Chapter Text
Just like always, you find yourself thumping a familiar rhythm on the door to the clubhouse, a warning to the team that you’re coming in and you do not want to see any of their… private parts.
Fifteen seconds pass before you slip inside.
A mix of clay, sweat, and soap hits your senses. Rap echoes from one corner of the clubhouse; loud enough to get them going, excited, but not loud enough to drown out the voices that call to you. Faces you haven’t seen since last year, returned for yet another season of baseball.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Antonio ‘Tony’ Vasquez, resident shortstop, greets you, in the middle of tugging a black compression shirt over his head. Once finished, he gives you a quick side-hug. “How ya been?”
You shrug. “Can’t complain. How was Arizona?”
“Dry as all hell. I went through five tubes of chapstick there.”
“Great views of the red rocks, though. How was training?”
“Interesting. Very interesting.”
“Yeah? Good season?”
Tony holds a finger to his lips, winking; he won’t say anything lest he jinx it but you can tell. He is confident. All of them seem that way. Opening Day brings all kinds of energy as it is the official start of the Major League season, but this energy is different.
Many things can be said about the Seattle Mariners.
A sort of iconic team for having held onto Ichiro for fourteen consecutive years. Yet, lacking a powerhouse status like that of the Yankees or the Dodgers. Especially considering the Mariners have never once won a World Series and in fact, haven’t even made it to ALDS or the ALCS in over twenty-one years.
Despite that, today, they feel different. Confident. Charged and rearing to go.
You are absolutely certain it is because of their new catcher.
You would know.
Eijun has been talking your ear off about it since the news broke about the trade.
You recall late December, staying over at his place, laid down on your bellies on his California King, shoulders pressed together, his foot draped over your calf, the screen of his phone irritatingly bright in the darkness of his absurdly large master bedroom. On the screen, a tweet from the official MLB account.
Kazuya Miyuki reportedly agrees to a six year deal for $150 million with the @Mariners
Attached to the tweet is a picture of him in catcher gear, mid-pop-up.
“Finally,” Eijun had breathed, bright eyes meeting yours, grin breaking out on his face.
“That is an absurd amount of money,” was the only thing you had to say about it.
But you knew — know.
Eijun has spoken extensively about his time in high school, leaving his little town in the countryside to move to Tokyo to attend powerhouse baseball school, Seido High. All to chase down Miyuki Kazuya, the catcher he encountered during his visit to the grounds.
The one that helped to mold Eijun into a fearsome southpaw pitcher.
Together, in Eijun’s second year and Miyuki’s third, they went to Nationals together and became champions. Using a complex catching system — Numbers, he’d called it — to sweep through their opponents.
You wonder, then, if Miyuki’s trade was a coincidence.
For $150 million… nearly the same amount the Mariners put down for Eijun a year ago. His deal is $155.5 million for seven years; he has six years left. The same amount of time left for Miyuki as he starts this season.
Both outrageous amounts, in your opinion.
For Eijun, only by the skin of his teeth, the most expensive deal for a Japanese pitcher (and you say by the skin of his teeth because the most expensive deal used to be for Masashiro Tanaka, seven years with the Yankees for $155 million).
For Miyuki, the third most expensive contract for a catcher overall, which, you reluctantly admit, is already pretty impressive but he’s breaking more records than that.
The first Japanese catcher to play starting since Kenji Johjima (who, ironically, during his stint with the MLB in the 2000s, also played for the Mariners); it’s been nearly two decades since. Alongside that, the most expensive deal for a Japanese catcher. Then, the third most for expensive deal for a Japanese player. (Eijun gets the second place for this one, but, again, barely.)
This is on top of the slew of awards he’s been rewarded with at the end of the season for the past four years. Golden Gloves, Silver Sluggers, Fielding Baseball Awards. He was even named National League MVP last year.
With that kind of press, he gets a laundry list of requests for sponsorships, too, who are more than willing to pay loads of money for him. This, however, is toned back a little bit. From what you know, he is reserved with the brands he sponsors. Under Armor, like Eijun, more recently, New Balance, Boss Coffee, a canned coffee brand in Japan (that he also drank in high school, according to Eijun), Panini, a sports trading card company, and a few more. (Eijun is more willing to sponsor; Under Armor, for one, along with JAL Airlines, Sleep Number, a mattress company, and Pocari Sweat.)
