Archive of Our Own

The worst part was that it wasn't even the first time she'd done this. Angela laid down across the uncomfortable kitchen bench, staring up into the yellowed lights of their stupid fake chandelier and trying to pretend they were constellations. The phone, inches from her head, stayed cold and silent, and the night dragged on.

It wasn't like anyone could exchange numbers after the Blue Fishes disbanded. Sure, they knew how to get from home-to-home, and Angela had given the others her home phone, but she and Achmed were the only ones who had them memorized (for when their parents forgot them), and she hadn't bothered writing down his. Thus, the Blue Fishes had met a couple of times after the season, but their hangouts had slowed down within months, and now here she was.

The only pleasure she gained from this situation was the thrill of defying her parents. Why? Where were her parents? Out at a diner, with Tony. Tony. Who had been picked to join the Junior Bombers, to whom Greaseworld had bequeathed his title, even as the Fishes club kicked him out and changed their name.

And yeah, Angela wasn't taking the news well. Maybe she was stuck at home because she'd punched Tony, and then called Dad a hypocrite for locking her away, because every time he took a hit on someone, he got away with it.

Angela smacked a fist against the counter top and squeezed her eyes tight. It was so unfair, she was so angry, but all she could do was cry. As tears began to well up again, she let out a yell and sat up. She hated crying. She hated waiting around for the phone to ring, she hated knowing there was nothing she could do, she hated all of it.

Damn it all! She needed a lollipop break to take the edge off things. With shaking hands the unwrapped it, bringing it up to her lips and -

The phone rang.

Angela slammed the lollipop onto the bench immediately and rolled off the bench to grab the receiver. Then she stopped. It wouldn't do, would it, for Angela Delvecchio to look desperate. She ran her fingers through her hair a few times, then picked up the receiver.

"Who are you calling for?" she asked briskly as she had been taught.

"Angela!" said the unmistakable voice of Sally Dobbs. "Oh, that's perfect, you're the exact person I was calling for."

Angela hummed noncommittally, glad for the distance between them so that Sally couldn't see her smile. "Well, Boss," she said with forced casualty, "I'm free at the moment, so you've picked a good time."

"Great! See, I was just reading through the Junior Bombers' list for practice tomorrow, and I noticed your name on here."

Angela tightened her grip on the phone. "My name?"

"Yeah! I thought, that's strange, because they said we could only keep on three Fishes, but it's in front of me now: Thomas, Kawaguchi, Robinson, Delvecchio. I don't suppose that's Kenny?"

Angela crumbled, leaning against the bench. How many times would the world rub salt in this wound? "Tony. That's Tony, my brother."

"Tony…" Sally clicked her tongue. "With the hair? And the candy? Strange that he would be-"

"Why do you know this anyway?" interrupted Angela, eager to leave that topic behind them.

"Sorry, Angela, I should have said. The new coach asked me to help out in practice, give the new team a hand. It's the only way I can play now that I've aged out of Backyard Baseball."

It was easy to forget that Sally was two years older than her, even with their mile-high height difference. Her closest friend, staying on the team. Her stupid brother, staying on the team. And Angela - she almost slammed her head into the wall at the thought of Tony and Sally without her.

She could still join a team, but none had reached out to her, and she would make Tony the president before begging for a spot.

Unless… Tony could be her ticket.

"Congratulations, Sally!" she said, and she realized that she meant it. She started to twirl the phone cord around her finger with glee. "This is great. I'm glad there'll be someone for me to talk to at all of Tony's practices." It was a hard fight for Angela not to jump for joy at her own genius. "It starts tomorrow, right?"

"You mean you'll be there?" said Sally, voice picking up speed. "Yes, tomorrow! Oh, that's so wonderful. I mean, there are plenty of girls on the Bombers, but the twins seem like they'll stick close, and I imagine Maria and Vicki will get along, and Mikey and Dante are nice enough, but… it'll be good to have another girl around. You know?"

"I do," Angela said. And she really, really did.

At the Bombers' first game, Angela sat with Pete Wheeler and Achmed Khan. As always, Achmed had fallen silent when there was nobody paying attention to him, and she could never really tell if he had music playing, but he either didn't hear her, or ignored her in favor of his dumb sketchbook. Fine by her, because Pete was always entertaining to be around. He just saw the world in a different light.

