Pinge!
This all started because of a photo in a Detroit newspaper online gallery, of Pudge and Brandon Inge looking ridiculous and adorable together.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
Lakeland
If there's one thing Brandon Inge loves about spring training, more than the fact that he can now wear his socks as high as he wants with a pair of shorts and no one will laugh at him, more than the excuse he now has to eat ice cream every day (Florida, hey, made for ice cream), more than anything, really, he loves the fact that they can go out and play and goof around and haze the rookies and just totally not think about anything ever beyond playing ball and basking in the sun.
Of course it's different for the guys trying to make the squad, the guys out of minor league options and the nonroster invitees, but Inge’s pretty sure he's on the team. He's not real sure where he's playing just yet, but it's not like they're gonna leave him to rot in double-A ball all season or something. He's kind of hoping that he won't have to catch again this year, though. There's that Canadian kid with the french accent and the stylish blonde hair and the good jawline, there's Shelton, with a look of permanent mild puzzlement on his face. There's some guy named Martinez who just showed up in the spring with a D on his hat. What there is, is a whole bunch of backup catchers, really, no need for him to be in there.
But mostly there's just Pudge. Pudge who always looked 20 times better than he had any right to, and who rolled into Lakeland with his belt tight around his waist, looking like a million bucks. More than a million bucks, heck, $40 million, and that's about what he lost those excess pounds to earn, right? The planes of his face, always so unlike anyone else's, now more pronounced than ever and yeah, Pudge looks good. Younger. Fitter. Just, yeah, Inge’s not real into the whole 'thinking' thing, so he sticks with 'good' and leaves it at that.
They've got their crisp home whites on for practice, the bright Florida sun making them glow, the navy ornate Ds on everyone's chests squiggling in yellow afterimages behind Inge's eyelids. Tram's got him catching for morning workouts, which, OK, whatever. The indigo chest padding is warm on his front, and his tongue is sticking out the side of his mouth as he tries to not get beaned in the balls, because this early in the year that's totally within the realm of, you know, possibility for these pitchers. Inge’s already almost had his cup drilled into him twice by Mike Maroth, and he's starting to think that now Maroth is doing it on purpose. Jason Johnson standing a few feet away giggling like mad could be a pretty good indication. Maroth sends another ball into the dirt, where it skips up funny and comes within mere fucking inches of removing Inge's will to live because he was thinking about what pitch was being thrown and not paying attention to where his glove was. Johnson shoves his knuckles into his mouth to stifle his laughter, and man, this whole catching thing, it is like entirely counter to the whole Brandon Inge Philosophy of Spring Training, the first rule of which is obviously Thou Shalt Not Do Any Damn Thing That Involves Too Much Thinking or Thou Shalt Surely Be Knocked in the Nads by a Pair of Giggly Pitchers.
Pudge and Tram are watching this happen from the sidelines, as it were, two pairs of tan arms crossed over white-suited chests, thin, seamed face and broad, smooth one tilted together. The two wise men observing the rabble, discussing their activities on some loftier level, and Inge knows there's some kind of difference between the kind of wisdom that comes from playing 20 seasons for the Tigers and the kind that comes from playing 14 seasons with mostly Texas, some difference between a manager and a catcher, but so far as he's concerned they're both talking way over his head anyways, so far up there that they might as well be exactly the same kind of baseball-smart that he’s not. Maroth sends one way wide, and he has to lunge and just barely feels it with the absolute tip of his glove.
He's lying there in the dirt, full extension, sort of on his side, legs all splayed and arms all way out over his head, squinting to see if he got the ball or not but he can't really tell 'cause his mask kind of slipped down over his eyes a little, and he sees a pair of long dark shadows bruise the dirt right in front of his head. One rounds, changes shape, darkens as someone goes into a smooth catcher's crouch next to him, and a hand undoes the straps of his mask and lifts it off. He gets an elbow under himself and kind of lifts his torso off the dirt, squints at his glove. Huh. Got that ball.
Inge takes the hand offered to him, lets Pudge pull him to his feet. Pudge is looking up slightly as he wipes his hand over Inge’s chest protector, getting the worst of the caked dirt off the navy blue padding. Pudge is not wearing any catcher's gear, and it's kinda weird for Inge, standing here with all his stuff on, taller and better armored than Pudge, sweaty and scuffed all over with dirt from a spectacular diving catch, and all Pudge has to do is rest his big capable hand in the middle of Inge’s chest protector, dangle Inge’s mask from two fingers of his other hand, and he looks about a million times more capable a catcher than Inge ever will.
40 million, even.
This takes like a minute, during which time Inge is thinking about Pudge and not where Maroth, that fucker, got to, because the thinking thing again, right? One thing at a time. Then Pudge apparently declares him clean enough, pats him once on the shoulder and gives him back his mask. Inge smiles, big and goofy, spotting Maroth over the shoulder of Alan Trammell, who came over with Pudge and was watching the weird dichotomy of suited-up Inge looking less of a catcher than dressed-to-bat Pudge with a slanted and speculative gaze that Inge saw in passing and pretty much disregarded, because it was totally more important to go rag on Maroth for throwing such a retard ball, and to make sure that Jason Johnson, giggling wonder, saw that he had indeed made the catch, nothing to giggle at. Pudge smiled and folded his arms again, and Inge attempted to tackle Maroth for being a fucking pitcher, and it was spring training.
