fic: various mlb kink meme fills (kennedy/zito, mauer/morneau, harden/wilson)
Okay, so the kink meme is sort of tapering off, and I'll claim my two fills, plus post the fragment of the thing I couldn't get to work (which someone else filled anyway, with more porn and less conversation).
men of troy. ian kennedy/barry zito, though I clearly lost the feel for the story before it actually got to that point. original thread
Haren pitches a complete game on Saturday, which means drinks are on the bullpen. A hundred and thirteen pitches, nine strikeouts (dubious hat trick for Mark DeRosa), and one unearned run (Stephen Drew owes him a drink, too, for that missed catch). It's a close game, seven scoreless innings by Barry Zito, but Upton hits a two-run shot off Affeldt in the eighth that turns out to be just enough to get Haren the win.
Kennedy watches the game from the visitor's bench with Kelly Johnson, who's got the night off, jawing his ear off about something. His shoulder is a little sore from his bullpen session that afternoon, but it's the good kind of ache, the kind that means he's doing it right. He's pitching Monday, Dodger Stadium against Padilla, and he feels pretty good about his prospects.
The Giants look dejected, sad in their home whites as they trickle off the field after Uribe pops out to end the game. Kennedy dutifully follows his teammates out onto the field to bump fists and pat asses, grinning with LaRoche and both Jacksons.
Haren is already planning the night out as they head back to the locker room. Kennedy figures that's fair; Haren did live across the Bay for years, after all, knows all of this better than any of the rest of them. Edwin Jackson bows out gracefully, starting tomorrow and all, tells Kennedy to do a shot for him. Haren vows it will happen, and then Qualls and Boyer are talking about brands of Irish whisky, and then somehow everyone is showered and dressed and piling into taxis. Kennedy is a little bewildered already, and he's got a feeling his whole night is going to feel like that.
He texts Allison to let her know what's happening, going out with some of the guys, Haren's showing us SF. She texts back, have fun! <3 and he grins until Qualls, crammed next to him in the backseat, starts to make fun of him.
The club Haren has chosen is near the waterfront, Kennedy figures, the air damp-smelling and cold even this late in May. He sort of tumbles out of the cab, has to be helped to his feet by Conor Jackson, who slings his arm around Kennedy's shoulders and declares his intentions for getting incredibly fucked up. Jackson can get away with it, not starting tomorrow with Cain on the hill and his groin bothering him again.
--
Inside, it's dark and humid and loud. Kennedy loses Jackson just inside the door but finds himself with Qualls and Haren, who seems to be looking for someone in the crowd. Kennedy starts to ask Qualls who's getting the first round when Haren raises both of his hands and shouts into the crowd, "Over here! Z!"
And then Barry Zito appears out of the ether and crowd, wearing a button-down shirt with a subtle paisley pattern, badly needing a shave. Qualls scoffs, "Fraternization, Danny. What the fuck?" but Haren just grabs Zito by the shoulder and yanks him in for one of his famous rib-cracking bear-hugs. Kenney got one the first time they met at Spring Training and it left him gasping when it was done, because apparently Haren had never gotten used to being huge and strong
Zito has a sort of hangdog look on his face, which is just ridiculous considering how well he's pitching this year. Kennedy wishes his lines looked as good. He hopes he looks as good when he's Zito's age, hopes he pitches as well as Zito did tonight. The only time Zito looks anything other than exhausted is when he knows Haren is looking at him, and he tries to smile as crazily as Haren must expect. Haren doesn't notice anything amiss, but he's also getting drunker and drunker as Qualls and Gutierrez and Boyer stop by one by one with alcohol, not to mention probably still a little adrenaline-high from nine beautiful innings and a win that has them within three of the Giants and the lead in the West.
Haren mentions something about USC to Zito, because the CWS is looming up pretty close and USC is looking good. "Hey, you both went there!" Haren says, glancing at Kennedy and grinning so wide his molars are visible. Something annoyed flashes across Zito's face, like he'd like to pinch Haren somewhere tender, then he turns to Kennedy and smiles faintly.
