“Strike one!”
This continued for several moments, and frankly, he was getting pissed. They were making him look like an idiot and preparing to walk him. He didn’t want to be walked during the eighth inning – he wanted to slam it home, run the bases, do a little dance rounding third, and then make a complete douche of himself as he crossed the home plate. Can’t really work the crowd if you never get a chance to show off, now can ya?
“C’monnn!” Drake shouted angrily at the pitcher. “What’d you do, pull a muscle playing with yourself before the game? I don’t think you’ve thrown one ball over the bag yet, Hendricks. Now are we playing baseball or is someone getting me a ‘T’ and a plastic bat – because I love a mean game of T-ball with all those sweet, chubby-cheeked kiddos who are digging for gold, picking their little button noses and…”
Oh crap!
Hendricks was rearing back, his leg up, and his face focused before Drake had finished talking a bunch of trash to the man. His voice faded away as he tensed up, ready to slam it home, if it was a good throw… and as it whizzed toward him – and struck his hip much too close to his groin. Drake dropped at the explosion of pain, eyes squinted shut as tears threatened, and his ears rang.
“Walk!” the Umpire shouted, and Drake hesitated, drawing in a ragged breath as he cracked open an eye.
“Not… sure… if that’s gonna… happen,” he wheezed, bent over, and clenching as he clutched himself. “I know that’s… why we wear… a cup… but that stung.”
He saw several pairs of cleats around him as Drake opened his eyes, sucking in air, trying to pull himself together, and prayed that whatever physically just climbed in his pelvis out of sheer terror seconds ago would someday descend once more as he stared at the ground, focusing on breathing and not puking up his lunch.
“Walker – you okay, buddy?”
Hendricks – the jackhole, did this on purpose and knew he wasn’t okay.
“And that’s why I asked about the ‘T’,” Drake grunted, straightening up and rising to his feet, locking his knees as he felt one buckle, refusing to give the other arrogant man the time of day. “You missed, just like you missed the box, Hendricks. Maybe you need glasses or need someone to show you what…”
“Maybe you need someone to teach you a lesson,” Hendricks shot back, interrupting him.
Drake did not feel up to this right now, not while his hip and right testicle were singing in unison – in a falsetto voice. Heck, he was practically in the same vocal range as he backtalked the pitcher a second later.
“What was that anyhow – do you ever throw a ball faster than eighty miles an hour? I mean, I’m not a pitcher and play outfield where I can have a little fun… but dang buddy – that sucked – and not in a good way.”
“Why you little…”
Hendricks exploded at him – and thankfully, the other guys were there. They started blocking, protecting, and grabbing at the other player, keeping him away from Drake as he slowly began to trot toward first base.
Yeah, that ball was going to leave a mark, and he probably needed to get to a restroom to make sure he wasn’t bleeding in one of his favorite spots. Looking down at his white pants, he didn’t see anything – no lump, well, nothing abnormal beside the cup at least – and no broken skin. He’d once been hit, and it left a massive welt – another time it fractured his jaw. This wasn’t the first hit he’d taken, but it did have the distinct honor (or dishonor) of being the one that made him question if he could ever father a child after today.
Sure enough, the camera came over and got in his face.
“Drake, did ya’ shake it off, man?”
“You know it,” Drake chimed back, focusing on the pitcher once more as he tried to walk another player. Hendricks was an absolute twerp – and maybe he’d deliver a flaming bag of poo onto his front porch for Christmas in one of his plastic lunchboxes. Wouldn’t want him to think it was some other guy, now would we? “The cup protects all, my brotha. Ladies – we’re safe, I promise ya.”
An hour later, things were throbbing painfully ‘downstairs’ – and the game still wasn’t over. Making his excuses, Drake knew he could take off and ask medical to check him out, but he sure didn’t want to give Hendricks the satisfaction.
“Coach – I’m gonna run to the john,” Drake shouted.
“Go on,” the man said, waving him off as he jogged past the man, darted through the crowds leaning over the walkway heading back to the locker rooms of the stadium. Frankly, he liked this stadium because it was two levels and big enough to make you feel like a pro, but cozy enough to yank you back down to reality. He was a thirty-four-year-old man playing a game for money and keeping his aches and pains as much of a secret as he could. By passing the locker rooms because he didn’t want medical involved, he shot up the walkway that was full of distracted people balancing their popcorn and their Cokes. Getting medical involved meant going over his records – again. They wouldn’t be just checking him, but working his knee once more to make sure they caught the beginnings of any issues, and he didn’t need someone to tell him that.
He already knew.
Instead, Drake darted onto the elevator that would lead to the second floor, where it was less crowded… and as he saw the elevator doors close, he was spotted. Drake held up a finger to his lips, shushing them silently, as he winked just as the doors shut. The clock was ticking now. He’d been spotted. When thedoors opened, he was going to have to carefully make his way down to the private boxes where those bathrooms were located and…
“OH MY GOSH!”
“DRAKE WALKER!”
“MARRY ME…”
“SIGN MY SHIRT, DRAKE…”
“SIGN WHATEVER YOU WANT TO…”