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A couple of days later Tram comes up to Inge when he's all out of breath, bent over huffing in the field, recovering from a round of wind sprints up and down the baselines. "You're third base now," Tram says, and Inge straightens up.
"For real?" Oh man, he wants to have heard that right.
Tram just smiles, slightly crooked grin crinkling in the corners of his eyes. "For real," he says, "unless there’s something else happening in the office I haven’t heard, third base, full-time," and then it's real and arright! This is totally the coolest thing to happen so far at spring training, even cooler than when they made that Verlander kid go out and buy them the biggest and nastiest bottle of vodka you could buy while dressed up like some kinda transvestite with a wig and a dress and bad makeup and everything, Pena and Dmitri sitting in the car outside the store to make sure he’d do it, laughing their asses off, Bobby Higginson hanging around outside with a camera to document Verlander coming out of the store, because Higgy’s creepy like that-- oh yeah, this is way better. No more catching!
Inge cannot contain his enthusiasm over this, so he runs over to where the pitchers are doing their thing, and there's Pudge, again not wearing his gear but this time standing next to the Canadian kid, giving him pointers and encouragement and probably telling him embarassing stories about Higgy to put him at ease, because Pudge is good like that. Helping the minor leaguers is not something Inge cares about right now, though, so he totally ignores the kid and leaps on top of Pudge, hollering like a crazy person, because hey, he kind of is sometimes.
Pudge staggers back a step, surprised, and puts his arms around Inge’s waist to steady them both. Inge kind of wraps his legs around Pudge for balance, and starts pounding on his shoulders, yelling, "I don't hafta catch anymore! I'm the starting third baseman! No more catching! No more catching!"
Pudge's laughing now, got his feet steady under him, butting his head against Inge’s stomach to try and calm him down. "What are you, man, three? Calm down, compadre, you gonna pull somethin' like that." After hollering and whaling away for another minute or so Inge does calm down, tucking his legs more securely around Pudge so his ankles lock together over the numbers on the back of Pudge's jersey, hugging Pudge around the neck and resting his cheek on the top of Pudge's head, so he can giggle happily to himself for a while. Pudge chuckles again and lets him, twining his fingers loosely so that his forearms take most of Inge’s weight as he holds him up. Another couple of minutes pass, and Inge is calm enough to let go and regain his own feet. He's still giggling. He can't believe how happy the simple thought of not having to be a catcher any longer has made him.
Pudge laughs, shaking his head, picking his hat up off the dirt where it was sent flying by Inge’s forceful glee and whacking it against his thigh, thwack thwack thwack, before putting it back on. Inge is bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning from ear to ear, and Pudge laughs again, makes a fist and puts it to Inge’s left shoulder, just above the D on his jersey, and leaves it there, knuckles pressing lightly. "Man," he says again, "I'm glad you happy with this, but you gotta go crazy? Some of us are crazy for catching, yeah?" He shoves off with his fist, rocking Inge back ever so slightly, and pauses, smiling but thoughtful. Inge cocks his head to one side, hey, what's up dude?, but Pudge does a little mini-shrug and grins, leans in, cups Inge’s face with one hand and kisses him gently on the cheek. He pats his face once, turns Inge around and shoves him gently back towards the fielders. "Go on and do some fieldin' then, yeah?"
Inge is still grinning like a moron, giggling like a moron, and he starts to skip back to the fielding squad workouts, to work on being a third baseman and nothing but a third baseman, yay! Happy! The sun is warm on his dark blue hat, and Pudge is calling out behind him. "Hey, Inge." Inge pauses and turns his head to look back. Pudge has his thumbs hooked into his belt, a smile as wide as the Canadian border on his face.
"Congrat'lations on the base."
Inge gives an enormous whoop, throws his hands up into the air and starts giggling madly again. He suddenly notices the French-sounding catcher, who's been standing there during this entire encounter, and who has a look of complete and utter horror on his face, like he can't believe what the hell he just saw or something, which of course just makes Inge start giggling harder, and he has to turn back towards the fielders and start heading out that way, or he'd just collapse on the grass and totally laugh until he wet himself.
The rookies never quite know how to deal with the public affection of guys like Pudge or Urbina, guys don't act like that in the minors, it's totally fucking fantastic to see them bug out when they get to play with the big boys. The coming season looks totally fucking fantastic. Third base looks totally fucking fantastic. Inge is uplifted by the total fucking fantastic nature of life right now. Coming up to the fielders’ practice, he sees Magglio Ordonez fielding balls on the fly, Carlos Guillen stretching his knee in the grass, Nook Logan running from first to second and back again. Everyone looks perfect and professional in their uniforms and this bright sun. Spring training in Lakeland, Brandon thinks, is totally fucking fantastic.
Ice cream, he thinks, is the only thing left that could make this day better. He’s totally taking the guys out for ice cream tonight.
