Pick You Up
title: Pick You Up
pairing/characters: Madison Bumgarner/Buster Posey
word count: 2200
rating: PG-13 (language)
disclaimer: Everything that can't be seen on TV is completely fictional, stuff I made up, and did not actually happen.
notes: AU-ish (neither player is married), follow-up-ish to Waiting Out the Machine
Apparently 2theletter and I are just on the same wavelength when it comes to writing this stuff at the same time. If it happens again, that'll just be ridiculous. Anyway, I started writing this after SF had won two games and I was still nervous and expecting torture. I'm sure the players were even worse. I finished it after the Series was over.
summary: Baseball happens and the guys are tired. You know it's fiction because the Giants win the World Series. Wait, what? Some cameos by other sleeping Giants.
Pick You Up
On the flight to Texas-maybe, dare he even think it, the last flight before the end-Madison Burgarner is unable to take advantage of the time for sleeping. Everyone was up early after a short night of trying to sleep, and there’s more trying to sleep on the plane. You’d think that on a plane specially designed for this purpose, they’d be able to get a seating arrangement proper for a bunch of guys where even the shortest was merely average height for a guy.
Over the course of his short season, Madison hadn’t quite gotten this down. The veteran grit of Burrell and Rowand is apparent by the way they somehow managed to walk onto the plane, tilt their heads back, and fall asleep just like they were experts at flying somewhere to win the World Series. Cain’s had more practice than anyone else sleeping on this plane, and he’s leaning against the wall with his mouth open in a position that should be awkward, but it’s always effective. Lincecum has taken advantage of his relative lack of size, and curled up with his head on the tray table, hair falling in his face. Next to him, Zito’s leaning back with a plush neck pillow, headphones, and not a care in the world. Further up the aisle, a few of the guys who can’t sleep are murmuring in Spanish and shuffling dominoes, an effort that quickly becomes futile as they pass through some turbulence.
“You ever feel so fuckin’ tired in your life?” he asks Buster. Buster’s just looking out the window and doesn’t reply. Madison shakes his head, shifts his knees again and slumps back, sweatshirt slipping against the leather seat until he gives up on sleeping and just puts some music on his iPod and tries to block out the engine’s roar. It was a stupid question just to say something, anything to pass the time and get his mind off the rough air, that feeling that even being higher than the clouds, that next bump might be the last one before the plane just falls out of the sky once it gets the message that thousands of tons of metal aren’t supposed to be able to take off thousands of feet above the ground. Buster, still staring at the barren landscape of Arizona or New Mexico or wherever, seems to be trying his hardest to keep the plane from ever finding out it’s not meant to be like this, and the plane flies on.
---------
Their first day in Arlington is like flying through that cloud you saw coming after miles and miles of calm blue skies. Madison sits with Lincecum and Cain and Zito, stony-faced on the rails, praying that this will be better than that last game in Philadelphia. Not much could be worse, but the bullpen has been murmuring ever since the last game as they witnessed the breakdown of their Texas counterparts. After September, could they be due for a meltdown?
Everyone just hold each other up, Affeldt says in his typical inspirational way. The starters will pull the bullpen up and the relievers will hold the starters up and both will be driven by faith that the other guys will be there, and in the end, that’s as much as you can ask for.
The game’s results are poor but not devastating, but there’s no bench-clearing and no need for seven innings of heroic relief, just Lincecum and Cain and Bumgarner looking at the low velocity and stealing glances at each other without even the need to put into words what they all know.
---------
After the game, Madison departs for the hotel as quickly as possible, feeling only a little bad about leaving his teammates in the clubhouse to face the media, but they seemed to be mostly interested in talking to other folks. Torres and Burrell were taking it for the team tonight, owning their respective adequate and inadequate performances. His family’s at the hotel on another floor, but he only has time for a phone call and a reassurance that yes, tomorrow will be the day he’ll make them proud. He flips through about 30 texts wishing him luck then lies back on his bed with a baseball in hand, practicing his grips for at least the tenth time that day. He compares the color of the baseball to the color of the ceiling, squinting until they blur together.
A little while later, there’s a knock on the door. It’s Buster, looking like he’s running on the fumes of adrenaline and rookie naiveté, the thing Huff had accused Madison of yesterday just before they got their room keys and Huff had laughed and whooped about everyone getting their own room for the trip like they were the fuckin’ Yankees, World Series, baby. They had spent most of that first night poking around Arlington and meeting up with family and friends, and Madison had barely had a chance to talk to Buster during the last two hectic days. He lets the catcher in, and Buster slides down in one of the less-comfortable “comfy chairs” provided by the hotel. Madison resumes his spot on the bed, still playing with the baseball.