And it’s certainly not as if there weren’t other teams with much more expensive offers. Miyuki Kazuya made his mark on American baseball during his four years with the Chicago Cubs; they made it all the way to the National League Champion Series last year, the series that determines who, in the National League, would face off against the champion from the American League in the World Series. Meanwhile, he was catching full-time and setting all kinds of batting records.
Safe to say that when the drafts opened, teams were scrambling beside themselves to get a piece of him.
Look, you aren’t saying his deal with the Mariners isn’t snazzy — that’s a whole $150 million! — but given that there were surely more expensive deals and the fact that the Mariners only just started to do exceptionally well with Eijun’s addition to the roster and an entire redesign of team practice… well.
It is suspect.
You could probably chalk up Miyuki’s arrival to the apparent relationship between him and Eijun, which is an admittedly romantic notion that you agree with (that is, you would do the same in his place), but for the Mariners themselves… a strategic move. Clearly they have high hopes, high expectations.
And the team, fresh from spring training in Arizona, clearly feel the same.
It’d surely be something, anyway. If MLB’s first Japanese battery could drag the Mariners to the World Series and win. Given what you have learned of Sawamura Eijun’s personality over the last year… you believe it.
A few more greetings.
Manny Rodriguez, first baseman, enthusiastically shows you pictures of his newborn daughter, Gracie.
Dayton James, the other starting catcher, shows you pictures of his trip to Denmark.
Parker Lopez, second baseman, and William Watson, third baseman, tell you about a new hotpot place here in SoDo — south downtown — that you and Eijun should check out.
Maurice Torres, left fielder, and Casey Bennett, right fielder, show you pictures of their trips overseas and tell you about shows they watched. With them, Jared Griffin, center fielder, much quieter but still kind, tells you about a few books he read that he thinks you would enjoy. You type everything they give you into your notes.
The starting pitcher cohort (plus Milo Amadeus, a relief pitcher) happily monopolizes your attention for a few minutes. Composed of five total pitchers, it’s Eijun, of course, then Carlos Diaz, Sam Hudson, and Lee Morales.
Carlos, Sam, Lee, and Milo show off videos of their pitching from spring training, preening under your praise.
Once you extract yourself from them, you make your way to the corner of the clubhouse, where Eijun’s changing area is. As a ballgirl, you and the others have your own locker rooms not far from the clubhouse, so you’re already dressed in the uniform; a sea-green jersey with Mariners written across the chest and white uniform pants, tucked into black knee-length socks. You don’t have your cleats on yet, just socks and slides, with your ball cap stuffed in the back pocket of your pants.
Your phone buzzes with a text.
(14:22) Let Eijun know I said good luck
(14:22) he’s not answering his phone again?
(14:23) It’s okay ^_^ it’s an exciting day after all
(14:23) And on second thought, let Miyuki know I said that, too
You were unofficially introduced to Kominato Haruichi, Eijun’s other best friend, last year in November.
Apparently, he talks about you a lot.
Haruichi, playing for the Seibu Lions in Japan (along with Kuramochi Youichi, who you know is a close friend of Miyuki’s and Eijun’s, too), got curious and wanted to meet you. The two of you mostly text (he says he’s better at writing and reading English than he is at speaking it), bonding over shared fondness for Eijun and shared interests in books.
You’re grateful for the friendship, especially when you need help pulling Eijun out of his own mind after tough games.
Plus, he sent you this one hilarious clip of Eijun in their second year throwing a ball so hard he flips forward, tumbling off the mound. You’d laughed for nearly five minutes straight after watching it and even to this day, you’ll think of it randomly and can’t stop yourself from bursting into giggles.
You shoot off an affirmative just as you round the corner, finding Eijun at the end of the row, dressed in white uniform pants but without shoes and a jersey. Across from him on the bench is someone else, an unfamiliar face, but you hardly let your eyes linger, heart soaring as you drink in the familiar sight of your best friend.
“You’re neglecting your phone again, Eijun,” you call, interrupting him in the middle of whatever tirade he was going on (in Japanese, with violent gesticulating). “Haruichi says good luck.”
“Not Harucchi!” He pats himself down frantically, then shakes his head, forlorn. “Tell him I said thank you.”
Then he grins, as if only just realizing your presence, and bounds forward, wrapping you up in his arms, lifting you off the ground a little bit. You don’t mind, hugging him back just as tightly.
Eijun rubs his cheek against yours. “I missed you,” he mumbles, somehow managing to sound both affectionate and petulant.