"It's just so ironic," said Pete, chest puffing out in pride at this big word. This was his third time using it this conversation, and his third time completely mangling the meaning. "Two coaches in a row retire after one season with the club? It has to be planned."

"Two coaches? You're sure?" Angela prodded, keeping her face admirably neutral.

"In a row!" said Pete, nodding with such vigor that she half-expected his head to go flying off.

Angela turned to Achmed on her other side to roll her eyes. Already looking at her, he glanced past her to see Pete, and rolled his eyes back at her, which really didn't tell her much about whether or not he was listening.

Whatever. "Achmed, what are you drawing?" she asked, loud enough to draw Pete's attention.

"Ooh, I wanna see!" said Pete, almost knocking her from her chair as he leaned in. Achmed tilted his sketchbook towards them, even though he had insisted on privacy every other time that she'd asked, and Angela's curiosity became genuine.

"Music," Achmed said.

"It's just a bunch of lines," said Pete, disappointed. Angela shook her head and pointed to the top of the page.

"Look, it's got your name on it."

Achmed shrugged. There was so much carelessness in the action that it had originally made her seethe, but she'd learned not to let it bother her. "I'm writing themes for all the players I see."

"What, like for TV?" said Pete, invested once again.

"No words. Just some instruments and some notes."

As Tony walked up to the plate, Achmed flipped through the sketchbook to the page named after him and whistled a tune, pointing to his place in the music as he went.

"Why do you ever play baseball instead of music?" Angela said before she could think about the words. Achmed looked at her, smiled, and shrugged again. She was going to throttle him.

Sally encountered a few old teammates through high school competitions. Meeting Mikey was a particular highlight. She'd known from Angela that he'd been learning to pitch, so she wasn't exactly surprised by the fact that she encountered him, and more by how she first heard of him: "Alright, Rocket, mow 'em down!"

The first she saw of him was even more surprising: the first pitch, almost faster than the eye could track, demolishing her poor batter right in the dick. Ouch.

She didn't get the chance to talk to him until the second inning, when he knocked a solid enough ball to run to first base. He hadn't gotten any faster, she noted with amusement as he got a foot on the plate.

"You're 'Rocket' now, huh?"

That got him doing a double take, looking down (down?) at her with an easy grin. "The Boss! Fancy meeting you here."

She turned from him to catch the ball and pelt it home, just barely getting an out. Mikey complimented her arm, then sneezed with the aggression of a car boot slamming, and Sally felt herself start to smile. Even so many years on, he was the same old Nugget he'd always been.

Next innings, Sally got to the plate and stared Mikey down. He returned her gaze, happily uncaring. Strike. Ball. Strike. SLAM - Sally got all the way to second before the homer was declared foul. Shit. Strike three, sit down, Sally.

"Better luck next time, Sally!" called Mikey, still cheerful.

"If at first you don't succeed," said Sally in response. Mikey rolled his eyes so hard that it seemed to trigger a sneeze that almost knocked him over. Even struck out, she smiled all the way to the dugout.

After the game, Sally changed faster than ever before and beelined straight for the sport's shed. Sure enough, there he was, wearing a singlet that made his shoulders gleam in the sunlight, packing away baseball equipment with two of his teammates. She grabbed a couple of bases as she went, approaching Mikey and clapping him on the shoulder. Her hand was instantly covered in sweat, holy shit, she should have aimed away from his bare skin.

"Sally!" Mikey said before he'd even turned to face her. "Hey, glad you came up."

"How'd you know it was me?" said Sally. His shoulder was in line with her eyes, so she'd expected him to think it was someone far taller.

Mikey shrugged, beaming. "I was waiting for you to sneak up and ruffle my hair like you always used to. Makes sense you can't reach that anymore."

"Hey!" Sally exclaimed. "You may be tall, but I could hear you sneezing from the dug-out. You're the same snot-nosed kid I used to play with."

The girl next to Mikey bristled without warning. Sally blinked, caught off-guard at the reminder of her presence. "You, uhh, gonna introduce me, Nugget?"