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Another day of spring training, an intersquad game, Tiger against Tiger, home white against travel gray, everyone goofing around and no one taking anything too seriously. Inge stands at third and the number of things he has to think about in order to play well has been effectively halved. Thirded, maybe. Fourthed, even. It's crazy how much easier everything seems now, like he was carting around Franklyn German on his shoulders and didn't even notice until the lardball finally got off and he felt the huge release of weight and pressure. He looks at Pudge, who's crouched easily behind the plate, fingers deftly flickering signs between his legs, and wonders how the hell anyone makes catching look that good.
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After the game only a few guys actually go straight to the showers. Spring training is winding to a close, and everyone wants to milk it for as long as they can, enjoying the lazy tempo of baseball played well, but played without tension or stress. Inge drops himself onto a bench, still in full uniform, lying down with his back pressed to the warm wood, arms behind his head and his legs hanging off either side. Ledezma throws a wadded up towel at him but misses by several feet, which is pretty much indicative of Willy’s entire spring training so far, and Inge doesn’t move, just closes his eyes lazily and snickers.
Someone picks up his legs, settles onto the bench, letting Inge’s legs back down to rest on top of a pleasantly firm lap. Inge cracks an eye and waggles his fingers at Pudge, then closes his eyes again and carefully toes off his cleats, hate to jab Pudge in the thigh or something. Pudge tickles his feet and Inge twitches his legs spastically, saying, “Hey, hey, quit it, that tickles, cut it out dude,” in between giggles. After a bit Pudge does stop and just rests one of his hands across Inge’s shins. The other one carefully cups Inge’s right foot, thick catcher fingers warm through the blue socks. It was a good spring training game, and Inge is content to lie there, quiet while his teammates horse around about him, eyes closed, Pudge on the end of the bench. Urbina stops briefly to hold a short conversation in Spanish with Pudge, but other than that no one bothers either one of them.
It doesn’t take too long for the clubhouse to quiet down as people filter off to the showers and then back out into the sunshine. Inge is pretty much asleep, and at first he barely notices when the hand on his foot moves to his calf and cups around it. Pudge’s thumb strokes over the rise of muscle, which causes Inge to open one eye and peer blearily down across his body. Pudge is very carefully rubbing Inge’s calf with a look of quiet wonder, or appreciation, or something on his face.
“Mngh,” Inge says, sleepily shifting, and Pudge glances up, smiling. Inge raises himself on one arm and takes in the empty lockerroom, his high, navy socks across the white of Pudge’s uniform-clad thighs, the brown of Pudge’s hand around his leg. “What,” he adds, articulately, forgetting to even put an interrogative noise in there. He yawns widely and knows that Pudge will know what he means anyways. Screw the language barrier, man, Pudge is a smart dude and knows all, so far as Inge is concerned.
“You got great calves, ‘migo,” Pudge says, “you coulda been catcher if you wanted.” He rubs Inge’s calf more obviously to reinforce the point, his palm moving in slow circles, the calluses there from years of gripping bats and balls and gloves rasping slightly over the sock.
Inge snorts. “Maybe. I don’t have the, y’know, the thighs for it, though. Not like you. I never had that kinda muscle.” He bounces his legs against Pudge’s lap, feels the tightly coiled strength there, less cushioned by fat than last season but with not a whit less muscle. Pudge makes a small, disbelieving noise. Inge cocks his head and raises an eyebrow. “C’mon man, there’s, like, no doubt about that.”
Pudge wrinkles his nose skeptically and leans forward, reaching out and grabbing Inge’s thigh, squeezing lightly. Inge stops bouncing his legs, goes still. It’s pretty obvious that he’s not that big a guy, variously listed as somewhere between 188 and 195 pounds, even he doesn’t know his exact weight, probably up a little from all the ice cream he’s eaten in recent weeks, but even a slimmed-down Pudge has more muscle-mass than he does, and he thinks that Pudge can immediately feel this in his thigh, and yeah, Inge wins the argument, such as it was, but Pudge doesn’t let go and sit back and say, “Yeah, guess you were right,” like Inge thinks he will.
Instead he slides his hand a little higher, letting his thumb drift down to the inside of Inge’s thigh, and OK. Um. “I t’ink you got fine thighs,” Pudge says quietly, and Inge doesn’t quite know what to think. He knows that most of the Dominican ballplayers of his experience are pretty touchy, and that Pudge is more tactile than most and is from Puerto Rico anyways, but this, well. He still hasn’t moved his hand and has, in fact, moved his other one to a mirror position on Inge’s other thigh. And now he’s swung his legs around so he’s straddling the bench and Inge’s calves are on either side of his waist and his hands are still on Inge’s thighs, and Inge is sitting up with his hands behind his butt to hold himself upright, his shoulders hunched forward and his eyes pretty big.
Pudge reaches out and snags the belt loops of Inge’s pants with his hands, pulls Inge forward along the smooth bench until his thighs are lying completely on top of Pudge’s own, his ankles dangling down like a little kid and pretty much in Pudge’s lap, which would reinforce the little kid thing but no, this is definitely not about young players or the veteran mentoring the kids or any of that stuff. Pudge has one hand still in Inge’s belt loops to hold him in place and the other one is back on his thigh, way higher than it was before, thumb slipping into the little valley where his leg meets his waist, pressing down slightly there.