"Men of Troy?" he asks.
Kennedy smiles. "Go Trojans," he replies.
Zito's smile relaxes and kicks up a few notches, and some of the cloudiness clears from his eyes. "Let me buy you a drink, kid," he says.
(obviously Dan Haren had to be the catalyst for that. I mean, duh.)
once more, with feeling. justin morneau/joe mauer, 1700 words of sadporn from the former's point of view. original thread.
They officially lose the division on the last Wednesday of the season, shut out 2-0 by Casey Crosby in Detroit. The Tigers are already out of it by then, happy to play spoiler here at the end.
It's been a hard-fought season, Morneau thinks, taking his cap off and squinting at the purple-black Michigan sky, high up where the lights don't make it fuzz gray and silver. They'll finish with better than ninety wins, at eighty-nine now, but it won't be enough this year. Not with that rotation in Cleveland. He turns away, disgusted with himself for his own 0-4 night, the team's September losing record, the fact he has four more days in a Minnesota uniform before he has to hold his breath and take the plunge into free agency.
Most everyone is already in the clubhouse, heading for the showers to wash off this feeling that they know doesn't wash off. Some of them have been there since halfway through the game. No one has seen Baker since he got yanked in the seventh, just one earned run, the most miserable kind of loss in the world. Baker would rather get lit up for ten runs than lose like this. Morneau can sympathize.
Mauer and Hicks are about fifteen feet ahead of him, far enough up the tunnel that Morneau can't hear what they're talking about, both of them with carefully blank expressions. Hicks, here in his first full season, has never known a September where they're not on top, and the hollowed-out places in his eyes make that clear enough. Mauer is too nice to tell him this what it feels like to be a Minnesota Twin, scratching hard and fast and hoping it's enough, and Morneau respects Joe's ways enough not to rock the boat.
It won't be Morneau's boat for much longer.
He punches the concrete wall of the tunnel at that thought, not hard, pulling the hit at the last moment so he doesn't dislocate a knuckle or something and get to end the season on the bench with a swollen hand. He's determined to make the most of these next four games.
He gets to his locker and sits on the rickety folding chair the Tigers have so generously provided, elbows on his knees and his forehead in his palms. He needs a haircut, he thinks randomly; his hair's getting long enough to curl over his forehead in a way that he hates.
Span and Revere are talking about Crosby's ungodly fastball, just as pretty and disgusting in the eighth as it was in the first, maybe better. Morneau added two strikeouts of his own to Crosby's final total. Span's got a lot to say, like usual, but somehow doesn't end up saying anything for all the words that come out of his mouth. It's as remarkable as ever, and Morneau hopes that he and Span don't end up in the same place next season, just for the quiet.
No one much feels like going out to drown themselves in either booze or Detroit groupie, and it's a weirdly silent bus ride back to the hotel. A couple of the rookies go for late-night fast food, Taco Bell or something, Morneau doesn't care enough to ask. He strips down as soon as he gets in his room, takes another shower because he always thinks the water in the visitors clubhouses is somehow poisoned, then flops naked on his bed with something mindless on TBS.
An hour into When Harry Met Sally, someone knocks on the door. It's a standard three beat rap, but the soft bump noise of a palm being laid flat on the door after the knock gives it away, Mauer on the other side. Morneau rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling light for a few seconds, his vision freckling green and orange immediately, and he thinks about all the years where he lived for the sound after the knock. He thinks about how they don't do that anymore.
Mauer's wife is back home in Minneapolis, and she's great. Morneau adores her, thinks she's the best thing that has ever happened to Joe, he really does. She's seven months pregnant and mad as hell about being on bed rest, and a big part of Joe is probably relieved that their season is almost over so he can go home to be with her. But at the same time, Morneau is still pathetically in love with him.
He gets up and turns the door handle so Mauer can open the door himself, and he doesn't wait to see Mauer's face appear in the crack before turning and heading back into the room.