“Hate doing these god-awful interviews with the press when we lose.”
Madison nods. “You’re the face of the team now. You give good replies to their questions. You’re like the class president, the team captain, wonder boy.”
“They put out some good hitters tonight,” says Buster with a tired laugh, deepening his voice. “They’re a good team, which is why they’re in the World Series. But we’re a good team too and tomorrow we will come back and put out our best.” He sits up, changing his voice again. “You’re a rookie pitcher, one of the youngest to ever reach the World Series. How do you pitch to such a lights-out lineup like the Rangers have? Josh Hamilton, Nelson Cruz, Vlad Guerrero-these guys are stars.”
“I’m just a rookie pitcher, what do I know? Might as well just roll over and let these guys win. That’s what they’re trying to say, but we gotta win this before it gets to seven games because of, well, you know.”
“Yeah, but you don’t tell ‘em that tomorrow. Tell me what you’re gonna tell ‘em.”
“Attack the inside and keep ahead of the count. Pitch my changeup on the outside later on because that works. Avoid the curveball because I don’t have good control on it. Pray the fielders get me out of trouble.”
“Too technical. No one wants to hear actual strategy except me and Rags and Bochy. Don’t admit to weakness, just be politely deferential toward the other team.”
“They’re gonna try and take another game tomorrow to tie up the series, and I’m going to go out there and make my best pitches to try and let our guys score. They’ll come at us hard, and they’re at home so they have the advantage, and they’ve got good hitters, best in the AL, but we’ve faced good hitting before like with the Phillies and we can come out on top again if we do it right. Every hitter looks for mistakes in your pitches, an’ if you don’t make mistakes, he’s got less chances to get a big hit.” Bumgarner stops. “That good enough? You’re not planning on calling them in here tonight, are you? Come over here and lay down.”
Buster laughs and shakes his head. He kicks off his shoes, shoves Madison over, and lies down, head on the pitcher’s arm. Madison feels the remaining energy drain out of the catcher seconds later.
“…and Buster’s gonna call a good game for me,” the pitcher continues. “He puts down the right signs and I follow ‘em and that’s how we win the game. He’s a stubborn, stoic sonofabitch who won’t say nothin’about how tired he is, but he’s worked every inning since the playoffs started and the faster we win, the sooner he’ll get his break.” Buster stays quiet, yet again.
“You remember that first time we won together after I got called up, Buster?” He moves his arm out and paints the picture in the air in front of them. “All those games in Colorado where we couldn’t get nothin’ done, and then off to Milwaukee and Sanchy just destroyed them that one day?”
“Can’t count on Sanchy to be like that again, Bum. You and me both know that.” Madison can feel his friend’s muscles tighten again, the tension in his voice, that little note of fear. He rolls to the side and tucks his knees up slightly and places his palm out flat on Buster’s chest just to feel the rhythm of his breath. Buster rolls his head to the side to find his pitcher staring at him with a quirky smile.
“Yeah, but remember the night before I was pitching? You told me not to worry about what went down in Colorado because they hit like crazy in that park, and not to get so amped up before my next start because you’d be there for me?”
“I got hit in the knee for you that game, Bum.”
“Yeah, but I had a real good feeling about that game before we started. Remember it?” The pitcher’s breath is warm with a lingering note of cherry cola. “Maybe it’s lost for you since you just went nuts the next day, hitting home runs all over, but you gave me a good feeling about that game before we started, and I saved one of the balls. I brought it with me. It’s right over there on the nightstand. My first major-league win. Man, Buster, I felt so good up there that day. Nothing bothered me except when you got hit, that made me mad on the bench and I told myself I’d get the win for you. When I got a hit or had to walk a guy, I just tried to get the next guy out.” Madison’s eyes have a glow in them, a little bit of orange reflected off something in the room.
“I pitched eight good innings that day Buster and they never scored off me. I even knocked in a run, remember? Well I’m telling you, tomorrow’s gonna be good like that too except I won’t be able to score runs for us, so you’ll have to do that for me I guess. It’s gonna be a good ball game and instead of you talking me into it, consider this me talking you into it.”