“I t’ink your thighs are fine,” Pudge repeats, even more quietly, and Inge may not be the shiniest helmet in the locker but he’s pretty sure this isn’t about his dubious catcher’s build anymore. He’s leaned in to hear what Pudge was saying, which is apparently what Pudge wanted, because he leans forward the rest of the way and kisses Inge, oh boy, not on the cheek like usual, no sir, most emphatically not on the cheek like usual. Inge pretty much lets his mouth fall slightly open in shock, and hello, that’s a tongue. Pudge tilts his head to get a better angle, somehow managing to be aggressive and gentle at the same time, and Inge decides to go with what he knows best, which is just not thinking about anything at all.
Pudge leans back and reaches up to rub his thumb over the little blonde patch under Inge’s lower lip, resting his fingers along Inge’s jawline, and Inge thinks that this pretty definitely beats out getting told that he’ll play third base for the most fucking fantastic thing to happen this spring training.
It must be pretty obvious, because Inge has always had that little-kid-ish inability to keep his emotions off his face, and Pudge is smart enough to see that stuff. He smiles his huge, famous Pudge Rodriguez smile, teeth numerous and bright, bright white, so white that they make his uniform look gray, leans in again and murmers, “Brandon.”
Inge makes a noise that isn’t a moan and isn’t a groan but isn’t any kind of word and leans his forehead against Pudge’s, big goofy smile on his face, arms wrapping around Pudge’s shoulders and this doesn’t feel as weird as it maybe, probably, definitly should. Pudge rubs his thumb up and down so the patch on Inge’s chin gets scuffed the wrong way and smoothed out again. “Brandon,” he says again, quieter than quiet, quieter than Comerica Park on a day when no one’s playing. He says something else, quieter than that, which Inge can’t quite hear.
“What,” he says, squiggling his forehead happily closer so his nose rubs against Pudge’s, what the hell, why not, right? He picks up his dangling stockinged feet and interlocks his ankles behind Pudge’s back, pulls himself up so he’s definitely, undeniably on Pudge’s lap entire, and oh man the hilarity if the Canadian catcher walked in now, how his rookie sensibilities would be offended. Inge giggles again, but manages to rein it in. “What’d you say, man?”
Pudge chuckles and slides his thumb down, pulling Inge’s chin, lowering it so he can look him in the eyes. “You’da been fine as a catcher,” he says, still quiet, trademark Pudge-intense, but mirth dancing lightly behind his eyes, “but I’m glad you’re not ‘nymore.” Inge mulls that over and looks down to ask why, but Pudge sees the question before he asks it, of course, always a step and a mile ahead, and smiles as he says, “I know you like t’play every day, so I’m jus’ happy you not gunnin’ for my job no more. Or this,” he reached down again, squeezed Inge’s thigh, “this’d jus’ be crazy.”
“It’s not crazy now?” Inge is not quite whispering, but it feels like a question that should be asked in an almost whisper, so he goes with that.
Pudge rubs his thigh thoughtfully, moves his hand up and up and in, and Inge makes the not-moan noise again, but Pudge leans in and, just brushing Inge’s lips with his own, smiles and presses his palm down. Inge draws in his breath sharply and tries not to squeak, and Pudge says, “Inge. Inge. Brandon. You tell me, man. You tell me.”
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The next day Inge buys ice cream for the entire team after practice, even remembering to get peppermint stick for Dmitri, who won’t eat any other flavor, and frozen yogurt for Bonderman, who’s sensitive about his weight.
He’s grinning like crazy all day long, but he won’t tell anyone why, not even when Maroth plunks him on the head with a rosin bag and tells him to stop being such a weird giggly fucker.
Pudge sits with Tram in the dugout, both of them scooping up vanilla ice cream, pointing with their spoons at sheets of stats strewn across their knees, discussing the team and the lineup and the upcoming season. Inge plops down next to them, jumps back up wincing, then sort of stands in front of them doing a little look-at-me dance on the balls of his feet. Pudge smiles without looking up, rubbing his thumb thoughtfully along the spoon, but Alan looks up in mildly amused annoyance.
“Rookie’s got himself in a spot,” Inge reports, absolutely grinning like a moron for no discernable reason, and Trammell sighs and gets up to, it turns out, extricate Justin Verlander from the clubhouse locker into which an unconvincingly nonchalant Jason Johnson has somehow stuffed him.
Ledezma is lying in the grass in center field while Nook Logan sprinkles grass over his head, young Curtis Granderson is listening to some story Magglio Ordonez is nattering on about like it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard, Infante and Guillen are sitting in a pair of plastic chairs taking turns poking each other in the knee to see who winces first. Dmitri Young is ragging mercilessly on Kyle Farnsworth for wearing the tightest pants possible and is getting away with it because Farnsworth isn’t quite crazy enough to antagonize Dmitri yet.
Johnson is getting a stern talking-to from an exasperated Trammell, Verlander is bright red and embarrassed, Maroth is leaning on a wall cackling madly. Carlos Pena is ignoring them all and running wind sprints all by himself, serious and intent, up and down along the outfield fences. Urbina is asleep on the infield grass, a towel over his head. Everyone is eating ice cream.
