked his head.
"So, you know, that does tend to point to a certain person, yeah."
Bumgarner stopped near a bench and stretched his arms above his head. "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"You askin'?"
"Sounds like you are."
"Naw," Bumgarner said, smiling. "I'm speculatin'."
"Well," Buster replied, pulling Bumgarner toward him. "Let's speculate that I say 'yes.'"
"Then I speculate you better get used to being called the other Mr. Bumgarner."
Buster kissed him and smiled. "You mean you're going to be the other Mr. Posey."
"That remains to be seen."
"What?"
"You ain't said yes."
"Neither did you."
"Well, now I am."
"Good. So am I."
"Okay."
"Okay."
Buster jerked his head back slightly. "Wait. What did we just do?"
Bumgarner blinked. "I think we just agreed to get married."
"Whoa."
"Yeah."
Buster sat down on the bench. "Sit down, Bum."
Madison joined him, stretching out and putting an arm along the top of the bench.
Posey sat with his elbows perched on his knees. "Not, like, tomorrow or anything, right?"
"God, no."
"Okay."
For a few moments, the two men sat in silence. A warm breeze rushed up the bluff and carried with it the smell of saltwater and the foaming whoosh of the waves.
Buster cleared his throat. "Eh...next spring? Or after the season?"
Madison smirked. "You know, a smart man once told me, 'Worry about later, later.'"
Buster sat up and smiled. He scooted over, fitting his body against Bumgarner's. "That's pretty good advice."
Madison wrapped his arm around Posey. "Best I ever got."
The two of them sat there on the bench and watched the sun sink below the horizon. They stayed on through the fiery red and glorious orange and into the deepening hues of night as the daylight was swallowed up into the blue-black Pacific.
Author: 2theletter
Rating: PG (language)
Pairing: Buster Posey/Madison Bumgarner
Synopsis: Buster returns to his damaged apartment, and Madison finds what he's looking for. And we jump ahead to life in the wake of a catastrophe.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Repeat -- this is only fiction. If this had been an actual emergency, you would have been instructed where to tune to find more information.
San Francisco -- 5:57 p.m. PST
The sun was setting. The warm hues of its fading rays were enhanced by the smoke in the air. The lights were out across most of the city, but an eerie orange glow filled in the horizon north of Buster's house. The Marina District was burning.
Buster found an old battery-powered radio hidden in the back of his bedroom closet. He didn't know how old the batteries were, but when he switched it on, the dial lit up and static emanated from the speaker. He fiddled with the dial until he found the KQED. Buster didn't realize how much he missed hearing human voices until the news anchor's calm bass rumbled out of the little radio. Maybe he should have invited Zito to stay with him for the night, or asked if he could stay with Barry for a while. Buster gathered up some flashlights and sat in his kitchen floor as the sunlight faded, listening to reports of crumpled bridges and crushed buildings and unknown numbers of victims. His stomach turned when he thought of Bumgarner driving on 101 that morning.
A few minutes before six, as the hills swallowed up the last of the sunlight and cast Buster's neighborhood into near-total darkness, he decided he might as well eat something. He flicked on a battery-powered lantern he kept under the bed. It was close to the sum total of his emergency kit, and he wished he'd taken the idea more seriously. Posey instinctively reached for the freezer door, and stopped himself. He wandered over to a cabinet instead and found a can of Spaghetti-Os. He shrugged and rummaged through a drawer to find a can opener. He emptied the pasta into a bowl and sat down at the kitchen table. He swept some broken glass off the tabletop with that morning's newspaper. He grabbed the radio off the floor and put it in front of him.
He was halfway through the bowl when he heard something click behind him. Oh, shit, he thought. Did I lock the door? He'd heard stories about looting the wake of disasters, and the thought immediately leapt into his mind. Some criminal or crazy person was breaking into his house. Maybe the person would hear the radio on and leave.