Buster rolls to his side, and they touch foreheads. His eyes are half-lidded, but under that, the gleam in his eyes is rekindled, that faint spark of the rookie who doesn’t know any better. “Consider me convinced.”
“Good,” says Madison. “I’ll get it done, don’t you worry. You just get some rest.” They fall asleep like that, awkwardly positioned and fully-dressed, like they could wake up at any time and head back to finish needed work.
---------
The next two games fly by. One minute, Madison is taking his first pitch in the World Series and the next thing he knows, eight innings have gone by, like he forgot to notice fifty thousand screaming Ranger fans cheering for the best offense the American League has to offer, like he forgot to notice he was on a stage with millions of people around the country watching, like he forgot to notice he wasn’t supposed to pitch that well as a rookie, like he wasn’t supposed to hold the other team back while Huff and Buster knocked balls over the fence. He catches Buster’s eye at as he leaves the mound for the last time that season, mouthing, “I told you so.”
Next day, he’s on the edge of his seat like everyone else is, then it’s a hurdling race over the rail to see who can get to the mound first. (Madison almost wins amongst the pitchers, but lets Lincecum sprint past him into the hugging dogpile.) From there on it’s a blur, media everywhere, new shirts and hats and shiny trophies, champagne spraying everywhere, screaming, “World Series!” to each teammate like it’s something they’ve never screamed before.
Eventually Buster corners him in the crowd. His eyes are on fire. “Do you remember the clubhouse after your first major-league win?” he asks. Madison’s memory flashes back quickly to that decidedly less hectic scene in Milwaukee, cornered in a hallway with no threat of cameras. “Can’t celebrate your first big-league win with beer, so this’ll have to do,” he had whispered, grabbed Madison’s face, and stolen a lingering kiss, tasting of the cheap swill everyone but Madison had been old enough to drink. In the buzz of the crowd here, Bumgarner feels a tingle go through him.
“Can’t give you that here,” Buster continues, nearly shouting over the party noise. He hugs Madison and whispers into his ear a promise for later, when things have died down a little here. Then he pushes him away, produces a bottle of beer from thin air and throws it into the laughing, screaming pitcher’s face. “For now, a toast to our first Series! Let’s keep doing this.”
A camera flashes in the crowd and in Madison’s mind, capturing the moment for eternity.
pairing/characters: Madison Bumgarner/Buster Posey
word count: 2200
rating: PG-13 (language)
disclaimer: Everything that can't be seen on TV is completely fictional, stuff I made up, and did not actually happen.
notes: AU-ish (neither player is married), follow-up-ish to Waiting Out the Machine
Apparently 2theletter and I are just on the same wavelength when it comes to writing this stuff at the same time. If it happens again, that'll just be ridiculous. Anyway, I started writing this after SF had won two games and I was still nervous and expecting torture. I'm sure the players were even worse. I finished it after the Series was over.
summary: Baseball happens and the guys are tired. You know it's fiction because the Giants win the World Series. Wait, what? Some cameos by other sleeping Giants.
Pick You Up
On the flight to Texas-maybe, dare he even think it, the last flight before the end-Madison Burgarner is unable to take advantage of the time for sleeping. Everyone was up early after a short night of trying to sleep, and there’s more trying to sleep on the plane. You’d think that on a plane specially designed for this purpose, they’d be able to get a seating arrangement proper for a bunch of guys where even the shortest was merely average height for a guy.
Over the course of his short season, Madison hadn’t quite gotten this down. The veteran grit of Burrell and Rowand is apparent by the way they somehow managed to walk onto the plane, tilt their heads back, and fall asleep just like they were experts at flying somewhere to win the World Series. Cain’s had more practice than anyone else sleeping on this plane, and he’s leaning against the wall with his mouth open in a position that should be awkward, but it’s always effective. Lincecum has taken advantage of his relative lack of size, and curled up with his head on the tray table, hair falling in his face. Next to him, Zito’s leaning back with a plush neck pillow, headphones, and not a care in the world. Further up the aisle, a few of the guys who can’t sleep are murmuring in Spanish and shuffling dominoes, an effort that quickly becomes futile as they pass through some turbulence.