"Oh, hi," Muer says, sounding a little surprised. He shouldn't be; Morneau's always-be-naked policy is long standing.
"Hi," Morneau says, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking up at him. He's wearing a pair of sweat pants and a long-sleeved shirt that has seen better days, shower shoes that don't match. He doesn't look his age, or maybe Morneau has forgotten to look how to look for the signs of it; he just looks like the same Joe.
He comes in and sits next to Morneau on the bed, their shoulders together like they're on a bench in some ballpark. Joe can't really stand for long periods of time, his knees betraying him the last few years. He hasn't been the same, really, since he can't get behind the plate anymore, like catching was the thing that kept him together. Morneau thinks that's probably pretty accurate.
"Some year," Joe says finally, turning and resting his forehead against the meat of Morneau's deltoid. Morneau holds his arm very still, happy to be the anchor. Joe's forehead is hot but dry, the fringe of his hair soft.
"You'll get 'em next year," Morneau says, and he doesn't even choke on it.
Joe presses his head harder against Morneau, coughing out a laugh. Then he draws back and looks up, just a little bit of a smile bending his mouth. "God, you say that and it's really the end. Don't say that. It's not the end yet."
"It kinda is, though," Morneau says gently. He lies back on the bed and folds his hands over his belly, feet still flat on the floor. Joe cranes his head around to look back at him, eyebrows up, then he flops back, too.
They stare at the overhead light for a few quiet moments, then Joe rolls up onto his side, propped up on an elbow, and gives him a serious look. "It's not the end yet," he repeats.
Morneau can't look up at him and see that sad look on his face. His choices are closing his eyes or kissing him, and for the first time in years he chooses the latter. Joe groans into his mouth and kisses back, hand on the side of Morneau's head holding him in place. Morneau keeps his eyes open.
It's a good kiss, because there was a time that they practiced this until they were very, very good at it, and muscle memory isn't just useful when you're picking a shitty throw from your third baseman out of the dirt for a miracle out. Joe makes a sound like something is being tugged out of him, resolve maybe, and Morneau can sympathize with that, too. Sometimes he feels like the day they sat down and decided they weren't going to do this anymore, Joe actually just reached into his chest, made a fist, and took with him whatever he could hold onto when he yanked his arm back.
Morneau pulls back, and Joe tries to follow, stops and finally opens his eyes. "What?" Morneau asks him.
"What?" Joe repeats, crease between his eyebrows.
"It's just. What. One more time for old time's sake, or what?" he runs his hand up Joe's arm, hooks his fingers in the crook of Joe's elbow.
Joe shakes his head and scoots closer, face in the space by Morneau's neck, arm over his middle. He doesn't say anything.
This is the actual end, Morneau thinks. The other ends were like season finales of television shows and this, here, in this room right this moment- this is the end of everything. Because tomorrow night they will fly back to Minnesota, where they will play the final series of the season in front of a smaller crowd at Target, hosting a Cleveland team that has already clinched. And that's going to suck, like, a lot. And Joe's wife is in Minnesota, and all their memories, and Morneau is going to have to pack up his house and leave all of that so he can go play somewhere else.
"I've been in love with you since I was twenty-three years old," Morneau says. He thinks he sounds very reasonable and calm, but Joe sighs like it hurts and pushes harder against him, almost on top of him. And Morneau doesn't mean it like an accusation or anything, something Joe should feel like apologizing for; it's not anything like that. Most of the last ten years have been the best part of Morneau's life.
"I've been in love with you for a very long time," Morneau repeats, stronger this time. "And I don't regret a second of it. But for now, I'm going to move on. If that's okay with you."
Joe nods, brow rubbing against Morneau's jaw. "Yes," he says. "But now, right now, I mean, not the bigger 'now' you're talking about-right now we should just be here."