He heard the doorknob latch open and a slight squeal as the hinges flexed to allow the door open. Posey's blood ran cold. He didn't keep a gun in the apartment, and now he wished he did. His mind flashed back to a baseball bat he kept in the closet. If he moved now, and didn't make any noise, he might be able to get to it before the intruder got far into the house. Quietly, he put down his spoon and slid out of his chair. He crouched slightly and tiptoed across the linoleum, praying his shoes wouldn't squeak. He made it to the carpeted hallway as he heard slow footsteps coming toward the kitchen. Working without a flashlight, Posey had to feel around in the dark for the closet and thence for the bat itself. His heart was thumping furiously with adrenalin as his grip finally found the cool shaft of the bat. He seized it and pulled it close to him. Turning around, he walked back toward the kitchen, where he now heard the intruder's shoes crunching against the glass in the floor.
Steeling himself, Posey gripped the bat tightly and raised it over his shoulder. He walked into the room and saw the figure silhouetted in the light from the electric lantern. He stepped on a loose board, which gave a groan. Posey's heart stopped. He raised the bat as the tall figure turned to face him. Posey began to swing, and then he saw eyes.
Wide, fearful eyes. Familiar eyes. Eyes that could belong to only one person.
"Madison."
Bumgarner was himself terrified, and threw up his hands to block the bat. Posey was able to lay off the swing in enough time not to hit the pitcher. He let the bat drop to the floor and raised his hands to his face.
"Fuck. I almost killed you."
Madison stood speechless.
"I thought you were some crackhead breaking in to the place."
Buster felt strong arms embrace him. Madison nearly lifted him off the ground.
"Ow. Ow, Bum."
"Sorry," Bumgarner replied, but he didn't loosen his grip. "My God, I'm so glad to see you."
Buster freed an arm and wrapped it around Bumgarner's back. "I'm glad to see you. I was so worried."
Madison nodded against Posey's shoulder. "I never thought I'd see you again. I went to Cain's house, and you weren't there."
"It's okay now, buddy. I'm okay."
"No, you're not," came the reply. "Your head is all bandaged up."
"I know. But I'm going to be fine."
Buster could feel Madison's heart beating against his chest. He also felt lightheaded.
"Bum, I'm going to need to breathe sometime tonight."
"Sorry," Madison said again, this time releasing the catcher.
"It's okay. I, uh, was eating dinner when you came in. Least, best I could."
Bumgarner started salivating. "Dinner," he repeated, his voice carrying a reverence unparalleled outside of religious fanaticism.
Buster grabbed another can out of the cupboard and started opening it. He turned around to see Bumgarner tearing into a loaf of bread, stuffing a piece into his mouth.
"You're pretty hungry, huh?"
Madison nodded emphatically. He sat down at the table, relieved to take the weight off his tired legs.
"Where's your truck?" Buster asked.
"Huh?"
"Your truck, Bum. I didn't hear you drive up. Did you park on another block or something?"
"No," Madison said. "It's down on 101."
Buster looked at the younger man like he was crazy. "On 101."
"Yeah."
"You left your truck down the peninsula."
"Yeah."
"Why?"
Madison turned the volume down on the radio. "The, uh...the pavement dropped. Broke, I guess. You couldn't use the road."
"How the hell did you get here?"
Madison shrugged. "Walked. I mean, I was able to get a ride from a guy driving power truck. But mostly, I walked. That's why it took me so long."
Buster poured the can's contents into a bowl and set it in front of Bumgarner. "You walked?"
"I had to," Madison said, between bites. "Had to find you."
"Madison, that's more than ten miles from here. You could have gotten hurt. God knows what could have happened."
Bumgarner looked up from his bowl. He put the spoon down and stood up, walking to look Buster in the eyes.
"Buster, you don't understand," he said. His large hands grasped Posey's arms. "I didn't know what happened. I was driving, and then it started shaking...when they told me that there was an earthquake, and everything looked real bad--" His voice began to break. Tears formed at the edges of his eyes. "I thought...I thought--somethin' coulda happened to you. That you'd be hurt...or..."
He swallowed hard, trying to come up with the words. "And then I got to Matt's house, and there was your phone, all broken on the floor. And there was blood. Buster, your blood."
He closed his eyes, unable to finish the thought. He choked back a sob. "Sorry. Guys ain't supposed to cry."
Buster embraced Bumgarner, stifling back his own tears. "I think under the circumstances, you'll get away with it."
Madison's voice wavered. "That earthquake scared me to death. I thought it was the scariest thing that's ever happened to me. And then, all I could think about was you. And that's what really scared me. I'd never been so scared in my life."