Inge bumps his hip against Pudge’s knee, and Pudge looks up with a smile, a catcher to a third baseman, 2005 is full of hope and 2005 is full of promise, and they’re the Detroit Tigers and it is spring training in Florida and there are a lot of things that Brandon Inge loves about spring training.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
Lakeland
If there's one thing Brandon Inge loves about spring training, more than the fact that he can now wear his socks as high as he wants with a pair of shorts and no one will laugh at him, more than the excuse he now has to eat ice cream every day (Florida, hey, made for ice cream), more than anything, really, he loves the fact that they can go out and play and goof around and haze the rookies and just totally not think about anything ever beyond playing ball and basking in the sun.
Of course it's different for the guys trying to make the squad, the guys out of minor league options and the nonroster invitees, but Inge’s pretty sure he's on the team. He's not real sure where he's playing just yet, but it's not like they're gonna leave him to rot in double-A ball all season or something. He's kind of hoping that he won't have to catch again this year, though. There's that Canadian kid with the french accent and the stylish blonde hair and the good jawline, there's Shelton, with a look of permanent mild puzzlement on his face. There's some guy named Martinez who just showed up in the spring with a D on his hat. What there is, is a whole bunch of backup catchers, really, no need for him to be in there.
But mostly there's just Pudge. Pudge who always looked 20 times better than he had any right to, and who rolled into Lakeland with his belt tight around his waist, looking like a million bucks. More than a million bucks, heck, $40 million, and that's about what he lost those excess pounds to earn, right? The planes of his face, always so unlike anyone else's, now more pronounced than ever and yeah, Pudge looks good. Younger. Fitter. Just, yeah, Inge’s not real into the whole 'thinking' thing, so he sticks with 'good' and leaves it at that.
They've got their crisp home whites on for practice, the bright Florida sun making them glow, the navy ornate Ds on everyone's chests squiggling in yellow afterimages behind Inge's eyelids. Tram's got him catching for morning workouts, which, OK, whatever. The indigo chest padding is warm on his front, and his tongue is sticking out the side of his mouth as he tries to not get beaned in the balls, because this early in the year that's totally within the realm of, you know, possibility for these pitchers. Inge’s already almost had his cup drilled into him twice by Mike Maroth, and he's starting to think that now Maroth is doing it on purpose. Jason Johnson standing a few feet away giggling like mad could be a pretty good indication. Maroth sends another ball into the dirt, where it skips up funny and comes within mere fucking inches of removing Inge's will to live because he was thinking about what pitch was being thrown and not paying attention to where his glove was. Johnson shoves his knuckles into his mouth to stifle his laughter, and man, this whole catching thing, it is like entirely counter to the whole Brandon Inge Philosophy of Spring Training, the first rule of which is obviously Thou Shalt Not Do Any Damn Thing That Involves Too Much Thinking or Thou Shalt Surely Be Knocked in the Nads by a Pair of Giggly Pitchers.
Pudge and Tram are watching this happen from the sidelines, as it were, two pairs of tan arms crossed over white-suited chests, thin, seamed face and broad, smooth one tilted together. The two wise men observing the rabble, discussing their activities on some loftier level, and Inge knows there's some kind of difference between the kind of wisdom that comes from playing 20 seasons for the Tigers and the kind that comes from playing 14 seasons with mostly Texas, some difference between a manager and a catcher, but so far as he's concerned they're both talking way over his head anyways, so far up there that they might as well be exactly the same kind of baseball-smart that he’s not. Maroth sends one way wide, and he has to lunge and just barely feels it with the absolute tip of his glove.
He's lying there in the dirt, full extension, sort of on his side, legs all splayed and arms all way out over his head, squinting to see if he got the ball or not but he can't really tell 'cause his mask kind of slipped down over his eyes a little, and he sees a pair of long dark shadows bruise the dirt right in front of his head. One rounds, changes shape, darkens as someone goes into a smooth catcher's crouch next to him, and a hand undoes the straps of his mask and lifts it off. He gets an elbow under himself and kind of lifts his torso off the dirt, squints at his glove. Huh. Got that ball.
Inge takes the hand offered to him, lets Pudge pull him to his feet. Pudge is looking up slightly as he wipes his hand over Inge’s chest protector, getting the worst of the caked dirt off the navy blue padding. Pudge is not wearing any catcher's gear, and it's kinda weird for Inge, standing here with all his stuff on, taller and better armored than Pudge, sweaty and scuffed all over with dirt from a spectacular diving catch, and all Pudge has to do is rest his big capable hand in the middle of Inge’s chest protector, dangle Inge’s mask from two fingers of his other hand, and he looks about a million times more capable a catcher than Inge ever will.
40 million, even.
This takes like a minute, during which time Inge is thinking about Pudge and not where Maroth, that fucker, got to, because the thinking thing again, right? One thing at a time. Then Pudge apparently declares him clean enough, pats him once on the shoulder and gives him back his mask. Inge smiles, big and goofy, spotting Maroth over the shoulder of Alan Trammell, who came over with Pudge and was watching the weird dichotomy of suited-up Inge looking less of a catcher than dressed-to-bat Pudge with a slanted and speculative gaze that Inge saw in passing and pretty much disregarded, because it was totally more important to go rag on Maroth for throwing such a retard ball, and to make sure that Jason Johnson, giggling wonder, saw that he had indeed made the catch, nothing to giggle at. Pudge smiled and folded his arms again, and Inge attempted to tackle Maroth for being a fucking pitcher, and it was spring training.