Mikey looked at them, brows furrowing for a moment, before his face cleared up. He nudged the person next to him - a short, stocky girl who had gotten Sally out twice. "Hackles down, Abia, it's chill. She doesn't know. Sally, this is Abia, and that's Owen who's just gone to collect to collect the other bases."

That was even more confusing. Sally nodded politely, offering up a smile. Abia frowned at her. "I'll accept that you didn't realize what you were saying, but you should apologize."

"Abia-" Mikey began, but she flicked him in the arm.

"No, Mike." Mike? "You gotta stop letting people walk all over you. It's a chronic illness, Dobbs, not something to make fun of."

"Oh." Sally looks at Mikey anew, this time looking beyond the height and muscles to see that his eyes were rimmed with red and hung with heavy bags. "Is that… new?"

Mikey grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket at lightning speed and caught a sneeze in it. "No, we just didn't figure it out for a while. 'Recurrent chronic sinusitis', apparently."

"I'm really sorry to hear that."

Mikey waved the handkerchief in dismissal, then wisely crammed it back into his pocket. "Don't be. It doesn't impact me much, there's plenty of ways to deal with the symptoms. It can just drag me into some pretty shitty slumps sometimes." He smiled sadly at her. "Not a lot of professional teams want that edge on the field."

Oh, Mikey. Sally's heart cracked a little. "Don't let that stop you, okay? You're a damn good player the rest of the time. If they reject you for a medical condition, I'm sure there's a way to spin that as discrimination."

Mikey's joy returned, and it was like clouds parting to reveal the sun. "I doubt that, but thanks, Boss."

When Angela started studying law - the third degree that she'd begun, and in the running to be the third degree that she'd dropped out of - she decided to take one music class, just to keep herself entertained. 'Introduction to Genres' wasn't too boring yet, and the professor let her step out for smoke breaks as long as she could still hear everything, so it was a pretty promising start.

Then came the first assessment. She had to listen to an album of music, and take notes on why each song belonged to a certain genre. It was easier than she'd anticipated. The first song 'Baroque Piano Concerto in C Major' was technically a piece, and it had the word 'classical' in the title, so it was hard to mistake the genre. The second piece 'Piano Concerto in Heavy Rock' was actually a song this time, and featured the same melodies as the previous one, but screamed with lyrics and a hard rock-and-roll beat.

Every. Single. One. The same melody, the same format of title, just a different genre. Apparently, every instrument in it was played by one guy. Musicians were a weird crowd.

An evasive suspicion in Angela's mind told her that this musician was especially weird, but she just couldn't pin that thought down. Ah, well. It couldn't be that important.

Dante was fired from his job because he was too good at it. At least, that's what he put on his resume as he applied to fifteen other kitchens. Only one of them bit and asked what on earth that could possibly mean.

So Dante told them, plain and honest: he was too accomplished as a cook for his old manager to understand. He added more to every dish than was listed, and they all turned out incredible, but cost the cafe a few cents per meal he cooked. When he started making meals slower as well as less profitable, they'd had enough of it and fired him.

"I'm not really job-hunting," he told the hiring team. "I'm looking for a place that will let me spread my wings, even if it means pushing everybody else out of the kitchen."

He did not get that job. But unknown to him, one of that hiring team sent an email off to an old colleague, as she had a feeling this approach would appeal to them.

Chef Jorts often said that they had gotten into cooking so that people would stop calling them "sir" or "ma'am". If nobody could come up with a good nonbinary alternative, they thundered, they'd make one for themself!

They certainly had made a name for themself. Boisterous, uncontrollable, and a damn good cook - the exact type of diva that any stupidly expensive hotel needed as their Head Chef.

When they heard about Dante's work situation, they called him in, gave him the recipe to make simple mac'n'cheese, and sat down. An hour and sixteen minutes later, they were given a three-course meal that included a smattering of mac'n'cheese to flavor the perfectly crisp potato chips.

Chef Jorts laughed so hard that they fell out of their chair. They then ate every last crumb and entered a food coma so strong that they fell into the next dimension. When they came back to their body, they hired Dante as their apprentice, saying that he would take over when Jorts' past came back to bite them and they were finally put in jail.

The hotel had not given Jorts the power to name a successor, but they weren't brave enough to argue.