“You ever feel so fuckin’ tired in your life?” he asks Buster. Buster’s just looking out the window and doesn’t reply. Madison shakes his head, shifts his knees again and slumps back, sweatshirt slipping against the leather seat until he gives up on sleeping and just puts some music on his iPod and tries to block out the engine’s roar. It was a stupid question just to say something, anything to pass the time and get his mind off the rough air, that feeling that even being higher than the clouds, that next bump might be the last one before the plane just falls out of the sky once it gets the message that thousands of tons of metal aren’t supposed to be able to take off thousands of feet above the ground. Buster, still staring at the barren landscape of Arizona or New Mexico or wherever, seems to be trying his hardest to keep the plane from ever finding out it’s not meant to be like this, and the plane flies on.
---------
Their first day in Arlington is like flying through that cloud you saw coming after miles and miles of calm blue skies. Madison sits with Lincecum and Cain and Zito, stony-faced on the rails, praying that this will be better than that last game in Philadelphia. Not much could be worse, but the bullpen has been murmuring ever since the last game as they witnessed the breakdown of their Texas counterparts. After September, could they be due for a meltdown?
Everyone just hold each other up, Affeldt says in his typical inspirational way. The starters will pull the bullpen up and the relievers will hold the starters up and both will be driven by faith that the other guys will be there, and in the end, that’s as much as you can ask for.
The game’s results are poor but not devastating, but there’s no bench-clearing and no need for seven innings of heroic relief, just Lincecum and Cain and Bumgarner looking at the low velocity and stealing glances at each other without even the need to put into words what they all know.
---------
After the game, Madison departs for the hotel as quickly as possible, feeling only a little bad about leaving his teammates in the clubhouse to face the media, but they seemed to be mostly interested in talking to other folks. Torres and Burrell were taking it for the team tonight, owning their respective adequate and inadequate performances. His family’s at the hotel on another floor, but he only has time for a phone call and a reassurance that yes, tomorrow will be the day he’ll make them proud. He flips through about 30 texts wishing him luck then lies back on his bed with a baseball in hand, practicing his grips for at least the tenth time that day. He compares the color of the baseball to the color of the ceiling, squinting until they blur together.
A little while later, there’s a knock on the door. It’s Buster, looking like he’s running on the fumes of adrenaline and rookie naiveté, the thing Huff had accused Madison of yesterday just before they got their room keys and Huff had laughed and whooped about everyone getting their own room for the trip like they were the fuckin’ Yankees, World Series, baby. They had spent most of that first night poking around Arlington and meeting up with family and friends, and Madison had barely had a chance to talk to Buster during the last two hectic days. He lets the catcher in, and Buster slides down in one of the less-comfortable “comfy chairs” provided by the hotel. Madison resumes his spot on the bed, still playing with the baseball.
“Hate doing these god-awful interviews with the press when we lose.”
Madison nods. “You’re the face of the team now. You give good replies to their questions. You’re like the class president, the team captain, wonder boy.”
“They put out some good hitters tonight,” says Buster with a tired laugh, deepening his voice. “They’re a good team, which is why they’re in the World Series. But we’re a good team too and tomorrow we will come back and put out our best.” He sits up, changing his voice again. “You’re a rookie pitcher, one of the youngest to ever reach the World Series. How do you pitch to such a lights-out lineup like the Rangers have? Josh Hamilton, Nelson Cruz, Vlad Guerrero-these guys are stars.”
“I’m just a rookie pitcher, what do I know? Might as well just roll over and let these guys win. That’s what they’re trying to say, but we gotta win this before it gets to seven games because of, well, you know.”
“Yeah, but you don’t tell ‘em that tomorrow. Tell me what you’re gonna tell ‘em.”
“Attack the inside and keep ahead of the count. Pitch my changeup on the outside later on because that works. Avoid the curveball because I don’t have good control on it. Pray the fielders get me out of trouble.”
“Too technical. No one wants to hear actual strategy except me and Rags and Bochy. Don’t admit to weakness, just be politely deferential toward the other team.”
“They’re gonna try and take another game tomorrow to tie up the series, and I’m going to go out there and make my best pitches to try and let our guys score. They’ll come at us hard, and they’re at home so they have the advantage, and they’ve got good hitters, best in the AL, but we’ve faced good hitting before like with the Phillies and we can come out on top again if we do it right. Every hitter looks for mistakes in your pitches, an’ if you don’t make mistakes, he’s got less chances to get a big hit.” Bumgarner stops. “That good enough? You’re not planning on calling them in here tonight, are you? Come over here and lay down.”
Buster laughs and shakes his head. He kicks off his shoes, shoves Madison over, and lies down, head on the pitcher’s arm. Madison feels the remaining energy drain out of the catcher seconds later.
