Apparently I write baseball slash.
Written for rhoddlet because she basically inspired it. A slashy character piece on my favorite Yankee and recent hero, Aaron Boone.
Never Seen So Much
By Chloe, who says: isn't it pretty obvious this is fiction?
Aaron/Alfonso, PG
edited to the best of my ability at 2am. Sorry.
When you are first traded, it takes Laura only a few minutes to convince you that blue pinstripes aren’t at all the same as red ones. When you first leave your new apartment, you leave wearing a grey t-shirt. It makes you feel neutral, unburdened.
It’s July and New York is a lot different than Ohio, and even though you’ve been to the city before, you haven’t started thinking of yourself as a resident yet. New Yorkers seem to have this sort of energy to them, a constant motion that you cannot get down. Well into late August you are still getting lost walking the blocks around your apartment. You almost ask Laura to move to New Jersey, but then you start to get the rhythm of the city into your feet. New York, you catch yourself thinking lamely, is a very humbling place.
So now you’re a Yankee. Never thought you would be a Yankee. You come to the team as a defensive replacement and you bring more emotional baggage than actual possessions. You also bring a family legacy. For the Boones, baseball is the family business. Knew you’d be a baseball player, never thought you be a Yankee.
The Yankees are a miracle team, someone told you once, although you cannot remember who. You don’t exactly think of yourself as a miracle. People have always summed you up at Bret’s gawky younger brother. Sure, he’s talented, but he isn’t Bret… Nonsense, to be a grown man and still be caught up such trivial things, but then, baseball is a boy’s sport. A dreaming sort of sport.
This is so odd, you think, standing on third base in Yankee Stadium just to see what it feels like. Joe Torre stands watching you from home plate. It is your first time on the field. You came to New York to get away, even though you will deny it. You did get away… and you like New York, you really do. And you like the Yankees, but somehow it feels off. Maybe you’re off.
The thing you remember most about meeting the other Yankees, (who you had been watching on TV, of course) is Alfonso’s smile because it is just so damn white. You don’t remember Derek’s eyes, even though Laura says they twinkle and you don’t remember how Mariano’s rolled syllables sounded strange to you for a moment. It’s all about Alfonso’s smile because you just. You just cannot get over it. His smile has more charisma than you do in your whole body. It’s amazing.
They are all so nice to you. You feel like a puppy dog. Baseball is one of those touchy sports, but you always knew that. Your father knew that, too. So did your grandfather. So does your brother.
You don’t believe in ghosts when you first come. You also don’t believe in yourself when you basically lose your game a few weeks in. Everyone tells you that you have lost your game, even Laura, who supports you more than she should. You feel like a let down. You came to New York as a replacement, not a disaster.
Playing in the league championship makes you nervous; the Red Sox make you nervous. Alfonso makes you nervous too, because God, that smile could blind you from the pitcher’s mound.
When you’re a Yankee, you realize that hope is the best possible four letter word and it is always available. When you're in the bullpen, one of the boys prays to the Devil. It never strikes you as odd.
A home run is a gift. It’s divine or diabolic intervention wrapped delicately in skill. Derek told you the ghosts would show up eventually, and they did. For you. What’s funny is that you didn’t believe, that you didn’t hold with the curse and yet… they certainly showed you. You run around those bases like the Bambino himself is rooting you on. For all you know he probably is. It is his house, and his boys, his Yankees certainly believe in him. If you could think, you would realize that you’re one of his boys now too.
When you hit home plate the team is on you in a pileup better suited to a football game, or a car wreck. But God, it feels good. It feels like fucking home, and there are so many smiling, sweaty, grateful faces that you just don’t know, you just can’t think. It’s too good. It’s better than good. And the fans… the New Yorkers love you.
The mass of pinstripes moves and you in the center see Alfonso and he is grinning. He is grinning so brightly and looking so stunned and so thrilled that you just grab him. It’s a touchy sport, baseball. One of those sports. You start crying and you can feel Alfonso smiling his brilliant smile into your shoulder and saying “Aaron, amazing, man, amazing” over and over again and you forget to feel gawky because it doesn’t get much better.