(I wrote sadporn. Shocking, I know.)
fast (i don't even know). rich harden/cj wilson UNFINISHED AND UNPOSTED BECAUSE, WELL. WHATEVER. neftali feliz has the biggest speaking role in this, i think. make of that what you will. original thread
The first day they throw together, he's not sure what to make of C.J. Wilson. Wilson talks non-stop through the session, a steady stream of commentary on everything from Obamacare to Whataburger to Danica Patrick.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but do you ever shut up?" Harden asks finally, because he can't even concentrate on Teagarden's glove with the lefty next to him chattering on like that.
"Nope," Feliz says from Wilson's other side, leaning around him to grin toothily at Harden. Harden likes Feliz, who's young and funny and has yet to tease him for being Canadian. In fact, Feliz is probably his favorite new teammate. Feliz turns to Wilson. "I hope you make the rotation just so bullpen will be quiet." He turns back to Harden and sighs theatrically. "He make me wish I have stock in duct tape last season."
"You kinky little shit," Wilson says, catching the ball Salty just lobbed back to him. "I didn't know you felt that way about me!"
Feliz steps back and sets. "Why everything gotta be a gay joke with you? You ever stop and think about yourself?"
"Never," Wilson says, turning and grinning at Harden, too. Harden squints at the ball in his hands and wishes he had some duct tape on hand right now. "What with thinking for everybody else all the time, you know, you know."
"It's worryable, though," Feliz says.
"I'm just saying, there is a market inefficiency in homosexuality in baseball," Wilson says, tucking his blue glove under his arm and stepping off the little rubber. He looks geared up for a long rant. "Nobody's out, but we all know the rumors. And you know there have to be some, just statistically speaking, if nothing else. And I think it would do America good, having a gay ballplayer somewhere."
Feliz makes a face. "Not listening, not listening."
Teagarden stands up from his crouch and throws his hands out to the sides. "You gonna toss or what?" he calls over.
"Sorry, too busy getting schooled on gays in baseball," Harden calls back. Wilson laughs and misses Salty's glove by a good two feet, the ball skidding to the fence behind the catchers. Teagarden cocks his head, probably making some annoyed face that Harden can't see because of his mask, which was something Soto used to do and it always drove Harden nuts.
"Whatever. Just. Come on, can we just finish, please?"
men of troy. ian kennedy/barry zito, though I clearly lost the feel for the story before it actually got to that point. original thread
Haren pitches a complete game on Saturday, which means drinks are on the bullpen. A hundred and thirteen pitches, nine strikeouts (dubious hat trick for Mark DeRosa), and one unearned run (Stephen Drew owes him a drink, too, for that missed catch). It's a close game, seven scoreless innings by Barry Zito, but Upton hits a two-run shot off Affeldt in the eighth that turns out to be just enough to get Haren the win.
Kennedy watches the game from the visitor's bench with Kelly Johnson, who's got the night off, jawing his ear off about something. His shoulder is a little sore from his bullpen session that afternoon, but it's the good kind of ache, the kind that means he's doing it right. He's pitching Monday, Dodger Stadium against Padilla, and he feels pretty good about his prospects.
The Giants look dejected, sad in their home whites as they trickle off the field after Uribe pops out to end the game. Kennedy dutifully follows his teammates out onto the field to bump fists and pat asses, grinning with LaRoche and both Jacksons.
Haren is already planning the night out as they head back to the locker room. Kennedy figures that's fair; Haren did live across the Bay for years, after all, knows all of this better than any of the rest of them. Edwin Jackson bows out gracefully, starting tomorrow and all, tells Kennedy to do a shot for him. Haren vows it will happen, and then Qualls and Boyer are talking about brands of Irish whisky, and then somehow everyone is showered and dressed and piling into taxis. Kennedy is a little bewildered already, and he's got a feeling his whole night is going to feel like that.
He texts Allison to let her know what's happening, going out with some of the guys, Haren's showing us SF. She texts back, have fun! <3 and he grins until Qualls, crammed next to him in the backseat, starts to make fun of him.
