Five Times Phil Coke Lost His Concentration During a Game
Title: Five Times Phil Coke Lost His Concentration During a Game
Rating: R-ish? Nothng too scandalous. Some cursing and a grope.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with these individuals. This is 100% fiction. I am not making any money off of this. The end.
Characters: Phil Coke, assorted others
Author's Note: If I keep putting off posting this, another week will pass. caruso's Five Times request.
o1. They're losing. They're losing to the Nationals. Sure, there's a kid from Long Island painting the corners... But they're the Yankees!
Phil is in the bullpen, drumming his heels into the dirt over and over. It's one of those mid-June nights. Smells like rain, and everyone's a little tense. None of the usual bullpen chatter, out here or back behind the glass. Just the occasional click of a seed shell flicked to the ground.
As has been the unfotunate case this season, when Chien-Ming Wang pitches the boys have to be ready. Hughes was already beckoned by Harkey. He's out behind the bullpen mound, rolling his arms in windmills.
Phil has a feeling he's next, but the call hasn't come. He taps anxious fingers on his knees.
Hey, there's a balloon floating down towards right field. Fingers still strumming pinstripes, Phil tilts his head to follow it. There's a perfect wind current from the upper deck, pushing it down towards the waiting grass. Some kid's loss.
He glances at his benchmates to see if they've noticed. Ace is flicking more shells into the dirt. Robertson is game-locked, hands tucked behind his head as he stares across center field.
Phil kind of wants to point the balloon out. But tonight isn't a good night for talking. He bites his tongue and watches the balloon swirl under the lights. Looks, too, at the right fielder conveniently positioned underneath.
It takes a squint to see, but Swish's head is tipped back. As the balloon slants, so does he, scratching his temple.
"Cokey, you're up! Let's go!"
Grinning, Phil grabs his glove and jogs to the bullpen mound.
o2. Oh wow. He's closing a game, he's closing a game. Not that closing a game is any different from the seventh or eighth inning. Three outs are three outs, no matter where you put them.
Mo needed a day off. Hard to believe. Phil figures the dude doesn't sleep, just plugs himself in at night to recharge the battery.
Mo is a cool guy. He's that older brother all the kids want to imitate. Like Phil, right now. It's time to look a little meaner, go a little harder.
But wait. No. The ninth is like any other inning. Three outs are three outs. Nothing special.
Well, technically, this is a four out save. He was called on in the 8th against Morneau. Yeah, just Morneau, no biggie. Same guy who crushed an upper deck shot against him one day ago.
But Phil struck him out this time. He pumped a fist, Cervelli pumped a fist, and everyone was happy ... until Eiland reminded him he had the 9th too.
He stares down the mound. This is his moment. Yankees lead by two in the bottom of the ninth. It's time to close it out for the team. For Mo.
Ball four to Crede. Crap.
Time to pretend it's just the 8th inning. Yep, only the 8th. Once Phil gets out of this mess, Mo will come in the game like usual and everything will be swell.
Phil is amped up. The game is slow and fast at the same time. The fans are one big blur, and he can barely squint out Cervy's signs.
Woo, an out! TWO outs! But Crede's pinch runner scores. Their lead is down to one. One more out to get. Gomez takes ball four.
Phil should have asked Mo what he uses to get through the ninth without breaking a sweat. There has to be some trick to it ... or dark magic, maybe.
"Cokey, you hear me?" Oh hey, Skip's here. "You're the only guy I want out here." They're circled by infielders. "You're the man right now. Let's go." Joe claps his shoulder and retreats to the dugout. Robbie pats his butt with his glove, and the group disperses. No pressure or anything.
8th inning, 8th inning, 8th inning--
Since when does Mike Redmond have such a good eye? Phil can't remember him being this patient before. It's like he knows what's coming. Is Phil tipping his pitches?
"Relax, dude." Nice of Cervelli to drop by again. "What are you doing? Come on."
"Are you breathing?" Pena stands behind them, hands on his hips and glove tucked under his elbow. Phil wonders if he's ever going to look older than 12. "Breathe, man."