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A couple of days later Tram comes up to Inge when he's all out of breath, bent over huffing in the field, recovering from a round of wind sprints up and down the baselines. "You're third base now," Tram says, and Inge straightens up.
"For real?" Oh man, he wants to have heard that right.
Tram just smiles, slightly crooked grin crinkling in the corners of his eyes. "For real," he says, "unless there’s something else happening in the office I haven’t heard, third base, full-time," and then it's real and arright! This is totally the coolest thing to happen so far at spring training, even cooler than when they made that Verlander kid go out and buy them the biggest and nastiest bottle of vodka you could buy while dressed up like some kinda transvestite with a wig and a dress and bad makeup and everything, Pena and Dmitri sitting in the car outside the store to make sure he’d do it, laughing their asses off, Bobby Higginson hanging around outside with a camera to document Verlander coming out of the store, because Higgy’s creepy like that-- oh yeah, this is way better. No more catching!
Inge cannot contain his enthusiasm over this, so he runs over to where the pitchers are doing their thing, and there's Pudge, again not wearing his gear but this time standing next to the Canadian kid, giving him pointers and encouragement and probably telling him embarassing stories about Higgy to put him at ease, because Pudge is good like that. Helping the minor leaguers is not something Inge cares about right now, though, so he totally ignores the kid and leaps on top of Pudge, hollering like a crazy person, because hey, he kind of is sometimes.
Pudge staggers back a step, surprised, and puts his arms around Inge’s waist to steady them both. Inge kind of wraps his legs around Pudge for balance, and starts pounding on his shoulders, yelling, "I don't hafta catch anymore! I'm the starting third baseman! No more catching! No more catching!"
Pudge's laughing now, got his feet steady under him, butting his head against Inge’s stomach to try and calm him down. "What are you, man, three? Calm down, compadre, you gonna pull somethin' like that." After hollering and whaling away for another minute or so Inge does calm down, tucking his legs more securely around Pudge so his ankles lock together over the numbers on the back of Pudge's jersey, hugging Pudge around the neck and resting his cheek on the top of Pudge's head, so he can giggle happily to himself for a while. Pudge chuckles again and lets him, twining his fingers loosely so that his forearms take most of Inge’s weight as he holds him up. Another couple of minutes pass, and Inge is calm enough to let go and regain his own feet. He's still giggling. He can't believe how happy the simple thought of not having to be a catcher any longer has made him.
Pudge laughs, shaking his head, picking his hat up off the dirt where it was sent flying by Inge’s forceful glee and whacking it against his thigh, thwack thwack thwack, before putting it back on. Inge is bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning from ear to ear, and Pudge laughs again, makes a fist and puts it to Inge’s left shoulder, just above the D on his jersey, and leaves it there, knuckles pressing lightly. "Man," he says again, "I'm glad you happy with this, but you gotta go crazy? Some of us are crazy for catching, yeah?" He shoves off with his fist, rocking Inge back ever so slightly, and pauses, smiling but thoughtful. Inge cocks his head to one side, hey, what's up dude?, but Pudge does a little mini-shrug and grins, leans in, cups Inge’s face with one hand and kisses him gently on the cheek. He pats his face once, turns Inge around and shoves him gently back towards the fielders. "Go on and do some fieldin' then, yeah?"
Inge is still grinning like a moron, giggling like a moron, and he starts to skip back to the fielding squad workouts, to work on being a third baseman and nothing but a third baseman, yay! Happy! The sun is warm on his dark blue hat, and Pudge is calling out behind him. "Hey, Inge." Inge pauses and turns his head to look back. Pudge has his thumbs hooked into his belt, a smile as wide as the Canadian border on his face.
"Congrat'lations on the base."
Inge gives an enormous whoop, throws his hands up into the air and starts giggling madly again. He suddenly notices the French-sounding catcher, who's been standing there during this entire encounter, and who has a look of complete and utter horror on his face, like he can't believe what the hell he just saw or something, which of course just makes Inge start giggling harder, and he has to turn back towards the fielders and start heading out that way, or he'd just collapse on the grass and totally laugh until he wet himself.
The rookies never quite know how to deal with the public affection of guys like Pudge or Urbina, guys don't act like that in the minors, it's totally fucking fantastic to see them bug out when they get to play with the big boys. The coming season looks totally fucking fantastic. Third base looks totally fucking fantastic. Inge is uplifted by the total fucking fantastic nature of life right now. Coming up to the fielders’ practice, he sees Magglio Ordonez fielding balls on the fly, Carlos Guillen stretching his knee in the grass, Nook Logan running from first to second and back again. Everyone looks perfect and professional in their uniforms and this bright sun. Spring training in Lakeland, Brandon thinks, is totally fucking fantastic.
Ice cream, he thinks, is the only thing left that could make this day better. He’s totally taking the guys out for ice cream tonight.
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Another day of spring training, an intersquad game, Tiger against Tiger, home white against travel gray, everyone goofing around and no one taking anything too seriously. Inge stands at third and the number of things he has to think about in order to play well has been effectively halved. Thirded, maybe. Fourthed, even. It's crazy how much easier everything seems now, like he was carting around Franklyn German on his shoulders and didn't even notice until the lardball finally got off and he felt the huge release of weight and pressure. He looks at Pudge, who's crouched easily behind the plate, fingers deftly flickering signs between his legs, and wonders how the hell anyone makes catching look that good.
