Work Text:
It was the top of the ninth inning, but Adalberto Tosser had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.
Ideally, Tosser wouldn’t have been pitching at all. If games 3 and 4 had gone any better, game 5 would have been out of the question. Tosser could attend the ascension party he’d been daydreaming about in peace, knowing that he did nothing to affect the outcome, good or ill. But Brock had flagged hard in game three, and Monty couldn’t hold it together in game four, so it came down to Tosser anyway.
For what it’s worth, he was doing alright so far. The Crabs were up by two over the Shoe Thieves, and there’s only, what, an inning to go? Half? Cake. Tosser leaned back in his seat in the dugout, closing his eyes and listening to the hype music blaring through his earbuds. His “playlist that gives you anxiety” seemed a bit on-the-nose, so he opted for the ascension playlist he’d prepared for the afterparty. Perhaps a bit prematurely… nah, Tosser waved the thought off. It’ll be fine. It’s only my game to lose.
The thought had just enough time to unsettle him when a wave of reverb knocked Tosser off the bench.
He landed hard on his pitching arm. For a moment, he laid still, then got up and brushed himself off. His arm was fine, or at least looked like it, so he ignored it for a moment and turned toward the sky. There had been severe weather warnings for the past several games in Charleston, sure, but nothing that warranted the sight that greeted Tosser from the dugout. The blue waves of reverb broke between rows of thick approaching clouds, both brown and blood red. The beginnings of feedback buzzed in the base of his neck. And, on top of all that, the sun was nearly in eclipse. What in the world was going on?
Tosser’s music pulsed. A deep-voiced man warbled into his ears.
Waking up dry, waking up dusty
Feeling remorse, feeling thirsty
Bring me a cup
Bring me water
Tosser glanced over at the bullpen, where all the pitchers who got the day off today sat watching the game. Montgomery Bullock and Brock Forbes perched on Axel Trololol’s shell, while Finn James sat off to the side in his wheelchair -- Charleston was too dry for Finn to swim.
We can ascend from this arrangement
We can see fate as entertainment
Bring me a cup
Bring me water
An omen crept up Tosser’s spine. He pulled his earbuds out. He wasn’t in the mood.
He heard the crack of a bat as Sutton Dreamy grounded out. “You’re live, Bertie,” called Parker Parra from the on-deck circle.
It’s his game to lose. Here goes nothing.
It’s Tosser’s game to lose and oh boy was he losing it.
The Thieves’ first batter landed a single on him right away, and it rattled him enough that he let the next batter get to a full count before walking them. Now Stu Trololol stood at the plate, eyeing him. The game-winning run, potentially. He avoided eye contact. Three outs. Just focus.
Pedro Davids gave him a sign from behind the plate. Tosser nodded, but didn’t really register what it was. Ball one.
Damn.
Tosser took a deep breath as the sky darkened above him. The weather report didn’t have an eclipse for today. He steadied himself and threw the next pitch. Ball two.
Come on.
The feedback buzzed in Tosser’s brain. Idly, he noted that feedback wasn’t in the weather forecast either. He tried to give himself a reassuring “you got this” but it came out more along the lines of “your game to lose.” He grimaced. Great. The last thing he needed was more self-doubt. He threw the next pitch. Strike one.
Now that was much more like it… wasn’t it?
Wasn’t it? This was all wrong. This was his game to win. This was his game to lose. He looked back up at the sky, and watched the dueling clouds close in.
Pedro gave him another sign, calling for a curveball, low and inside. Tosser, almost imperceptibly, shook his head. Pedro stared for a moment, then gave another sign. Fastball, high and away. Tosser shook his head again. At this distance, it was almost impossible to read Pedro’s face, but Tosser could tell he was terribly confused. With Tosser’s skill and a little focus, those pitches alone could win the Crabs the game.
From the mound, Tosser flashed a sign of his own. R-M.
Pedro stood still for a moment, then shrugged and positioned his glove.
Tosser wound up and threw.
The Crabs had all learned American Sign Language long ago, for no other reason than Forrest Best and Holden Stanton had both used it when in the early seasons. Shortly afterwards, Pedro Davids had encouraged the pitching staff to adapt it for their signs. R-M was a pitch Tosser didn’t use often. The ball whizzed toward the mound, but to Tosser’s eyes, it may as well have been traveling through quicksand.
A changeup, nice and slow, right down the middle.
R-M. Red meat.
Stu Trololol made contact with the ball, and Adalberto Tosser didn’t need to turn his head to know it had sailed long past the outfield wall. A weight lifted off his shoulders. The Thieves’ announcer was celebrating their shame victory over the Crabs, and Silvaire Roadhouse was yelling something at him from second base, but Tosser didn’t care. This was his game to lose, and he had lost. Simple as that. The next three batters went down without a fight. Game over. Shoe Thieves win 5-4. Pedro Davids trotted (well, lumbered, with that camper van on his back) up to the pitching mound to offer words of encouragement, but they fell on deaf ears.
Instead, Tosser turned to the bullpen. “You should all get inside. There’s a storm coming.”