Pena's accent is thick. Sounds like he said breed, man. Phil fully intends to breed some day. But now's not the time or place. He's got a save to get. 3-1 count on Redmond.
"Hey, Cervy, am I tipping my pitches?"
Cervelli laughs. "You got two more strikes, dude, let's go." He jogs back behind the plate. Pena pats his back with his glove, and then it's just Phil again. A pitcher's mound is the loneliest spot on earth.
Cervy made it sound easy - two more strikes, dude. But Redmond fouls off 5,000 pitches. With every swing, Phil sweats more under the collar. What's with this guy?? Does he have a Phil Coke playbook?
"Tipping pitches," Phil mouths when the Mike isn't looking. "Tipping, Cervy." Cervelli laughs behind his mask, the jerk.
Phil wonders if a closer has ever asked for a catcher switch mid-inning. Cervy is too Cervy for this.
He's so close to screwing this up. So close... Oh shit, Redmond puts it in play. Ohshitohshit...
Robbie has it. Tex has it. Game over. Game. Over.
Holy crap. Mo is the man.
o3. "So, heard you're a go-to guy." Phil just about falls off the bench.
He might be in the game later. They both might be. But for now, it's a Hell-hot August day, and Pettitte is doing old folks proud. It's only the third inning, and from the way Andy is throwing he's not coming out anytime soon.
Phil likes watching lefties. Even on a muggy day like today, Phil abandons the air-conditioned, glassed-in bullpen for a better vantage point: the bench on the other side of the bullpen mound.
"What's with baseball?" Phil complains. "People talk too much. You don't see me chatting. I could, too. I could talk about a lot of stuff if I wanted."
"Yeah, but who wants to listen to you?" He has a point. "I'm just saying, it makes sense. Keep it in the family, you know?"
"So who told you?" His righty counterpart grins. He has no intention of telling, obviously. Phil sighs. "I should have guessed you anyway."
"I should have guessed you," Hughes counters. "But whatever. So, you want to? After this?"
Phil eyes him skeptically. "That's it?"
Hughes laughs. "What do you want?" he asks. "Wine and roses?"
"Just saying, man. 'You want to?' doesn't get the jollies going."
"What does? Watching Andy pitch?"
Phil shrugs. "Doesn't hurt. I had a pitch log going before you messed me up."
Hughes looks around. "What log?"
"I take mental notes," Phil says. "Oh. And I don't give head. So don't ask."
"Lame," is Hughes' assessment. "Whatever. We'll talk." Getting up, he pops a fist on Phil's head and retreats to the air conditioning.
Phil stretches his arms along the back of the bench. He's lost track of the pitch count, damn. Could look up at the Stadium board, but Phil is old school when it comes to this stuff. Checking technology is the easy way out.
But hey, at least he has plans for tonight.
o4. Holy crap, they're going to the World Series. Like, THE World Series. Phil knew they had the right people to do it. Alex has been smoking the ball, and the starters have been crazy good. Plus, they've got Mo. Mo is like Willy Wonka's golden ticket. They cashed it all in, and now it's off to the World Series.
The huddle is hot and sweaty. Shouts that Phil can't understand ring in his ears. He thinks he hugs Skip. He finds Mo too. Dave and the other bullpen guys.
But Phil definitely knows when he's got a hand between his legs. Stays there just long enough to squeeze him. Thank god the cameras are too busy tracking down Jeet, Alex, and the big time boys. Phil almost bites through the inside of his cheek. Better this than to let out one of those surprised, yelpy sounds.
"Let's meet up later." Hughes grins and gives his cap a knock. Then, he's chasing teammates back to the clubhouse.
Wait. But. ... Champagne! Phil sprints after him.
World Series bound, and he's got plans tonight. Not bad for a flaky lefty.
o5. So, this is what it's like to be a Tiger. In Kansas City. Opening Day. The good thing is, Phil can have scruff and grow his hair long here. He likes scruff, and the Yankee cut wasn't him. Too clean and pretty.
He watches the aces battle. Verlander has given up 4 already. Greinke is being Greinke, and Phil is in the bullpen wondering how baseball works. Johnny declared them soulmates when he waltzed into Spring Training. From the Bronx to Detroit, meant to be together.