One of the undersold benefits of sharing a flat with a professional baseball player is guilting them into getting you a box seat, then sitting in the box and providing scathing commentary of all of the players while their families sat uncomfortably in front of you. Angela was settling in for a day of doing just that, courtesy of Sally, when someone familiar walked in.

Angela squinted at him for a moment, trying and failing to discern between two people she hadn't seen in over a decade. She gave up and stood, calling, "Khan!"

That got his attention. Lanky, curly haired, still wearing a pair of fuckass headphones, one of the Khans walked up to Angela and took the seat beside her without asking. She sat back down with a small huff - only Achmed would take such an attitude.

"What brings you here?" she asked, trying to mask her curiosity with venom.

"I get to watch my brother play baseball." He was already pulling out a notebook and opening it across his knee, beginning to scribble into it. She leaned in to see more music, seemingly a half-composed piano piece. Boring music, boring answer.

"Take off those damn headphones, Achmed, and talk to me. Why are you up here instead of on the field? Outdone by your darling brother?"

Achmed's pencil paused, and he looked over at her. He pulled his headphones down to around his neck, and suddenly he stopped looking like a contained, baseball-smashing eight year old, but instead like a young adult. "I could ask you the same thing."

Angela glared at him. He didn't look away. She huffed again, this time in concession. "Glad you finally grew a spine. Yes, I got sick of doing the same things as Tony. You?"

"I didn't have time to study, play in four extra-curricular music groups, and play baseball," Achmed said lightly. "Something had to be cut."

At that moment, a roar surged up all around them as the first players walked onto the green. Achmed winced and pulled his headphones back on, but didn't go back to his notepad like before. It was the kind of crowd you didn't usually get in the Minor League, especially not with female teams, but this was a special occasion - a face-off between the top male and female Minor teams to kick off a week of charity matches. "I predict Amir wins by four."

Angela scoffed. "Betting on the male team? Please. I bet Amir melts down in the third inning, and Sally smashes out a homer in the sixth."

"Is that so?" said Achmed, eyes twinkling. "Well, that can't be true, because I'm pretty sure Sally will only get on base once, and then Amir will get her in a double play."

Angela, unable to think of a response, just sneered at him and let the subject settle. A few more moments, then, "What are you composing this time?"

"Piano piece.

"You are shit at small talk, you know that?"

In the fourth inning, Amir's team was up by four, but he was out of juice. Achmed was watching the game so intently that he hadn't noticed his notebook slipping to one of the earliest pages, titled 'Piano Concerta in C Major'. The suspicion in Angela's mind grew louder.

When she got home, Angela looked up that old album, clicked on the artist, and scrolled back. There, she found his first album: 'People I Have Known'. She skim-read all of the song titles. Some were only thirty seconds, some had been fleshed out into much longer pieces. And there it was, between 'Nuggets of Wisdom' and 'Echoes that Stick': 'Sugarpop'.

Son of a bitch.

Pete Wheeler was living a simple, happy life as a builder. There were clear, consistent rules to follow for everyone's safety. There were always instructions and steps when he got lost. There was a start and an end to every project, and there was never homework.

Then Miranda went on maternity leave. She was the best manager, maybe ever - yes, she lacked patience, and she wasn't exactly kind, and maybe she didn't speak to him in case she caught his 'brain-dead disease', but she was great at writing lists for Pete to complete. He could never have gotten this far without her, likely because he would have forgotten to clear the area before putting in cement, and would have stood there uselessly as it poured over him.

First day of Miranda's leave, he arrived at work in a panic. Him and his team of half-a-dozen men with the same flannel overshirt as him had to add the second storey to a family home. Oh, God, the poor kids who were going to live here! He had no lists, he had people under his command, he'd lead them into battle and they'd never go home to their wives-

"Hey, Wheeler!" said Dave, jogging up to him. Pete and Dave hung out once a month to watch baseball, open up about their insecurities, and hug each other supportively over their beers. "Miranda gave me some instructions for you."

Pete thought of the numerous times his laundry had been laced with the remnants of paper from his pockets and decided not to question this. He took and unfolded it.

