mlb slash: (drabble) "let the rain come down"
So, hey.
Bored and unwilling to clean the apartment = Baseball drabble!
(Rockies!Slash)
pairing: Yorvit Torrealba/Ubaldo Jimenez
rating: pg
word count: 846
summary/notes: Yorvit muses on baseball in September, playing in the rain, and rookies (of the shortstop and pitching variety.) This is obviously my first attempt at writing baseball, and it's unbetaed since it's little more than a drabble.
let the rain come down
Rain makes Yorvit's arms slick and tight, the tendons tense and snappy. He blinks, and blinks again, shaking water out of his eyes a second too early. The first ball is high but the next three are over the corners and he can't see them through the rain. When the third strike is called, he doesn't argue (not because he's cold and sore -- the sudden weather change settling deep in his bones), but because he's tired. Clinging to hope in the first week of September is exhausting. Relying on other teams to win and lose isn't fair. The Rockies should have fallen off of the ledge one way or the other by now -- be either in the race or out of it -- but they keep playing in limbo.
He gets caught in the press of warm, wet bodies in the dug out, shoved up in between Tulo and Willy, trying to find room to strap his gear on, while Tulo keeps asking himself, "Why don't they call it?" Over and over.
"It's just that -- look at the water behind first," he says, turning to Yorvit. "Someone’s going to get dirty.“ He sticks one hand out of the dug out and then jerks it back. “Why don't they call the delay?"
Shrugging and standing, Yorvit slides around him and into Jimenez, who's shivering in his coat and watching Julio warm up in the bull pen. He mumbles something under his breath and Yorvit doesn't even try to decipher it. It doesn't matter what the kid says, anyway; it's the wild, frustrated look he gets that worries Yorvit. "You did fine," Yorvit says, with a big smile. "Can't always be perfect." He doesn't mention number 762 for Bonds; he doesn't have to.
Fact: Yorvit hates no team more than the Giants but he, oddly, has no opinion one way or another on Bonds. Seriously.
Jimenez is blank, seeing that number on a marquee in his head (Yorvit imagines; that's how he sees it), gripping Yorvit now by the forearms, digging fingers into black, blue, yellow and green marks. Jimenez's thumb finds the soft, swollen spot behind Yorvit’s elbow from where Wilson's pitch hit him yesterday and squeezes. He's the only starter on the roster that can pitch the hundred mile an hour fast ball (future of the team), but he can't control it (has no patience, shakes off every call and falls back on what he knows). The pain hits Yorvit's neck first and then his shoulder and then spikes back down his arm into his fingers. He makes a fist and keeps smiling.
Tip: Keep your feelings about young, hot-shot pitchers to yourself. Whether good or bad, warm or cold.
Bonds isn't even bothering to chase balls in left anymore, and Correia is screaming at anyone and everyone that his front foot is slipping on the wet dirt of the mound.
The rain is coming down in steady, silver sheets in front of the big lights.
"Why don't they fucking call the game?" Tulo asks again, out of nowhere, and Jimenez glances past Yorvit to Tulo and then beyond him to where Francis is sitting, hunched, by the coolers. Jimenez hisses and his breath is lemon-lime sweet.
Fact: Jimenez will never be the pitcher Francis is; he'll never have that complete game (hot, bright, and beautiful), and he'll always melt in the rain.
Yorvit will never admit to anyone, ever, that he has to urge to cover the kid up and make him stop shaking.
"If it was up to you, would you call a delay?" Tulo's cornered Atkins, now, pestering him until he admits that he's unhappy with the rain and the mud too. There’s a persistent rumor that Tulo just might be Rookie of the Year material (he is Rookie of the Month for August), and Yorvit bets that it'd be a sure thing if crazy points counted, because Tulo is certifiable.
Fact: No sane person voluntarily wears Derek Jeter's signature cologne. Or, more importantly, gives it as a gift to his teammates. In Yorvit's opinion, Tulo may be the best shortstop since Jeter (better?), but he's hopeless.
Tip: Never leave Troy Tulowitzki unsupervised with a pair of electric clippers. His motto in regard to hair has become: "If bald works for David Wright, it'll work for you."
But while crazy can't be cured (at least not Tulo's particular Jeter-worshiping, Wright-mimicking brand of it), patience can be taught, and that's what Yorvit's on the roster for. After nine years of riding the bench and playing in the minors for the Giants, the Rockies picked him up to baby sit, and so that's what he'll do. He'll teach English and patience and finesse when he can to kids like Jimenez, and he'll smile while he does it. And he because he is patient, he gently loosens Jimenez's fingers one by one and doesn't think about anything other than September and baseball and rain when Jimenez slides his hands back down Yorvit's arms and leans in to rest his head on Yorvit's shoulder.