“You’re telling me,” you say lowly, enjoying the strong, warm embrace of his arms. He smells like deodorant and body soap, his hair damp against your cheek. “Seattle is just gloomy without you here.”
His grip tightens; he still hasn’t put your feet back on the ground but you don’t mind.
“I wish you had been there,” he sighs, a warm exhale against your jaw. “Spring training was… awesome.”
Finally, he eases you down, pulling back, his arms still around you.
You grin, reaching up to tug affectionately at his cheek. “You’ll just have to show me this season.”
Sun-gold eyes flash, a big grin pulling at his mouth. The sight is so welcoming, so familiar, like coming home, that you feel a little choked up for just a moment. He’d left in mid-February and it was now the second week of April; you’d felt his absence like the loss of a limb. Always chasing shadows whenever you saw something that reminded you of him or thought of something that would please him, turning to tell him as much, only to remember he wasn’t there.
You dive in for another hug. He reciprocates happily.
“‘M spending the night,” you mutter against his shoulder.
You feel the vibration of his laugh against your chest, bright and happy, the air around you warmed by the sound.
One more squeeze of his arms before he unceremoniously drags you over to where he was standing previously, turning you forward, with his arm still slung over your shoulder.
“Now, for the grand finale — introductions!”
Ah.
As you turn your gaze onto the person Eijun was previously talking to, you find you do not need an introduction.
Even before his trade, Eijun had spoken extensively about Miyuki Kazuya and shown you multiple pictures from their time in high school.
And then during spring training, though he could hardly manage or remember to keep up a conversation (other than the sporadic reminder that he missed you), you would often find yourself the recipient of a deluge of pictures, ranging from the picturesque red rocks, seemingly on fire when awash with the rays of the setting sun, to blurry selfies with any number of his teammates. Many of them including one Miyuki Kazuya.
Still.
Loathe you are to admit it, any amount of pictures on the display of your phone can hardly manage to convey his presence in the flesh.
That is to say, you had acknowledged his pretty face (Eijun, too, grudgingly), but seeing him in person is a, excuse the pun, whole different ballgame.
Seated on the bench, hands braced slightly behind him on the edge, he is already clad in the white Mariners uniform, long legs stretched out carelessly. The black standard Mariners ball cap sits oddly on his dark brown hair, at an angle.
Unnervingly sharp tawny brown eyes meet your own.
He needs glasses, you recall. On the field, he uses a combination of contacts and sports glasses. The sports glasses, the visor itself clear, with white arms, sit tucked into the collar of his jersey. The subsequent lack of a barrier makes his gaze feel that much more intense as he scrutinizes you.
You feel yourself doing the same.
The time in Arizona has done wonders for the team, not just for morale, but you notice the healthy tan of their skin. Eijun, having paled considerably from the winter months, is back to a warm golden brown; Miyuki is the same, with more russet undertones
Eijun introduces you, handing out your full name, then Miyuki’s.
Recognition sparks in his eyes.
“You’re the ball girl.”
Immediately, you do not like his tone. His voice, a low tenor, English just a little accented (just like Eijun), is an amused sort of drawl.
You purse your lips.
“Your hat is crooked.”
The flash and ensuing shutter of a camera breaks the moment.
All of you turn.
Teresa Jefferson, one of the Mariners’ photographers, stands at the end of the aisle, smiling a tad apologetically as she calls out your name. You hadn’t seen her yet since getting here, so you twist out of Eijun’s arms and go over to her.
As you go, you hear Eijun’s soft snickers and the ensuing murmured conversation in Japanese.
“It’s good to see you,” Tess says. “Get up to anything interesting?”
“No more than usual.”
“Just the library, then?”
You shrug, smiling.
“Fair enough,” she chuckles. “Sounds more fun than me. Tried out wedding photography during the offseason. Not fun.”
“Ouch.”
“I know. Anyway, gotta do some headshots. You mind?”
Movement in the corner of your eye. Miyuki standing and walking past you, a palpable brush of heat against your back.
“Not at all.” You glance to the side, where Eijun is now pulling on his jersey, his back to you; Sawamura is written across the top, then underneath in bold typeface is his chosen number, 27.
You’d only struck up the courage to ask about it earlier this year because for some, their chosen numbers could be personal. But he hadn’t shirked at the question, instead happily telling you it was the part of the numbers in the latitude coordinates for his hometown, Ina, Nagano. The full coordinates (he knows them by heart) were 35.8275° N, 137.9541° E and he’d plucked the 27 from it.