The club Haren has chosen is near the waterfront, Kennedy figures, the air damp-smelling and cold even this late in May. He sort of tumbles out of the cab, has to be helped to his feet by Conor Jackson, who slings his arm around Kennedy's shoulders and declares his intentions for getting incredibly fucked up. Jackson can get away with it, not starting tomorrow with Cain on the hill and his groin bothering him again.
--
Inside, it's dark and humid and loud. Kennedy loses Jackson just inside the door but finds himself with Qualls and Haren, who seems to be looking for someone in the crowd. Kennedy starts to ask Qualls who's getting the first round when Haren raises both of his hands and shouts into the crowd, "Over here! Z!"
And then Barry Zito appears out of the ether and crowd, wearing a button-down shirt with a subtle paisley pattern, badly needing a shave. Qualls scoffs, "Fraternization, Danny. What the fuck?" but Haren just grabs Zito by the shoulder and yanks him in for one of his famous rib-cracking bear-hugs. Kenney got one the first time they met at Spring Training and it left him gasping when it was done, because apparently Haren had never gotten used to being huge and strong
Zito has a sort of hangdog look on his face, which is just ridiculous considering how well he's pitching this year. Kennedy wishes his lines looked as good. He hopes he looks as good when he's Zito's age, hopes he pitches as well as Zito did tonight. The only time Zito looks anything other than exhausted is when he knows Haren is looking at him, and he tries to smile as crazily as Haren must expect. Haren doesn't notice anything amiss, but he's also getting drunker and drunker as Qualls and Gutierrez and Boyer stop by one by one with alcohol, not to mention probably still a little adrenaline-high from nine beautiful innings and a win that has them within three of the Giants and the lead in the West.
Haren mentions something about USC to Zito, because the CWS is looming up pretty close and USC is looking good. "Hey, you both went there!" Haren says, glancing at Kennedy and grinning so wide his molars are visible. Something annoyed flashes across Zito's face, like he'd like to pinch Haren somewhere tender, then he turns to Kennedy and smiles faintly.
"Men of Troy?" he asks.
Kennedy smiles. "Go Trojans," he replies.
Zito's smile relaxes and kicks up a few notches, and some of the cloudiness clears from his eyes. "Let me buy you a drink, kid," he says.
(obviously Dan Haren had to be the catalyst for that. I mean, duh.)
once more, with feeling. justin morneau/joe mauer, 1700 words of sadporn from the former's point of view. original thread.
They officially lose the division on the last Wednesday of the season, shut out 2-0 by Casey Crosby in Detroit. The Tigers are already out of it by then, happy to play spoiler here at the end.
It's been a hard-fought season, Morneau thinks, taking his cap off and squinting at the purple-black Michigan sky, high up where the lights don't make it fuzz gray and silver. They'll finish with better than ninety wins, at eighty-nine now, but it won't be enough this year. Not with that rotation in Cleveland. He turns away, disgusted with himself for his own 0-4 night, the team's September losing record, the fact he has four more days in a Minnesota uniform before he has to hold his breath and take the plunge into free agency.
Most everyone is already in the clubhouse, heading for the showers to wash off this feeling that they know doesn't wash off. Some of them have been there since halfway through the game. No one has seen Baker since he got yanked in the seventh, just one earned run, the most miserable kind of loss in the world. Baker would rather get lit up for ten runs than lose like this. Morneau can sympathize.
Mauer and Hicks are about fifteen feet ahead of him, far enough up the tunnel that Morneau can't hear what they're talking about, both of them with carefully blank expressions. Hicks, here in his first full season, has never known a September where they're not on top, and the hollowed-out places in his eyes make that clear enough. Mauer is too nice to tell him this what it feels like to be a Minnesota Twin, scratching hard and fast and hoping it's enough, and Morneau respects Joe's ways enough not to rock the boat.
It won't be Morneau's boat for much longer.
He punches the concrete wall of the tunnel at that thought, not hard, pulling the hit at the last moment so he doesn't dislocate a knuckle or something and get to end the season on the bench with a swollen hand. He's determined to make the most of these next four games.
