Triple Play - Cassie Cole Page 0,49

Sandman. Trevor Hoffman had For Whom The Bell Tolls.”

“Papelbon had Shipping Up To Boston,” he chimed in.

“Exactly! You need something like that. Batters need to fear Joel Rogers.”

“I’ve got it! The Mister Rogers theme.”

I giggled. “But you don’t want them to be your neighbor!”

Joel made a thoughtful noise. “Good point. I’ll think of something.”

As good as Joel was playing, other members of the team were not. Darryl fell deeper into his slump. He struck out three times in a game against the Toronto Blue Jays. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he made three errors at first base. The manager laid into him after the inning.

“I’m doing my fucking best,” Darryl shouted back at him. “Nothing’s breaking my way.”

“Paulson! Grab your glove—you’re taking over at first,” the manager said. He jabbed a finger into Darryl’s chest. “Hit the showers. You’re done tonight.”

Darryl kicked a bucket of balls, spilling them across the dugout. But instead of going up into the clubhouse he sat on the bench and stared straight ahead, brooding like an angry teenager. Nobody on the team sat near him.

Despite Darryl’s errors, we had a two-run lead going into the ninth. Sensing that Joel was about to emerge from the bullpen to close out the game, the crowd stood and began cheering. Then some new music began to play—beginning with a high-pitched xylophone medley.

When I realized what it was, I gasped. “No way.”

Rafael cocked his head as the piano section began. “What is it?”

Then the voice of Fred Rogers blared throughout the stadium. “It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor…”

The dugout erupted with laughter and cheers, and the crowd soon followed when they realized what was playing. Even Darryl cracked a smile.

The manager frowned. “What the shit…”

“Won’t you be my, could you be my…”

The door in the outfield wall opened and Joel emerged. There was a loud record-scratch sound effect, and then the Mister Roger’s theme song was replaced with a cacophony of drums and electric guitars. It was more noise than music. Joel jogged out across the outfield to the mound to what sounded like a death metal remix of the Mister Roger’s theme.

“WON’T YOU BE MY NEIGHBOOOOOOOOR,” screamed a metal singer. The music was deafening.

The crowd loved it. I stood on the top step of the dugout and grinned widely. It was silly, it was stupid, and it was absolutely perfect.

Joel toed the rubber on the mound and gave me a wink, then began his warm-up pitches.

The inning itself was far less exciting than the entrance. Joel induced two pop-fly outs, then struck out the third batter to end the game. All the Texas Rangers laughed and teased him about the music.

“Yo, you should wear a sweater!” the shortstop teased. “With, like, a dress shirt and shit underneath. Like Mister Rogers himself.”

“That death metal version was tight. The batters looked more confused than anything.”

Joel grinned at everyone, and gave me another wink.

We left the field and went up into the clubhouse. I found Darryl taking off his jersey in the locker room.

“Don’t shower just yet,” I said. “You’ve got more work to do.”

He scowled at me. “The fuck do you mean?”

“Meet me back on the field in half an hour,” I said. “The grounds crew should be done by then.”

“Why?”

“Because we need to work on a few things.”

I walked away before he could laugh in my face. Despite my request, I expected him to not show up. I was the pitching coach. I had no real authority over him. But when I went back out onto the field with a bucket of balls, he was waiting with a bat in hand. The stadium was empty but for a few custodial crew snaking their way through the bleachers with brooms.

“What’s the deal?” he asked. “You going to help me with batting practice? Go over some of the types of pitches I should lay off?”

I set down the bucket next to home plate. “Grab a glove. We’re working on your defense.”

Now he did laugh at me. “My defense? It’s my bat I’m worried about.”

I snatched the bat out of his hand and shoved a practice glove into his chest. “Everyone slumps at the plate from time to time. That’s understandable. But that’s no excuse to get lazy in the field. The shit we saw today? Three errors you made at first base? That should never happen. Defense doesn’t slump.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I just got distracted.”

I grabbed a baseball out of the bucket