It was a thoughtful gesture. You held nothing against players who held onto old numbering traditions for the sake of prosperity but… it’s sweet that when choosing his defining number, he thinks of his family. His home.
Eijun loves fully and he loves hard.
“I’ll be back, Ei,” you call to him.
He turns, thrusting out a thumbs-up and a loud Okay!
Tess chuckles and the two of you make your way back out of the clubhouse. Finding a clean spot on the wall with solid lighting, Tess snaps your picture. Mostly for the clubhouse; keeping files on the grounds crew and things like that.
You both step back inside. She has to hang around to grab some candids of the players — some go to Getty Images, others the management likes to keep for casual promotions — since they’re all dressed by now.
The savory smell of meat tickles your nose as you come around the corner. He sits on the bench, pulling up his socks, while two foil-wrapped hot dogs and a water bottle sit beside him.
“Hi! Those are for you!”
You know better than to protest. He never eats before the game, anyway, and all the players get free food, whereas you only have a fifty percent discount. Still good but concessions can be crazy expensive even without it. And today, you haven’t managed to eat a bite, since you slept in, took care of some errands for Lula, then headed here.
“Thank you,” you say warmly. “Did you remember to put sunscreen on your neck? And your ears?”
He gets very sheepish. “No…”
You figured as much.
He’ll remember to put it on the more obvious body parts — his face, his arms, (even his hands, but you’re certain that’s more of a pitcher thing than anything else), but never the nape of his neck or his ears, both of which remain exposed even when he wears his cap.
A fond smile tugs sharply at your mouth and you steal the large bottle of sunscreen from where it stands near his bag, then make a circling motion with your hand.
He turns on the bench, so his back is to you.
Squeezing a dollop of white sharp-smelling sunscreen onto your palm then tucking the bottle under your arm, you apply it to the nape of his neck, meticulously making sure to cover his skin and avoid smearing any on his hair or his jersey.
The skin there doesn’t look as bad as you thought it would.
“Did you remember during training?”
“Hm? Oh, no, Kazuya reminded me!”
“Did he? Good.”
“He wasn’t as nice as you are about it, though,” he grumbles.
You laugh a little. Considering what you already know of his personality, you don’t doubt that.
“Speaking of him,” he continues, taking on a less petulant tone and a more no-nonsense one. “We’re all having dinner tonight — the three of us. After the game.”
“We are?”
“Mmhm. I hope you know — what he said —”
“He didn’t mean anything by it,” you guess. “Knowing what I know, I figured as much, but I wasn’t going to let him walk all over me.”
“I thought so,” he says, pleased. “But…”
You finish with his neck, the sunscreen completely smoothed into his skin, not even leaving a white cast. Unprompted, he turns around, surprising you. Ordinarily, he should stay with his back to you for you to do his ears, but you see the purse of his lips, the slight furrow between his dark brows. Sure signs that he has something to say but he doesn’t quite know how to put it.
“But?” you prompt softly, squeezing out a little more sunscreen onto your fingers.
He stays silent, golden brown eyes shifting to the side as he thinks long and hard.
You continue with your work, carefully smoothing sunscreen over the tips of his ear, behind them, and under. Then you move onto the other one, repeating the process.
It’s better not to push with him. You’ve come to learn that.
You wouldn’t call him thoughtless, no, he just often says what he feels is right. During the game, it works like a charm. Last season is proof of that. Seattleites already go pretty hard for their sports teams, mostly for the Seahawks, the city’s football team, but last season, Mariners fans had rallied around Eijun’s simultaneous excitable, puppy-like love for the game and his spots of intensity when it came to striking out batters. Of course, when you have a confident Eijun, then you have a good game, but really, his energy is infectious.
Anyway, like you were saying, he’s not thoughtless. But he’s always rearing to go, always prepped with a response depending on the conversation, and you’ve found in moments like these, when he stops and thinks, they are important. Important to him and naturally, important to you.
When you finish, you start to pull your hand back, but quickly, he grabs onto you, clasping your hand between his. Sunscreen is still smeared onto your palm; he starts massaging into your skin.
“It would be nice if you two got along,” he says, hushed, uncharacteristically serious; his thumb smooths extra sunscreen over the back of your hand. “Great if you guys could be friends. But I know… well, Kazuya’s not the easiest to be friends with. In the beginning, I mean. As a friend, he is great, though he’d like to say otherwise. I know I can always rely on him. It’s just that he’s closed off.”