He gets to his locker and sits on the rickety folding chair the Tigers have so generously provided, elbows on his knees and his forehead in his palms. He needs a haircut, he thinks randomly; his hair's getting long enough to curl over his forehead in a way that he hates.
Span and Revere are talking about Crosby's ungodly fastball, just as pretty and disgusting in the eighth as it was in the first, maybe better. Morneau added two strikeouts of his own to Crosby's final total. Span's got a lot to say, like usual, but somehow doesn't end up saying anything for all the words that come out of his mouth. It's as remarkable as ever, and Morneau hopes that he and Span don't end up in the same place next season, just for the quiet.
No one much feels like going out to drown themselves in either booze or Detroit groupie, and it's a weirdly silent bus ride back to the hotel. A couple of the rookies go for late-night fast food, Taco Bell or something, Morneau doesn't care enough to ask. He strips down as soon as he gets in his room, takes another shower because he always thinks the water in the visitors clubhouses is somehow poisoned, then flops naked on his bed with something mindless on TBS.
An hour into When Harry Met Sally, someone knocks on the door. It's a standard three beat rap, but the soft bump noise of a palm being laid flat on the door after the knock gives it away, Mauer on the other side. Morneau rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling light for a few seconds, his vision freckling green and orange immediately, and he thinks about all the years where he lived for the sound after the knock. He thinks about how they don't do that anymore.
Mauer's wife is back home in Minneapolis, and she's great. Morneau adores her, thinks she's the best thing that has ever happened to Joe, he really does. She's seven months pregnant and mad as hell about being on bed rest, and a big part of Joe is probably relieved that their season is almost over so he can go home to be with her. But at the same time, Morneau is still pathetically in love with him.
He gets up and turns the door handle so Mauer can open the door himself, and he doesn't wait to see Mauer's face appear in the crack before turning and heading back into the room.
"Oh, hi," Muer says, sounding a little surprised. He shouldn't be; Morneau's always-be-naked policy is long standing.
"Hi," Morneau says, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking up at him. He's wearing a pair of sweat pants and a long-sleeved shirt that has seen better days, shower shoes that don't match. He doesn't look his age, or maybe Morneau has forgotten to look how to look for the signs of it; he just looks like the same Joe.
He comes in and sits next to Morneau on the bed, their shoulders together like they're on a bench in some ballpark. Joe can't really stand for long periods of time, his knees betraying him the last few years. He hasn't been the same, really, since he can't get behind the plate anymore, like catching was the thing that kept him together. Morneau thinks that's probably pretty accurate.
"Some year," Joe says finally, turning and resting his forehead against the meat of Morneau's deltoid. Morneau holds his arm very still, happy to be the anchor. Joe's forehead is hot but dry, the fringe of his hair soft.
"You'll get 'em next year," Morneau says, and he doesn't even choke on it.
Joe presses his head harder against Morneau, coughing out a laugh. Then he draws back and looks up, just a little bit of a smile bending his mouth. "God, you say that and it's really the end. Don't say that. It's not the end yet."
"It kinda is, though," Morneau says gently. He lies back on the bed and folds his hands over his belly, feet still flat on the floor. Joe cranes his head around to look back at him, eyebrows up, then he flops back, too.
They stare at the overhead light for a few quiet moments, then Joe rolls up onto his side, propped up on an elbow, and gives him a serious look. "It's not the end yet," he repeats.
Morneau can't look up at him and see that sad look on his face. His choices are closing his eyes or kissing him, and for the first time in years he chooses the latter. Joe groans into his mouth and kisses back, hand on the side of Morneau's head holding him in place. Morneau keeps his eyes open.
It's a good kiss, because there was a time that they practiced this until they were very, very good at it, and muscle memory isn't just useful when you're picking a shitty throw from your third baseman out of the dirt for a miracle out. Joe makes a sound like something is being tugged out of him, resolve maybe, and Morneau can sympathize with that, too. Sometimes he feels like the day they sat down and decided they weren't going to do this anymore, Joe actually just reached into his chest, made a fist, and took with him whatever he could hold onto when he yanked his arm back.