Bored and unwilling to clean the apartment = Baseball drabble!
(Rockies!Slash)
pairing: Yorvit Torrealba/Ubaldo Jimenez
rating: pg
word count: 846
summary/notes: Yorvit muses on baseball in September, playing in the rain, and rookies (of the shortstop and pitching variety.) This is obviously my first attempt at writing baseball, and it's unbetaed since it's little more than a drabble.
let the rain come down
Rain makes Yorvit's arms slick and tight, the tendons tense and snappy. He blinks, and blinks again, shaking water out of his eyes a second too early. The first ball is high but the next three are over the corners and he can't see them through the rain. When the third strike is called, he doesn't argue (not because he's cold and sore -- the sudden weather change settling deep in his bones), but because he's tired. Clinging to hope in the first week of September is exhausting. Relying on other teams to win and lose isn't fair. The Rockies should have fallen off of the ledge one way or the other by now -- be either in the race or out of it -- but they keep playing in limbo.
He gets caught in the press of warm, wet bodies in the dug out, shoved up in between Tulo and Willy, trying to find room to strap his gear on, while Tulo keeps asking himself, "Why don't they call it?" Over and over.
"It's just that -- look at the water behind first," he says, turning to Yorvit. "Someone’s going to get dirty.“ He sticks one hand out of the dug out and then jerks it back. “Why don't they call the delay?"
Shrugging and standing, Yorvit slides around him and into Jimenez, who's shivering in his coat and watching Julio warm up in the bull pen. He mumbles something under his breath and Yorvit doesn't even try to decipher it. It doesn't matter what the kid says, anyway; it's the wild, frustrated look he gets that worries Yorvit. "You did fine," Yorvit says, with a big smile. "Can't always be perfect." He doesn't mention number 762 for Bonds; he doesn't have to.
Fact: Yorvit hates no team more than the Giants but he, oddly, has no opinion one way or another on Bonds. Seriously.
Jimenez is blank, seeing that number on a marquee in his head (Yorvit imagines; that's how he sees it), gripping Yorvit now by the forearms, digging fingers into black, blue, yellow and green marks. Jimenez's thumb finds the soft, swollen spot behind Yorvit’s elbow from where Wilson's pitch hit him yesterday and squeezes. He's the only starter on the roster that can pitch the hundred mile an hour fast ball (future of the team), but he can't control it (has no patience, shakes off every call and falls back on what he knows). The pain hits Yorvit's neck first and then his shoulder and then spikes back down his arm into his fingers. He makes a fist and keeps smiling.
Tip: Keep your feelings about young, hot-shot pitchers to yourself. Whether good or bad, warm or cold.
Bonds isn't even bothering to chase balls in left anymore, and Correia is screaming at anyone and everyone that his front foot is slipping on the wet dirt of the mound.
The rain is coming down in steady, silver sheets in front of the big lights.
"Why don't they fucking call the game?" Tulo asks again, out of nowhere, and Jimenez glances past Yorvit to Tulo and then beyond him to where Francis is sitting, hunched, by the coolers. Jimenez hisses and his breath is lemon-lime sweet.
Fact: Jimenez will never be the pitcher Francis is; he'll never have that complete game (hot, bright, and beautiful), and he'll always melt in the rain.
Yorvit will never admit to anyone, ever, that he has to urge to cover the kid up and make him stop shaking.
"If it was up to you, would you call a delay?" Tulo's cornered Atkins, now, pestering him until he admits that he's unhappy with the rain and the mud too. There’s a persistent rumor that Tulo just might be Rookie of the Year material (he is Rookie of the Month for August), and Yorvit bets that it'd be a sure thing if crazy points counted, because Tulo is certifiable.
Fact: No sane person voluntarily wears Derek Jeter's signature cologne. Or, more importantly, gives it as a gift to his teammates. In Yorvit's opinion, Tulo may be the best shortstop since Jeter (better?), but he's hopeless.
Tip: Never leave Troy Tulowitzki unsupervised with a pair of electric clippers. His motto in regard to hair has become: "If bald works for David Wright, it'll work for you."
But while crazy can't be cured (at least not Tulo's particular Jeter-worshiping, Wright-mimicking brand of it), patience can be taught, and that's what Yorvit's on the roster for. After nine years of riding the bench and playing in the minors for the Giants, the Rockies picked him up to baby sit, and so that's what he'll do. He'll teach English and patience and finesse when he can to kids like Jimenez, and he'll smile while he does it. And he because he is patient, he gently loosens Jimenez's fingers one by one and doesn't think about anything other than September and baseball and rain when Jimenez slides his hands back down Yorvit's arms and leans in to rest his head on Yorvit's shoulder.