He takes the sunscreen from you, squeezing a dollop into his own hand then proceeding to meticulously spread sunscreen over the rest of the exposed skin of your arm. The pads of his fingers are rough, calloused, slightly ticklish against your skin, but ultimately gentle, almost reverent. A warm honey-thick feeling spreads through your veins.
“He’s kinda like you, really,” he mumbles offhandedly.
“I don’t think I’m that closed off.” You are reserved. Most people in this city are. It’s a whole thing — dubbed the Seattle Freeze. Newcomers often find themselves encountering what some call cold Seattleites. Or at the very least — reserved. But it just takes a while for you to get used to someone but when you do, that’s it.
You get the sense Miyuki is on a whole other level.
Eijun’s lips quirk, moving onto your other hand, then your arm. “True. Well, still. I just… would like you two to get along for the most part. But I get it if that’s not possible, okay? Don’t feel bad if it doesn’t work out. I don’t want you to feel obligated. Either of you.”
Ah.
There are pains that come with friendship, you know this; things you do for each other that you might not ordinarily do. But this is his limit. You share this view, you think.
Not like you have any other friends to introduce to him but… the thought still stands.
Well, you amend to yourself. There is Lula, your roommate. You did worry a little about them, but she happily took him in and he loves her just as much.
You smile at him, chest warming. “I understand, Eijun. Though I don’t foresee us having any… explosive issues.”
He stands and pulls you into his arms, your hands and arms sufficiently protected against the sun, then plants a kiss on the crown of your head.
“Well… still. It’ll take a little bit for him to warm up, which is stupid because I already told him a lot about you —”
“Did you now?”
His lips, still lingering against the crown of your head, spread into a grin. He squeezes you. “Good things, I promise.”
“Did you tell him about my failed dream?”
“Shush, it’s not failed! You should be nicer to yourself! The real estate market right now is horrible.”
For a reason you can’t quite comprehend, hearing him say that sends you into a fit of laughter.
“Don’t laugh! It’s true! You just have to give yourself time… we’re still young!”
You extract himself from his embrace, still giggling. “I don’t disagree with you.”
“But you know,” he continues, a little mulish now, “we wouldn’t need to consider the market if you let me help you —”
“And let the corporate bastards win?”
“That’s —”
“Sawamura!”
You turn, stepping to the side quickly; a habit by now, recognizing the importance of literally everyone other than you. Players, managers, coaches, trainers. You try not to step on anyone’s toes, lest they fire you.
Most of the team likes you or at least doesn’t hate you outright but you’re all-too-aware of the ego some can have, the overabundance of masculinity that delineates you into a specific position of stand there and look pretty. You haven’t faced much of that since you started working last season but you’ve seen a few tantrums that make you a little nervous.
Lucky for you, though, it’s only the manager. A contradicting statement, you know, since Gerald Jimenez runs this team, this clubhouse, he is the one in charge of the starting roster.
But Jimenez likes you; says you remind him of his daughter. You aren’t sure whether to believe that since she is currently attending Stanford and majoring in neuroscience, while you moved to Seattle straight out of high school, bypassing college in favor of saving money for a bookshop (it’s not that simple, actually, but still); something you haven’t managed to do, despite living here for six years, but, well, you suppose it’s still a nice sentiment.
He says your name, brightening with that familiar fatherly energy, reminding you vaguely of your stepfather. Dressed in the same player’s uniform with a black cap over his shortly-buzzed black hair, you identify a little bit more grey at his temples and in his stubble, along with a few more wrinkles in his sun-weathered russet skin. You can imagine that even during the offseason, he hardly gets time off.
“Glad you’re here! This guy always plays so much better when the two of you get a little pre-game TLC.”
Eijun lets out a squawk of indignation while you throw your head back and laugh.
Anyone else, you’d assume they were making implications about your relationship with Eijun, but Jimenez, for whatever reason, fully understands the nuances of your relationship. That there is no romance, no hidden feelings.
Intensely platonic, he’d once called you two, and you agree.
He chuckles, holding out his hands placatingly. “Relax, Sawamura, I’m kidding. I’m just checking up on you. How are you feeling?”
“Great! So, can I —”
“You’re not starting,” Jimenez says apologetically. “Sorry, buddy. It’s just strategy.”
He pouts. “If it was strategy then me and Kazuya —”
“You two are our secret weapon,” Jimenez stresses, then turns to you. “You seen these two on the diamond?”