Phil thinks he'll like being a Tiger. It's more laid back than the Bronx. They have a good team this year, and the guys seem cool. He's cool with them too. Most of the guys in the Bronx had been there, done that. Nice to learn from but not always the most comfortable to hang with. Sure, he had the bullpen flakes, though. Swisher and Cervy. Pena.
Plus, Phil is a World Series Champion. That's pretty sweet.
He thinks he cried when he got the news that he was traded. Not, like, full on tears. But his eyes got a little wet. That he was going with A-Jax didn't make a difference. He was a goner. They gave up on him.
But Detroit hasn't given up on him, and Detroit's cool. The guys welcomed him in, asked him about New York, and wondered what the hell he was doing with his facial hair. They like mohawks in Detroit, blasting clubhouse music, and shouting their way through Call of Duty one day, Guitar Hero the next. Johnny claims to have a Dance Revolution mat around, but Phil thinks he's fucking around.
Maybe Phil will make a good Tiger. The New York papers never really got him, called him cocky after interviews when, really, he was just being him. Small town kids take awhile to adjust to bright lights in their face. He's still figuring out what's good or bad to say outloud, to his teammates or the media.
Looks like Verlander is done after five. Zumaya's warming up. Zumaya, who's covered in tats and has something to prove this season. He who avoids the Guitar Hero clubhouse battles and takes the ribbing in stride.
Phil checks out his company. Zum, Perry, Valverde. Other people whose names he'll learn. Guys he'll go to battle with. It's a game, sure, but it's war too. Especially in the bullpen. It's pressure every night. When they're going good, they're good as a team. When they suck, they all suck. It was the same in New York, battling with Ace, Robertson, Hughes, and the guys.
Phil hopes he doesn't suck. For himself, yeah, but this team is pretty awesome and he doesn't want to let them down.
"Coke! You got ears?" Oops, Jones is barking at him.
"Yes, sir! They work sometimes."
"Let's go, come on." Zumaya is already throwing, and Phil, on cue, starts to stretch.
Past is what it is. Time to be a Tiger. In Kansas City.
Rating: R-ish? Nothng too scandalous. Some cursing and a grope.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with these individuals. This is 100% fiction. I am not making any money off of this. The end.
Characters: Phil Coke, assorted others
Author's Note: If I keep putting off posting this, another week will pass. caruso's Five Times request.
o1. They're losing. They're losing to the Nationals. Sure, there's a kid from Long Island painting the corners... But they're the Yankees!
Phil is in the bullpen, drumming his heels into the dirt over and over. It's one of those mid-June nights. Smells like rain, and everyone's a little tense. None of the usual bullpen chatter, out here or back behind the glass. Just the occasional click of a seed shell flicked to the ground.
As has been the unfotunate case this season, when Chien-Ming Wang pitches the boys have to be ready. Hughes was already beckoned by Harkey. He's out behind the bullpen mound, rolling his arms in windmills.
Phil has a feeling he's next, but the call hasn't come. He taps anxious fingers on his knees.
Hey, there's a balloon floating down towards right field. Fingers still strumming pinstripes, Phil tilts his head to follow it. There's a perfect wind current from the upper deck, pushing it down towards the waiting grass. Some kid's loss.
He glances at his benchmates to see if they've noticed. Ace is flicking more shells into the dirt. Robertson is game-locked, hands tucked behind his head as he stares across center field.
Phil kind of wants to point the balloon out. But tonight isn't a good night for talking. He bites his tongue and watches the balloon swirl under the lights. Looks, too, at the right fielder conveniently positioned underneath.
It takes a squint to see, but Swish's head is tipped back. As the balloon slants, so does he, scratching his temple.
"Cokey, you're up! Let's go!"
Grinning, Phil grabs his glove and jogs to the bullpen mound.
o2. Oh wow. He's closing a game, he's closing a game. Not that closing a game is any different from the seventh or eighth inning. Three outs are three outs, no matter where you put them.
Mo needed a day off. Hard to believe. Phil figures the dude doesn't sleep, just plugs himself in at night to recharge the battery.