And you’ll be fucking lucky as sin if it does.
Anyone want to buy me a life?
Never Seen So Much
By Chloe, who says: isn't it pretty obvious this is fiction?
Aaron/Alfonso, PG
edited to the best of my ability at 2am. Sorry.
When you are first traded, it takes Laura only a few minutes to convince you that blue pinstripes aren’t at all the same as red ones. When you first leave your new apartment, you leave wearing a grey t-shirt. It makes you feel neutral, unburdened.
It’s July and New York is a lot different than Ohio, and even though you’ve been to the city before, you haven’t started thinking of yourself as a resident yet. New Yorkers seem to have this sort of energy to them, a constant motion that you cannot get down. Well into late August you are still getting lost walking the blocks around your apartment. You almost ask Laura to move to New Jersey, but then you start to get the rhythm of the city into your feet. New York, you catch yourself thinking lamely, is a very humbling place.
So now you’re a Yankee. Never thought you would be a Yankee. You come to the team as a defensive replacement and you bring more emotional baggage than actual possessions. You also bring a family legacy. For the Boones, baseball is the family business. Knew you’d be a baseball player, never thought you be a Yankee.
The Yankees are a miracle team, someone told you once, although you cannot remember who. You don’t exactly think of yourself as a miracle. People have always summed you up at Bret’s gawky younger brother. Sure, he’s talented, but he isn’t Bret… Nonsense, to be a grown man and still be caught up such trivial things, but then, baseball is a boy’s sport. A dreaming sort of sport.
This is so odd, you think, standing on third base in Yankee Stadium just to see what it feels like. Joe Torre stands watching you from home plate. It is your first time on the field. You came to New York to get away, even though you will deny it. You did get away… and you like New York, you really do. And you like the Yankees, but somehow it feels off. Maybe you’re off.
The thing you remember most about meeting the other Yankees, (who you had been watching on TV, of course) is Alfonso’s smile because it is just so damn white. You don’t remember Derek’s eyes, even though Laura says they twinkle and you don’t remember how Mariano’s rolled syllables sounded strange to you for a moment. It’s all about Alfonso’s smile because you just. You just cannot get over it. His smile has more charisma than you do in your whole body. It’s amazing.
They are all so nice to you. You feel like a puppy dog. Baseball is one of those touchy sports, but you always knew that. Your father knew that, too. So did your grandfather. So does your brother.
You don’t believe in ghosts when you first come. You also don’t believe in yourself when you basically lose your game a few weeks in. Everyone tells you that you have lost your game, even Laura, who supports you more than she should. You feel like a let down. You came to New York as a replacement, not a disaster.
Playing in the league championship makes you nervous; the Red Sox make you nervous. Alfonso makes you nervous too, because God, that smile could blind you from the pitcher’s mound.
When you’re a Yankee, you realize that hope is the best possible four letter word and it is always available. When you're in the bullpen, one of the boys prays to the Devil. It never strikes you as odd.
A home run is a gift. It’s divine or diabolic intervention wrapped delicately in skill. Derek told you the ghosts would show up eventually, and they did. For you. What’s funny is that you didn’t believe, that you didn’t hold with the curse and yet… they certainly showed you. You run around those bases like the Bambino himself is rooting you on. For all you know he probably is. It is his house, and his boys, his Yankees certainly believe in him. If you could think, you would realize that you’re one of his boys now too.
When you hit home plate the team is on you in a pileup better suited to a football game, or a car wreck. But God, it feels good. It feels like fucking home, and there are so many smiling, sweaty, grateful faces that you just don’t know, you just can’t think. It’s too good. It’s better than good. And the fans… the New Yorkers love you.
The mass of pinstripes moves and you in the center see Alfonso and he is grinning. He is grinning so brightly and looking so stunned and so thrilled that you just grab him. It’s a touchy sport, baseball. One of those sports. You start crying and you can feel Alfonso smiling his brilliant smile into your shoulder and saying “Aaron, amazing, man, amazing” over and over again and you forget to feel gawky because it doesn’t get much better.
And you’ll be fucking lucky as sin if it does.
Anyone want to buy me a life?