“I was made to swear off any videos of spring training so that I could see them in action in person.”
“That was obviously a bust,” Eijun mutters petulantly, crossing his arms; he takes a seat on the bench, slouching.
You withhold a laugh.
Jimenez is doing the same, lips pressed together as he shakes his head. “It’s crazy what these two have,” he says to you. “I mean in my thirty years in baseball… I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Eijun preens, mollified.
You smile. “I’ve heard some good things from when they were in high school.”
“And if they were good in high school, now?” Jimenez looks between the two of you, eyes widened for effect. “There’s no words for it. You just have to see it yourself.”
“Eijun!” Your conversation is interrupted by Miyuki, who appears around the corner, this time in catcher’s gear, save for the mask. His sports glasses are on, you realize, too. He lifts his mitt, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. “Bullpen?”
The pitcher in question shoots up from the bench. “Yes!”
“Don’t overdo it,” Jimenez warns them, though his words are more directed at Eijun than Miyuki.
“Yes, sir!” He snatches his cap, tugging it over his dark brown hair, then grabs his black mitt. He smooshes a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’ll see you during the game!”
You rub at your cheek, chuckling. “Have fun.”
Sending one last sun-bright grin to you and Jimenez, he jogs off to join Miyuki, where they immediately devolve into a loud conversation in Japanese, heading for the exit from the clubhouse into the dugout.
Jimenez braces his hands on his hips, a smile tugging at his lips, still looking the direction the two went off in. “Y’know, last season, I always thought, there’s no way this kid could get more energetic. Then Miyuki arrived and man… we were playing on easy.”
“It’s not bad,” you say softly.
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not. Lotta times these days, I think we’ve forgotten the love of the game.”
You hum in agreement, before curiosity takes over you; it’s rare you get to speak to Jimenez alone. Might as well take advantage of it.
“They really were good, then. During training. You weren’t just saying that.”
Pitchers’ ego could be so fragile. You have to admit, you find it a little bit annoying; some pitchers you’ve seen, they just break after one mistake. You aren’t saying there is anything wrong with feeling the impact of it, with feeling insecurity or doubt because that is natural, but these guys get coddled like no tomorrow. It is certainly worse on some other teams but the managers here are still very cautious of how they handle the pitchers.
Eijun is tough, though. Not infallible, of course not, and he doubts himself, you know he does. But he’s… the ace pitcher. Even if professional leagues don’t subscribe to those terms, at least not officially, it’s the truth. He is the one willing to keep going even when things seem bleak.
He snorts softly. “No, definitely not. It’s really… I mean, these guys played together all throughout high school. Miyuki was the one — one of them — to help fundamentally shape Sawamura’s pitching. The bond they have… you don’t see any batteries like that these days. Not that it’s any of their faults, you know, with how many pitchers a team can have, there really isn’t that much time for real one-on-one bonding…”
“I doubt any of them would be willing to put in that kind of work, anyway,” you murmur. Too much ego, too much masculinity. Eijun has both of these things and so does Miyuki but… they worked past that. The depth of their friendship surpasses any bonds catchers make with their pitchers now. There is reliability, trust, but it has a limit, an expiration date for whenever one of them leaves the team. This idea of Miyuki and Eijun together exists on the diamond and outside of it, too.
Jimenez nods, lips pursed. “That, too. But those two, they put in the work and the effort. It’s true… some of the higher-ups worry that such a strong relationship between the two of them might compromise their performance if they have an argument or something —”
“They’d never let that happen,” you say, interrupting before you can stop yourself. You know Eijun. You know how important baseball is to him — playing. Winning. Being a pillar to the team. What on earth possesses you to lump Miyuki into your defense… you don’t know. You’ve heard innumerable things about him, though. About how he loves baseball just like Eijun does. And if that’s the case, then you know he won’t let anything off the field mess with him.
Jimenez sends you an appraising look. “That’s what I said. If not for the fact that they’re part of our foreign players and unfortunately held to a higher standard than the white boys on this team, then for the fact that those two live and breathe baseball.”
A strategic decision, maybe, but you find some of the catchers fall short of being able to tell when a pitcher isn’t feeling it. Or a pitcher who hesitates to tell the truth. It is not without its shortcomings.
“Is that why they’re not starting, then?”
“Miyuki is starting,” he amends. “Sawamura is not.”
“But?”
You know there is more to this.