TO-DO:
1) Make your own list of everything that you need to do
2) Fucking do it, Pete
3) Don't you dare call me on my maternity leave
4) Ask Dave if you forget how to spell something

And as he read the list, Pete's life changed. He stared at Dave, feeling the weight of two decades' incompetence lift off his shoulders. Make his own list? He laughed in disbelief, pulled Dave in to kiss him smack on the mouth, and went to grab paper and a pencil, all but skipping.

Two years later, Pete and Dave owned the best construction business in the state. More importantly, they owned a yappy, crusty cavoodle named Miranda.

2019 was the year that the Blue Fishes found their way back into the limelight, but not for any reason they could have anticipated. It wasn't because Coach Greaseworld had done anything (in fact, he had been declared legally dead years ago). It wasn't due to Mikey's incredible rebound and subsequent rise into the Major Leagues. It wasn't kickstarted by Sally posting a clip of herself slamming out a 620ft home run at the ripe age of seven.

It started because Vicki Kawaguchi was in a serious artistic slump, and desperately needed inspiration.

Vicki twirled her stylus through her fingers in an impeccable figure eight. A decade of working in animation gave you extreme proficiency with many tools, and unparalleled knowledge on how to use them. But she just couldn't get anything down.

For months, she had been getting home from work, popping back a few Monsters and a packet of chips, and throwing herself into her chair, praying that maybe this time, she would remember how to draw anything other than anime boys and explosions. She loved her job, she really did - she worked with a wonderful team, and got to draw manga 9-to-5 for a remarkably decent pay. And yet, she needed variety.

Sticking to one passion had never been Vicki's strong suit. The first ten years of her life, she had adored ballet, and sworn up and down that she would never desert it. She had worn tutus to preschool and the shops and as her Sunday best for mass each week. She had done pirouettes in her baseball games, dammit, she should have been dedicated to it, but no!

As soon as the faintest whispers of puberty echoed around her, she switched tunes. Manga. Anime. Bad boys with sad pasts, cute girls with unexpected power. Cringey lines and sparkling eyes, she loved them all, and so she turned to drawing. She got all the way through animation school copying someone else's style, and made a name for herself as elite at drawing impact frames and gravity-defying hair in an immersive way that nobody had seen before.

But once she truly settled into the job, her interests moved on. What to? That was the frustrating part - she couldn't tell. She still enjoyed the shapes and colors of her job, but they didn't catch her heart, get her energized. If she couldn't find something to occupy her very, very soon, those Monster energy drinks would probably turn into vodka.

So every evening, she looked through her old files, looking for something to draw and animate and breathe life back into her ancient, 23-year-old bones.

And there it was.

Coach Greaseworld had been… a lot. Like, a lot a lot. He had taught her everything she knew, including most of the vocabulary that she used around her colleagues. He had, of course, been forced to delete the footage he'd filmed of their regular season, as he hadn't gotten legal permission to record it in the first place. But when the playoffs rolled around, he'd learned, and he'd made sure to publish and back up all of the videos before anybody could stop him, making it all impossible to take down.

As Vicki watched those ancient videos, she felt a fire spark in her chest. Her old teammates, absolutely decimating the competition. Her old coach, using an incredible number of swears and speaking nonsense half of the time. The screaming, the reactions, the insults and the cheers, they moved her in a way that nothing had for many years.

So she began to animate.

And when she posted those animated highlights two weeks later, they took the world by storm. Suddenly, everybody was remembering that old little league team. Suddenly, everybody had fought them at some time or other, and for the first time in history, people were boasting about the time they had been beaten 26-0 in a baseball game.

The fact that multiple Major League players were in those videos helped to grab peoples attention, and Vicki's animation carried everyone's imagination the rest of the way. In a world where so many people were struggling to hold onto hope, the enthusiasm of this Coach was just so infectious that people couldn't let themselves despair.

Vicki stayed in her job for just long enough to wrap up that project, then quit, shaved her hair, and found herself some new-old passions: baseball and YouTube.

Sally swung the bat, knowing even before it touched ball that she had misjudged it. At the rate she was going, it would fly straight up, and even if the catcher somehow dropped it, she'd get pegged at first. She couldn't just stop a swing with that much momentum, so she tried to pull the trajectory down a bit, hoping to miss or foul it back, but-

Crack.