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After the game only a few guys actually go straight to the showers. Spring training is winding to a close, and everyone wants to milk it for as long as they can, enjoying the lazy tempo of baseball played well, but played without tension or stress. Inge drops himself onto a bench, still in full uniform, lying down with his back pressed to the warm wood, arms behind his head and his legs hanging off either side. Ledezma throws a wadded up towel at him but misses by several feet, which is pretty much indicative of Willy’s entire spring training so far, and Inge doesn’t move, just closes his eyes lazily and snickers.
Someone picks up his legs, settles onto the bench, letting Inge’s legs back down to rest on top of a pleasantly firm lap. Inge cracks an eye and waggles his fingers at Pudge, then closes his eyes again and carefully toes off his cleats, hate to jab Pudge in the thigh or something. Pudge tickles his feet and Inge twitches his legs spastically, saying, “Hey, hey, quit it, that tickles, cut it out dude,” in between giggles. After a bit Pudge does stop and just rests one of his hands across Inge’s shins. The other one carefully cups Inge’s right foot, thick catcher fingers warm through the blue socks. It was a good spring training game, and Inge is content to lie there, quiet while his teammates horse around about him, eyes closed, Pudge on the end of the bench. Urbina stops briefly to hold a short conversation in Spanish with Pudge, but other than that no one bothers either one of them.
It doesn’t take too long for the clubhouse to quiet down as people filter off to the showers and then back out into the sunshine. Inge is pretty much asleep, and at first he barely notices when the hand on his foot moves to his calf and cups around it. Pudge’s thumb strokes over the rise of muscle, which causes Inge to open one eye and peer blearily down across his body. Pudge is very carefully rubbing Inge’s calf with a look of quiet wonder, or appreciation, or something on his face.
“Mngh,” Inge says, sleepily shifting, and Pudge glances up, smiling. Inge raises himself on one arm and takes in the empty lockerroom, his high, navy socks across the white of Pudge’s uniform-clad thighs, the brown of Pudge’s hand around his leg. “What,” he adds, articulately, forgetting to even put an interrogative noise in there. He yawns widely and knows that Pudge will know what he means anyways. Screw the language barrier, man, Pudge is a smart dude and knows all, so far as Inge is concerned.
“You got great calves, ‘migo,” Pudge says, “you coulda been catcher if you wanted.” He rubs Inge’s calf more obviously to reinforce the point, his palm moving in slow circles, the calluses there from years of gripping bats and balls and gloves rasping slightly over the sock.
Inge snorts. “Maybe. I don’t have the, y’know, the thighs for it, though. Not like you. I never had that kinda muscle.” He bounces his legs against Pudge’s lap, feels the tightly coiled strength there, less cushioned by fat than last season but with not a whit less muscle. Pudge makes a small, disbelieving noise. Inge cocks his head and raises an eyebrow. “C’mon man, there’s, like, no doubt about that.”
Pudge wrinkles his nose skeptically and leans forward, reaching out and grabbing Inge’s thigh, squeezing lightly. Inge stops bouncing his legs, goes still. It’s pretty obvious that he’s not that big a guy, variously listed as somewhere between 188 and 195 pounds, even he doesn’t know his exact weight, probably up a little from all the ice cream he’s eaten in recent weeks, but even a slimmed-down Pudge has more muscle-mass than he does, and he thinks that Pudge can immediately feel this in his thigh, and yeah, Inge wins the argument, such as it was, but Pudge doesn’t let go and sit back and say, “Yeah, guess you were right,” like Inge thinks he will.
Instead he slides his hand a little higher, letting his thumb drift down to the inside of Inge’s thigh, and OK. Um. “I t’ink you got fine thighs,” Pudge says quietly, and Inge doesn’t quite know what to think. He knows that most of the Dominican ballplayers of his experience are pretty touchy, and that Pudge is more tactile than most and is from Puerto Rico anyways, but this, well. He still hasn’t moved his hand and has, in fact, moved his other one to a mirror position on Inge’s other thigh. And now he’s swung his legs around so he’s straddling the bench and Inge’s calves are on either side of his waist and his hands are still on Inge’s thighs, and Inge is sitting up with his hands behind his butt to hold himself upright, his shoulders hunched forward and his eyes pretty big.
Pudge reaches out and snags the belt loops of Inge’s pants with his hands, pulls Inge forward along the smooth bench until his thighs are lying completely on top of Pudge’s own, his ankles dangling down like a little kid and pretty much in Pudge’s lap, which would reinforce the little kid thing but no, this is definitely not about young players or the veteran mentoring the kids or any of that stuff. Pudge has one hand still in Inge’s belt loops to hold him in place and the other one is back on his thigh, way higher than it was before, thumb slipping into the little valley where his leg meets his waist, pressing down slightly there.