Mo is a cool guy. He's that older brother all the kids want to imitate. Like Phil, right now. It's time to look a little meaner, go a little harder.
But wait. No. The ninth is like any other inning. Three outs are three outs. Nothing special.
Well, technically, this is a four out save. He was called on in the 8th against Morneau. Yeah, just Morneau, no biggie. Same guy who crushed an upper deck shot against him one day ago.
But Phil struck him out this time. He pumped a fist, Cervelli pumped a fist, and everyone was happy ... until Eiland reminded him he had the 9th too.
He stares down the mound. This is his moment. Yankees lead by two in the bottom of the ninth. It's time to close it out for the team. For Mo.
Ball four to Crede. Crap.
Time to pretend it's just the 8th inning. Yep, only the 8th. Once Phil gets out of this mess, Mo will come in the game like usual and everything will be swell.
Phil is amped up. The game is slow and fast at the same time. The fans are one big blur, and he can barely squint out Cervy's signs.
Woo, an out! TWO outs! But Crede's pinch runner scores. Their lead is down to one. One more out to get. Gomez takes ball four.
Phil should have asked Mo what he uses to get through the ninth without breaking a sweat. There has to be some trick to it ... or dark magic, maybe.
"Cokey, you hear me?" Oh hey, Skip's here. "You're the only guy I want out here." They're circled by infielders. "You're the man right now. Let's go." Joe claps his shoulder and retreats to the dugout. Robbie pats his butt with his glove, and the group disperses. No pressure or anything.
8th inning, 8th inning, 8th inning--
Since when does Mike Redmond have such a good eye? Phil can't remember him being this patient before. It's like he knows what's coming. Is Phil tipping his pitches?
"Relax, dude." Nice of Cervelli to drop by again. "What are you doing? Come on."
"Are you breathing?" Pena stands behind them, hands on his hips and glove tucked under his elbow. Phil wonders if he's ever going to look older than 12. "Breathe, man."
Pena's accent is thick. Sounds like he said breed, man. Phil fully intends to breed some day. But now's not the time or place. He's got a save to get. 3-1 count on Redmond.
"Hey, Cervy, am I tipping my pitches?"
Cervelli laughs. "You got two more strikes, dude, let's go." He jogs back behind the plate. Pena pats his back with his glove, and then it's just Phil again. A pitcher's mound is the loneliest spot on earth.
Cervy made it sound easy - two more strikes, dude. But Redmond fouls off 5,000 pitches. With every swing, Phil sweats more under the collar. What's with this guy?? Does he have a Phil Coke playbook?
"Tipping pitches," Phil mouths when the Mike isn't looking. "Tipping, Cervy." Cervelli laughs behind his mask, the jerk.
Phil wonders if a closer has ever asked for a catcher switch mid-inning. Cervy is too Cervy for this.
He's so close to screwing this up. So close... Oh shit, Redmond puts it in play. Ohshitohshit...
Robbie has it. Tex has it. Game over. Game. Over.
Holy crap. Mo is the man.
o3. "So, heard you're a go-to guy." Phil just about falls off the bench.
He might be in the game later. They both might be. But for now, it's a Hell-hot August day, and Pettitte is doing old folks proud. It's only the third inning, and from the way Andy is throwing he's not coming out anytime soon.
Phil likes watching lefties. Even on a muggy day like today, Phil abandons the air-conditioned, glassed-in bullpen for a better vantage point: the bench on the other side of the bullpen mound.
"What's with baseball?" Phil complains. "People talk too much. You don't see me chatting. I could, too. I could talk about a lot of stuff if I wanted."
"Yeah, but who wants to listen to you?" He has a point. "I'm just saying, it makes sense. Keep it in the family, you know?"
"So who told you?" His righty counterpart grins. He has no intention of telling, obviously. Phil sighs. "I should have guessed you anyway."
"I should have guessed you," Hughes counters. "But whatever. So, you want to? After this?"
Phil eyes him skeptically. "That's it?"
Hughes laughs. "What do you want?" he asks. "Wine and roses?"
"Just saying, man. 'You want to?' doesn't get the jollies going."