“…and Buster’s gonna call a good game for me,” the pitcher continues. “He puts down the right signs and I follow ‘em and that’s how we win the game. He’s a stubborn, stoic sonofabitch who won’t say nothin’about how tired he is, but he’s worked every inning since the playoffs started and the faster we win, the sooner he’ll get his break.” Buster stays quiet, yet again.
“You remember that first time we won together after I got called up, Buster?” He moves his arm out and paints the picture in the air in front of them. “All those games in Colorado where we couldn’t get nothin’ done, and then off to Milwaukee and Sanchy just destroyed them that one day?”
“Can’t count on Sanchy to be like that again, Bum. You and me both know that.” Madison can feel his friend’s muscles tighten again, the tension in his voice, that little note of fear. He rolls to the side and tucks his knees up slightly and places his palm out flat on Buster’s chest just to feel the rhythm of his breath. Buster rolls his head to the side to find his pitcher staring at him with a quirky smile.
“Yeah, but remember the night before I was pitching? You told me not to worry about what went down in Colorado because they hit like crazy in that park, and not to get so amped up before my next start because you’d be there for me?”
“I got hit in the knee for you that game, Bum.”
“Yeah, but I had a real good feeling about that game before we started. Remember it?” The pitcher’s breath is warm with a lingering note of cherry cola. “Maybe it’s lost for you since you just went nuts the next day, hitting home runs all over, but you gave me a good feeling about that game before we started, and I saved one of the balls. I brought it with me. It’s right over there on the nightstand. My first major-league win. Man, Buster, I felt so good up there that day. Nothing bothered me except when you got hit, that made me mad on the bench and I told myself I’d get the win for you. When I got a hit or had to walk a guy, I just tried to get the next guy out.” Madison’s eyes have a glow in them, a little bit of orange reflected off something in the room.
“I pitched eight good innings that day Buster and they never scored off me. I even knocked in a run, remember? Well I’m telling you, tomorrow’s gonna be good like that too except I won’t be able to score runs for us, so you’ll have to do that for me I guess. It’s gonna be a good ball game and instead of you talking me into it, consider this me talking you into it.”
Buster rolls to his side, and they touch foreheads. His eyes are half-lidded, but under that, the gleam in his eyes is rekindled, that faint spark of the rookie who doesn’t know any better. “Consider me convinced.”
“Good,” says Madison. “I’ll get it done, don’t you worry. You just get some rest.” They fall asleep like that, awkwardly positioned and fully-dressed, like they could wake up at any time and head back to finish needed work.
---------
The next two games fly by. One minute, Madison is taking his first pitch in the World Series and the next thing he knows, eight innings have gone by, like he forgot to notice fifty thousand screaming Ranger fans cheering for the best offense the American League has to offer, like he forgot to notice he was on a stage with millions of people around the country watching, like he forgot to notice he wasn’t supposed to pitch that well as a rookie, like he wasn’t supposed to hold the other team back while Huff and Buster knocked balls over the fence. He catches Buster’s eye at as he leaves the mound for the last time that season, mouthing, “I told you so.”
Next day, he’s on the edge of his seat like everyone else is, then it’s a hurdling race over the rail to see who can get to the mound first. (Madison almost wins amongst the pitchers, but lets Lincecum sprint past him into the hugging dogpile.) From there on it’s a blur, media everywhere, new shirts and hats and shiny trophies, champagne spraying everywhere, screaming, “World Series!” to each teammate like it’s something they’ve never screamed before.
Eventually Buster corners him in the crowd. His eyes are on fire. “Do you remember the clubhouse after your first major-league win?” he asks. Madison’s memory flashes back quickly to that decidedly less hectic scene in Milwaukee, cornered in a hallway with no threat of cameras. “Can’t celebrate your first big-league win with beer, so this’ll have to do,” he had whispered, grabbed Madison’s face, and stolen a lingering kiss, tasting of the cheap swill everyone but Madison had been old enough to drink. In the buzz of the crowd here, Bumgarner feels a tingle go through him.
“Can’t give you that here,” Buster continues, nearly shouting over the party noise. He hugs Madison and whispers into his ear a promise for later, when things have died down a little here. Then he pushes him away, produces a bottle of beer from thin air and throws it into the laughing, screaming pitcher’s face. “For now, a toast to our first Series! Let’s keep doing this.”
A camera flashes in the crowd and in Madison’s mind, capturing the moment for eternity.