A yell tore from her throat as she stumbled forwards, dropping the bat to clutch her hand. A fresh wave of pain washed over her with the motion, and she opened her eyes to look down. No blood, but her wrist was already starting to swell. She began to walk automatically off the field, shaking off the catcher when she stepped in to help, and made sure to shoot a smile to the runners on first and second.

She had barely started leaving when a medic reached her, and Coach Sampson wasn't far behind. "Keep th' head up, Sally, there's a good lass," said the Coach, not even asking if she could stay on. That was probably a bad sign, but Sally knew the injury wasn't particularly gruesome.

Sally didn't just make mistakes. No, it had to be something else - all this business with Mikey must've been throwing her off. She hadn't really seen him much, but had certainly heard about his surgery. What time was it now? One? He was probably in there at that moment, getting his sinuses treated.

"It's got to be something," Sampson was insisting. "Last season in the Minors, she hit a homer with a fractured nose. Dobbs wouldn't just walk off for anything."

"No, Coach," she said weakly, collapsing into a chair. "I really am fine, I doubt it's even fractured. I just…"

"I think I know the issue," said someone. Sally's head snapped up. Why did she know that voice? "It's not so much a physical problem as a mental one, right?"

The person crouched in front of Sally's chair to press an ice pack to her wrist, and smiled at her as she did so. She had a bulky jacket on, but her name tag was still legible: Kiesha Phillips, Physiotherapist.

"I can tell you," continued Kiesha, "that you're going to be fine, and so is he. The doctors know what they're doing. You've just gotta sit out for a minute and get your bearings, but there's not much risk of further injury."

"You think so?" said Sally, feeling inexplicable tears prick her eyes.

Sampson cleared her throat. "I've got to get back out there, but you sit this one out, Sally. I'll bring someone in. I hope your, ah, partner, recovers well."

Sally summoned up the strongest smile she could find, though it was likely sabotaged by the pesky tears that were still threatening to spill. "Not my partner, but thanks, Coach. Get back out there."

Once Sampson had left, Sally collapsed into the chair, pressing her good hand against her eyes. Why was this hitting her so hard? The last she'd heard from Mikey had to be nearly a year ago, when he texted to congratulate her on getting promoted. She hadn't even heard about his surgery until he'd Tweeted about it, asking for prayers. Sally wasn't particularly religious like Mikey, but she'd prayed for him anyway.

"Alright, Boss, we'd better get you moving," said Kiesha softly, still crouched in front of her. Sally snapped out of it.

"Oh - I'm sorry, Kiesha." They both stood, and Sally took the ice from Kiesha to continue to apply it as they made their way to the 'field hospital', as Sampson called it. "It's good to see you, I promise, I've just got a bit on my mind."

"I understand that," Kiesha said with a patient smile.

"I don't!" said Sally. "It's not a remotely life-threatening surgery, I'm not really that close to him. This isn't enough to distract me like this."

"Could it have to do with your mother?" Kiesha prodded. Sally shook her head - her mom had died due to complications in surgery, but that was when Ronny was born. Her grief was a far off, dull thought. "Well, not all emotions have a big reason, you know."

"Yes, but…" Sally sighed. They went a few minutes without talking about it as Kiesha inspected her wrist, ruling that it must be a bruised bone. Sally didn't break the silence until Kiesha began to wrap her wrist tightly. "I can usually leave these things at home. Back on the Fishes there was that awful time when your parents got divorced, and your performance dipped for a few games. It's never been like that for me."

Kiesha clicked her tongue, placing the ice back on top of the bandage and sitting in the chair beside Sally. "Then the reason you're distracted must be to do with baseball, no?"

Baseball. Sally stared ahead of her to the field hospital's television, which was streaming the game as it continued. She barely processed any of it. Baseball. "Mikey congratulated me for hitting the Major Leagues, last time we spoke," she began. "It… it's always felt like an uphill battle. Mikey got a baseball scholarship, but there were almost none available for women, so I had to work whenever I wasn't on the field. Amir could live off his semi-professional salary, but I was still working part-time until I hit the Minors. I guess I just… I feel like I've had every disadvantage."

Kiesha hummed in agreement. Sally tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling. "But he's had it just as bad. And I've made it all the way here, but he's still a back-up player for the Minors, all because of that stupid illness. It isn't fair. It isn't fair."