Jimenez, knowing that you know, chuckles, sliding his hands into the pockets of his white uniform pants. “We’ll be switching him in later. Hudson is starting and he’s got a good head on his shoulders, so we should have a strong start, and with Sawamura, hopefully an even stronger ending.”
“You guys must’ve wagered a lot on those two.”
He shoots you a wry grin. “Something like $300 million, if I remember correctly.”
“Isn’t that a bit much?”
The money is insane, but it’s not like they paid all of that upfront. You just can’t help but think of the pressure that must be on their shoulders. Assuming they know, which you’re certain they do.
“That’s also partly why Sawamura is not starting,” he reveals. “We don’t want to break them. Objectively, Miyuki is a strong catcher, so it’s not the wrong decision to have him play, and so is Sawamura, but Hudson and the others are strong, too.”
At least there’s that.
He checks his watch. “We’ve still got some time until the game starts. Why don’t you head out and eat before then?”
You nod your assent, grabbing your food then bidding him goodbye. You step out of the clubhouse, leaning against the wall and eating; the hot dogs aren’t as warm as you’d like them to be but you’re too hungry to really care.
The halls are mostly empty, save for a few of the groundskeepers and other employees running around, doing last-minute adjustments. You see Neil Thompson, head of the grounds crew, but he looks more harried than usual, probably because it’s Opening Day, so he just waves in greeting.
This part of the stadium is off-limits to fans, only those working here allowed in. The doors for the stadium will be opening at three, while the game starts at four. You aren’t due in the dugout until thirty minutes before the game starts.
You pass the time stretching, warming up for the game. Your left knee feels good today. Aprils in Seattle are cool and wet, cool enough to be mildly uncomfortable in the hours of the morning but now, in the afternoon, with the sun out, it’s bearable. You’re lucky, then, that Opening Day is landing this month and it’ll only get warmer. If your luck holds, your knee won’t bother you for the rest of the season, so long as you don’t overdo it and keep up with your stretches in the morning and night.
It’s not a spectacular job, being the ballgirl. Mostly you sit near the stands along the third base foul line, retrieving any out-of-play balls or the ones the catcher discards if they’ve touched the dirt; occasionally things get exciting. A ball comes in too fast, heading straight for any unsuspecting patrons sitting in the stands, at which point you catch it.
You made one great catch last year; the batter had fouled the ball but it was coming in way too hot. Not in your direction but to the stands. You’d leaped from your stool, having to jump to leap to catch it to ensure no one got hit in the face. Most of it had been a blur for you, just instinct. You faintly recalled immediately handing it over to a kid then sitting back down, the palm of your hand inside the mitt tingling from the force of the impact. People had cheered for you, though, and Eijun alleged that your save made it into some compilation on YouTube. You say allege because you refused to watch any videos regarding it. It was embarrassing to have so much attention on you.
Which, you know, sounds silly, because you’re a ballgirl. A ball dudette, if you wanted to be a little more polite, considering your age of twenty-four. Sometimes, you are in the spotlight. These games are always televised (domestically, but still) and there is hardly any given moment when someone in the stands near you doesn’t have their phone out. But it’s different then. Having your moment intentionally shown in a video on YouTube is different because someone had to scrub through several hours of footage to find your moment, cut it out, and upload it up to YouTube.
You try not to think about it, really.
Outside of that, it’s a fairly chill job. The pay is pretty good, too; you’d come in right after the Mariners management agreed to raise employees’ pay, since there’d been a few complaints. So, you get a baseline hourly pay, alongside bonuses for each game; they have bonuses for other events at the stadium, too, like concerts or comedy shows but you pass on those. You still have your job at the library, after all, even if you did have to cut your hours to accommodate this job, it all adds up fairly well.
The best part of it, and the main reason you took it, is that it puts you in close proximity with Eijun.
When you became friends with him, you understood that his schedule from February to September would be jam-packed, that baseball would take priority. You don’t fault him for it. But Eijun, as anyone knows, loves his friends a lot.
So, he’d suggested the job to you. It would have you more involved with a sport you were previously fairly uncomfortable about but after one season behind you and with the reassurance of his presence, it’s not an issue.
What’s more, you get to see him much more than if you hadn’t taken the job.
Even if his attention is mostly occupied with baseball, it’s fine, because at least he’s there, within reach.
You can’t do much about his away series, but again, it’s way better than nothing.
So. Not very spectacular, no, but it keeps you together.
For the most part.