Morneau pulls back, and Joe tries to follow, stops and finally opens his eyes. "What?" Morneau asks him.
"What?" Joe repeats, crease between his eyebrows.
"It's just. What. One more time for old time's sake, or what?" he runs his hand up Joe's arm, hooks his fingers in the crook of Joe's elbow.
Joe shakes his head and scoots closer, face in the space by Morneau's neck, arm over his middle. He doesn't say anything.
This is the actual end, Morneau thinks. The other ends were like season finales of television shows and this, here, in this room right this moment- this is the end of everything. Because tomorrow night they will fly back to Minnesota, where they will play the final series of the season in front of a smaller crowd at Target, hosting a Cleveland team that has already clinched. And that's going to suck, like, a lot. And Joe's wife is in Minnesota, and all their memories, and Morneau is going to have to pack up his house and leave all of that so he can go play somewhere else.
"I've been in love with you since I was twenty-three years old," Morneau says. He thinks he sounds very reasonable and calm, but Joe sighs like it hurts and pushes harder against him, almost on top of him. And Morneau doesn't mean it like an accusation or anything, something Joe should feel like apologizing for; it's not anything like that. Most of the last ten years have been the best part of Morneau's life.
"I've been in love with you for a very long time," Morneau repeats, stronger this time. "And I don't regret a second of it. But for now, I'm going to move on. If that's okay with you."
Joe nods, brow rubbing against Morneau's jaw. "Yes," he says. "But now, right now, I mean, not the bigger 'now' you're talking about-right now we should just be here."
(I wrote sadporn. Shocking, I know.)
fast (i don't even know). rich harden/cj wilson UNFINISHED AND UNPOSTED BECAUSE, WELL. WHATEVER. neftali feliz has the biggest speaking role in this, i think. make of that what you will. original thread
The first day they throw together, he's not sure what to make of C.J. Wilson. Wilson talks non-stop through the session, a steady stream of commentary on everything from Obamacare to Whataburger to Danica Patrick.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but do you ever shut up?" Harden asks finally, because he can't even concentrate on Teagarden's glove with the lefty next to him chattering on like that.
"Nope," Feliz says from Wilson's other side, leaning around him to grin toothily at Harden. Harden likes Feliz, who's young and funny and has yet to tease him for being Canadian. In fact, Feliz is probably his favorite new teammate. Feliz turns to Wilson. "I hope you make the rotation just so bullpen will be quiet." He turns back to Harden and sighs theatrically. "He make me wish I have stock in duct tape last season."
"You kinky little shit," Wilson says, catching the ball Salty just lobbed back to him. "I didn't know you felt that way about me!"
Feliz steps back and sets. "Why everything gotta be a gay joke with you? You ever stop and think about yourself?"
"Never," Wilson says, turning and grinning at Harden, too. Harden squints at the ball in his hands and wishes he had some duct tape on hand right now. "What with thinking for everybody else all the time, you know, you know."
"It's worryable, though," Feliz says.
"I'm just saying, there is a market inefficiency in homosexuality in baseball," Wilson says, tucking his blue glove under his arm and stepping off the little rubber. He looks geared up for a long rant. "Nobody's out, but we all know the rumors. And you know there have to be some, just statistically speaking, if nothing else. And I think it would do America good, having a gay ballplayer somewhere."
Feliz makes a face. "Not listening, not listening."
Teagarden stands up from his crouch and throws his hands out to the sides. "You gonna toss or what?" he calls over.
"Sorry, too busy getting schooled on gays in baseball," Harden calls back. Wilson laughs and misses Salty's glove by a good two feet, the ball skidding to the fence behind the catchers. Teagarden cocks his head, probably making some annoyed face that Harden can't see because of his mask, which was something Soto used to do and it always drove Harden nuts.
"Whatever. Just. Come on, can we just finish, please?"