The pitcher's broad shoulders heaved as he closed his eyes, his emotions finally getting the best of him. Buster stood there, his hands roaming over Bumgarner's back. He let Bumgarner unleash his frustrations for a solid ten minutes. Eventually, Madison's eyes dried and his breathing slowed from choked gasps to an even, steady flow. He pulled away from Buster.
"I had to," he said.
Buster understood. "I know."
Bumgarner wiped his nose on his sleeve and nodded. He sat back down at the table and finished eating.
After the improvised dinner, Madison took a flashlight and helped Buster round up bottles of water, band-aids and batteries from boxes and drawers around the apartment. At one point, he asked, "Where are we gonna stay tonight?"
Buster shrugged. "Here, I guess."
"Is it safe?"
"Safe as anywhere."
Another rumble emanated from the ground. The apartment creaked and groaned around the two men. Bumgarner gritted his teeth and held on to the kitchen counter for stability. Buster braced himself against the wall.
"Jesus," Madison drawled. Buster didn't say anything, wishing the firm earth would go back to being firm again.
They shoved chunks of plaster off Buster's bed and had sex that night in the pitch black, surrounded by broken bookshelves and cracked walls. It was slow and languid with no real purpose other than to confirm that they were still alive. They got a few hours of sleep and did it again in the pre-dawn gloom, the grunting of men and squeaking of springs punctuated by the occasional passage of an emergency vehicle. Its lights would flash through the bedroom window, briefly illuminating whoever was on top in red and blue, a surreal sight thrown into what was already the most surreal day either of them had ever lived.
After round two, Madison lay awake next to Buster, his skin still damp with sweat.
"Buster?" he whispered.
"What?"
"What are we supposed to do?"
Posey grasped Bumgarner's hand. "Let's worry about later, later."
They both drifted off into a half-sleep. When Buster awoke later, the sun was up. The pitcher's long arms were wrapped around Posey's torso and Madison's chest moved against his back with the steady breaths of a man in deep slumber. For a second, he forgot about the earthquake. And then it all flashed back into sharp relief. There was a disaster that awaited them once they woke up and started the new day.
So he pulled the sheets up over himself and Bumgarner and went back to sleep. He would worry about later, later.
___
Ballplayers aren't known for their introspection. The pitchers are more focused on the next start than on foreign policy. The hitters pay attention to a 3-2 count, not the stock market. Putting the earthquake into historical and cultural context is a job they leave to the historians. Just tell them when the next game is, and you've given them all the information they need to move on.
Even so, Buster was a little surprised no one was really talking about the 'quake when spring training began in earnest a few weeks later. Bochy delayed the start for a few days to make sure everyone could make it, but after that, it was business as usual. Madison theorized getting to Arizona was the kind of escape the team needed from the gloom of the city.
Bumgarner's house was pretty much wrecked, so he salvaged what he could from the place and made arrangement to move in with Buster. They both agreed it was an inevitability, anyway. Cain's house was still being worked on, so he, Chelsea and Hartley had taken up residence in an apartment in Daly City. He made a few jokes about the situation, but Buster could tell it was a stressful time for him.
Just weeks after the most devastating earthquake in a century, the signs of recovery started to appear. Streets were being repaired and businesses began to reopen as the team returned for the season opener. Stanford resumed classes, but it would Cal Berkeley months to get itself into working order. Their football games that fall had to be played on the road because Memorial Stadium was practically wrenched in two by the movement along the Hayward Fault.
But not everything could be fixed or ignored in the effort to return to normal. Traffic was a nightmare, since the bridges were all closed for inspections. The ailing Bay Bridge was out of commission for the whole summer; one of its sections had again separated and fallen onto the lower deck. The Giants who lived in the East Bay cursed the cantilever span every time they were running late and missed a BART train into the city.
Opening Day was mesmerizing. The ballpark sported cracks in its walls and concourses, but it held through the 'quake pretty well. The president was there, delivering remarks about the resiliency of the Bay Area and the spirit of California that would prevail through this latest crisis. He then threw a pitch that landed in the dirt five feet in front of Posey's mitt.
"It's the thought that counts," Aubrey Huff cracked.
But national sympathy didn't get the team to the postseason. The Giants fell behind the Padres, then the Rockies. And by September, they were in third place and ten games back from the Wild Card. The season ended with a brief morale boost as the Giants beat the Diamondbacks. It took thirteen innings. The score was 1-0.