“I t’ink your thighs are fine,” Pudge repeats, even more quietly, and Inge may not be the shiniest helmet in the locker but he’s pretty sure this isn’t about his dubious catcher’s build anymore. He’s leaned in to hear what Pudge was saying, which is apparently what Pudge wanted, because he leans forward the rest of the way and kisses Inge, oh boy, not on the cheek like usual, no sir, most emphatically not on the cheek like usual. Inge pretty much lets his mouth fall slightly open in shock, and hello, that’s a tongue. Pudge tilts his head to get a better angle, somehow managing to be aggressive and gentle at the same time, and Inge decides to go with what he knows best, which is just not thinking about anything at all.
Pudge leans back and reaches up to rub his thumb over the little blonde patch under Inge’s lower lip, resting his fingers along Inge’s jawline, and Inge thinks that this pretty definitely beats out getting told that he’ll play third base for the most fucking fantastic thing to happen this spring training.
It must be pretty obvious, because Inge has always had that little-kid-ish inability to keep his emotions off his face, and Pudge is smart enough to see that stuff. He smiles his huge, famous Pudge Rodriguez smile, teeth numerous and bright, bright white, so white that they make his uniform look gray, leans in again and murmers, “Brandon.”
Inge makes a noise that isn’t a moan and isn’t a groan but isn’t any kind of word and leans his forehead against Pudge’s, big goofy smile on his face, arms wrapping around Pudge’s shoulders and this doesn’t feel as weird as it maybe, probably, definitly should. Pudge rubs his thumb up and down so the patch on Inge’s chin gets scuffed the wrong way and smoothed out again. “Brandon,” he says again, quieter than quiet, quieter than Comerica Park on a day when no one’s playing. He says something else, quieter than that, which Inge can’t quite hear.
“What,” he says, squiggling his forehead happily closer so his nose rubs against Pudge’s, what the hell, why not, right? He picks up his dangling stockinged feet and interlocks his ankles behind Pudge’s back, pulls himself up so he’s definitely, undeniably on Pudge’s lap entire, and oh man the hilarity if the Canadian catcher walked in now, how his rookie sensibilities would be offended. Inge giggles again, but manages to rein it in. “What’d you say, man?”
Pudge chuckles and slides his thumb down, pulling Inge’s chin, lowering it so he can look him in the eyes. “You’da been fine as a catcher,” he says, still quiet, trademark Pudge-intense, but mirth dancing lightly behind his eyes, “but I’m glad you’re not ‘nymore.” Inge mulls that over and looks down to ask why, but Pudge sees the question before he asks it, of course, always a step and a mile ahead, and smiles as he says, “I know you like t’play every day, so I’m jus’ happy you not gunnin’ for my job no more. Or this,” he reached down again, squeezed Inge’s thigh, “this’d jus’ be crazy.”
“It’s not crazy now?” Inge is not quite whispering, but it feels like a question that should be asked in an almost whisper, so he goes with that.
Pudge rubs his thigh thoughtfully, moves his hand up and up and in, and Inge makes the not-moan noise again, but Pudge leans in and, just brushing Inge’s lips with his own, smiles and presses his palm down. Inge draws in his breath sharply and tries not to squeak, and Pudge says, “Inge. Inge. Brandon. You tell me, man. You tell me.”
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The next day Inge buys ice cream for the entire team after practice, even remembering to get peppermint stick for Dmitri, who won’t eat any other flavor, and frozen yogurt for Bonderman, who’s sensitive about his weight.
He’s grinning like crazy all day long, but he won’t tell anyone why, not even when Maroth plunks him on the head with a rosin bag and tells him to stop being such a weird giggly fucker.
Pudge sits with Tram in the dugout, both of them scooping up vanilla ice cream, pointing with their spoons at sheets of stats strewn across their knees, discussing the team and the lineup and the upcoming season. Inge plops down next to them, jumps back up wincing, then sort of stands in front of them doing a little look-at-me dance on the balls of his feet. Pudge smiles without looking up, rubbing his thumb thoughtfully along the spoon, but Alan looks up in mildly amused annoyance.
“Rookie’s got himself in a spot,” Inge reports, absolutely grinning like a moron for no discernable reason, and Trammell sighs and gets up to, it turns out, extricate Justin Verlander from the clubhouse locker into which an unconvincingly nonchalant Jason Johnson has somehow stuffed him.
Ledezma is lying in the grass in center field while Nook Logan sprinkles grass over his head, young Curtis Granderson is listening to some story Magglio Ordonez is nattering on about like it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever heard, Infante and Guillen are sitting in a pair of plastic chairs taking turns poking each other in the knee to see who winces first. Dmitri Young is ragging mercilessly on Kyle Farnsworth for wearing the tightest pants possible and is getting away with it because Farnsworth isn’t quite crazy enough to antagonize Dmitri yet.
Johnson is getting a stern talking-to from an exasperated Trammell, Verlander is bright red and embarrassed, Maroth is leaning on a wall cackling madly. Carlos Pena is ignoring them all and running wind sprints all by himself, serious and intent, up and down along the outfield fences. Urbina is asleep on the infield grass, a towel over his head. Everyone is eating ice cream.
Inge bumps his hip against Pudge’s knee, and Pudge looks up with a smile, a catcher to a third baseman, 2005 is full of hope and 2005 is full of promise, and they’re the Detroit Tigers and it is spring training in Florida and there are a lot of things that Brandon Inge loves about spring training.