"What does? Watching Andy pitch?"
Phil shrugs. "Doesn't hurt. I had a pitch log going before you messed me up."
Hughes looks around. "What log?"
"I take mental notes," Phil says. "Oh. And I don't give head. So don't ask."
"Lame," is Hughes' assessment. "Whatever. We'll talk." Getting up, he pops a fist on Phil's head and retreats to the air conditioning.
Phil stretches his arms along the back of the bench. He's lost track of the pitch count, damn. Could look up at the Stadium board, but Phil is old school when it comes to this stuff. Checking technology is the easy way out.
But hey, at least he has plans for tonight.
o4. Holy crap, they're going to the World Series. Like, THE World Series. Phil knew they had the right people to do it. Alex has been smoking the ball, and the starters have been crazy good. Plus, they've got Mo. Mo is like Willy Wonka's golden ticket. They cashed it all in, and now it's off to the World Series.
The huddle is hot and sweaty. Shouts that Phil can't understand ring in his ears. He thinks he hugs Skip. He finds Mo too. Dave and the other bullpen guys.
But Phil definitely knows when he's got a hand between his legs. Stays there just long enough to squeeze him. Thank god the cameras are too busy tracking down Jeet, Alex, and the big time boys. Phil almost bites through the inside of his cheek. Better this than to let out one of those surprised, yelpy sounds.
"Let's meet up later." Hughes grins and gives his cap a knock. Then, he's chasing teammates back to the clubhouse.
Wait. But. ... Champagne! Phil sprints after him.
World Series bound, and he's got plans tonight. Not bad for a flaky lefty.
o5. So, this is what it's like to be a Tiger. In Kansas City. Opening Day. The good thing is, Phil can have scruff and grow his hair long here. He likes scruff, and the Yankee cut wasn't him. Too clean and pretty.
He watches the aces battle. Verlander has given up 4 already. Greinke is being Greinke, and Phil is in the bullpen wondering how baseball works. Johnny declared them soulmates when he waltzed into Spring Training. From the Bronx to Detroit, meant to be together.
Phil thinks he'll like being a Tiger. It's more laid back than the Bronx. They have a good team this year, and the guys seem cool. He's cool with them too. Most of the guys in the Bronx had been there, done that. Nice to learn from but not always the most comfortable to hang with. Sure, he had the bullpen flakes, though. Swisher and Cervy. Pena.
Plus, Phil is a World Series Champion. That's pretty sweet.
He thinks he cried when he got the news that he was traded. Not, like, full on tears. But his eyes got a little wet. That he was going with A-Jax didn't make a difference. He was a goner. They gave up on him.
But Detroit hasn't given up on him, and Detroit's cool. The guys welcomed him in, asked him about New York, and wondered what the hell he was doing with his facial hair. They like mohawks in Detroit, blasting clubhouse music, and shouting their way through Call of Duty one day, Guitar Hero the next. Johnny claims to have a Dance Revolution mat around, but Phil thinks he's fucking around.
Maybe Phil will make a good Tiger. The New York papers never really got him, called him cocky after interviews when, really, he was just being him. Small town kids take awhile to adjust to bright lights in their face. He's still figuring out what's good or bad to say outloud, to his teammates or the media.
Looks like Verlander is done after five. Zumaya's warming up. Zumaya, who's covered in tats and has something to prove this season. He who avoids the Guitar Hero clubhouse battles and takes the ribbing in stride.
Phil checks out his company. Zum, Perry, Valverde. Other people whose names he'll learn. Guys he'll go to battle with. It's a game, sure, but it's war too. Especially in the bullpen. It's pressure every night. When they're going good, they're good as a team. When they suck, they all suck. It was the same in New York, battling with Ace, Robertson, Hughes, and the guys.
Phil hopes he doesn't suck. For himself, yeah, but this team is pretty awesome and he doesn't want to let them down.
"Coke! You got ears?" Oops, Jones is barking at him.
"Yes, sir! They work sometimes."
"Let's go, come on." Zumaya is already throwing, and Phil, on cue, starts to stretch.
Past is what it is. Time to be a Tiger. In Kansas City.