Nate Schierholtz got married in October, not long after the season ended. The wedding was a beautiful affair in San Luis Obispo. The wedding was supposed to have been up at the Palace of Fine Arts, but Nate's fiance wanted to get far away from the city-cum-construction site that now occupied the tip of the peninsula. She wanted somewhere peaceful and beautiful, and she got it.
At the reception, the guests clumped together near the bar, and sat around the tables that ringed the dance floor. "Everlong" echoed across the room from big speakers set up on tripods at the DJ's table. Many of the guys from the team showed up. Every so often, another slightly inebriated Giant would walk up to Schierholtz and clap him on the back, slurring what a great thing this was and how super love was and Nate's wife would smile politely and take another sip of her champagne.
Bumgarner cracked a smile. "What?" Buster asked.
Madison nodded toward a table where Schierholtz and his wife sat. Finally, they had a moment to themselves without interruption. Their words were inaudible, but they kept laughing about something. Nate's grin glowed as brightly as his wife's white dress. She looked back at him with a mixture of awe and pride. They both looked like they'd just discovered the most magical thing on Earth, a secret only the two of them shared.
"They look great together," Buster said.
"Yeah, they do." Madison replied. He'd been twirling the stem of his wine glass between his thumb and forefinger, but suddenly stopped. "I need some air. You wanna take a walk?"
Posey nodded. "Sure."
The two men stood and walked out a set of double doors, into a warm breeze and a world tinted red as the sun sank toward the horizon. The view was spectacular, looking right off a bluff and onto the Pacific Ocean stretching wide in front of them.
Madison immediately loosened his tie and drew in a deep breath. "I hate wearin' these damn things."
Posey chuckled. "You can take the boy out of the country..."
Madison brushed a thumb over one of his nostrils, trying to satisfy an itch. "You ever think about it?"
"Think about what?"
The younger man hooked a thumb back toward the open doors of the reception hall. "That. What it'd be like to get married."
Posey cocked his head to one side, considering the question. "Yeah, sometimes."
Bumgarner couldn't suppress a mischievous smile. "To who?"
Posey didn't miss a beat. "Zito."
Madison laughed and shook his head in wonder.
"Why," Posey said. "Got someone in mind?"
"I dunno. Maybe."
"You know, people always say they'd walk through fire for someone." Posey glanced at Bumgarner. "But how many of them can say they actually did? You walked through fire and chaos and calamity. For me. You did that for me."
Madison blushed and ducked his head.
"So, you know, that does tend to point to a certain person, yeah."
Bumgarner stopped near a bench and stretched his arms above his head. "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"You askin'?"
"Sounds like you are."
"Naw," Bumgarner said, smiling. "I'm speculatin'."
"Well," Buster replied, pulling Bumgarner toward him. "Let's speculate that I say 'yes.'"
"Then I speculate you better get used to being called the other Mr. Bumgarner."
Buster kissed him and smiled. "You mean you're going to be the other Mr. Posey."
"That remains to be seen."
"What?"
"You ain't said yes."
"Neither did you."
"Well, now I am."
"Good. So am I."
"Okay."
"Okay."
Buster jerked his head back slightly. "Wait. What did we just do?"
Bumgarner blinked. "I think we just agreed to get married."
"Whoa."
"Yeah."
Buster sat down on the bench. "Sit down, Bum."
Madison joined him, stretching out and putting an arm along the top of the bench.
Posey sat with his elbows perched on his knees. "Not, like, tomorrow or anything, right?"
"God, no."
"Okay."
For a few moments, the two men sat in silence. A warm breeze rushed up the bluff and carried with it the smell of saltwater and the foaming whoosh of the waves.
Buster cleared his throat. "Eh...next spring? Or after the season?"
Madison smirked. "You know, a smart man once told me, 'Worry about later, later.'"
Buster sat up and smiled. He scooted over, fitting his body against Bumgarner's. "That's pretty good advice."
Madison wrapped his arm around Posey. "Best I ever got."
The two of them sat there on the bench and watched the sun sink below the horizon. They stayed on through the fiery red and glorious orange and into the deepening hues of night as the daylight was swallowed up into the blue-black Pacific.