briese
03-27-2009, 11:45 PM
I began a series last year that I'd like to continue now. My first few chapters are already pre-written, but if you guys enjoy them (and I hope you will - reading them over again, I'm enjoying them) then I'd love to continue it. Please let me know what you think. :)
The premise revolves around a baseball team's head coach, who the players call "Skip" (short for 'Skipper'). He coaches a professional team I've based completely off of fiction, and they're basically a bunch of misfits.
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Smoking in the Rain
Skip wasn't happy.
'I realize my fastball hasn't been what it used to be lately, but it's not like Steve has been hurling all that great either!', Fargo complained, trying to see through the thick layer of smoke emitting off his manager's damp cigarette. Skip said nothing, but kept staring off into the distance as if he hadn't registered what the veteran pitcher had just said. 'This is the same damn attitude that made Titus not wanna play for you anymore! A little playing time is all I need to get back on track. Nothing's gonna change until you make it change, coach.'
'Your little brother wasn't any good, pal. He was hardly on the team before, and the team's better now that he's been replaced. I'll manage the line-up; you just work on getting back in shape.', Skip replied, doing a fair job of hiding any emotion whatsoever, a task he hadn't been able to accomplish often. Fargo mumbled an obscenity under his breath and stomped out of the dugout with decorum that would put an angry teenager to shame. 'Can't blame 'im for being angry; he hasn't seen an inning all season, coach.', Angus said nonchalantly, finally seperating his left foot from it's cleat. 'I gotta agree with you about Titus though...tha' kid was a bad egg. Sledge is no braniac, but I prefer his bat to Titus' mouth if ya know wha' I mean.'
'All due respect, Angus...I prefer your bat to your mouth. If I want an opinion on Fargo's dramatic demeanor as of late, then I'll ask Lance - how's the calf feeling?', Skip asked, pointing to the leg Angus had stretched across the bench. Angus merely shrugged and said, ' S' alright. Wouldn' mind playin' a few innings in the infield, or maybe scoot to the back of the lineup for a bit, though.'
Skip cracked a smile. 'You stop hitting homers and start dropping pop flies and I'll see what I can do.' He took one last drag on his cigarette and put it out on a helmet marked 'PAT'. His mind slowly began to wander to the girl with the pierced lip he met from the night before. At once, he plunged into an argument with himself about whether or not the piercing along with the bullseye tatoo on her back should brand her as a 'trashy girl', from which he had gone a good 2 months without. 'Aw, what the hell, Skip? You could've at least used the ashtray I put on the helmet rack, or the floor or tossed it out in the rain or ANYTHING but my helmet! How many times do...', Pat rambled on, later feebly attempting to discourage smoking in the dugout as it was bad for his athsma. Skip sighed and lit up another cigarette, once again delving back into his own thoughts.
Lance was the first one out to the field the next day. Lance isn't by any means "ripped" or "jacked". Skip never did care about his players' height and weight, but if he had to guess...Lance was about 5'11", and 165 lbs. Unlike the other players, Lance never sat straighter or sped up what he was doing when Skip approached, but rather looked at him and gave him the goofiest absent-minded smile you could ever imagine. 'What the hell are you grinning about?', Skip asked, no real hostility intended. 'Harvey and I met a few girls last night.', Lance said with a wink. Skip sighed and reached into his pocket for the empty cigarette box. 'You and Harvey meet a few girls every night. Somehow a short and stocky guy can team up with a tall lanky guy and never strike out, on or off the field. You're like a couple of freakin' cartoon characters. The fact that you two morons can get more play than I can is a mark to show how stupid your generation of women are...now lend me a cigarette; Fargo pushed me to smoke the last of mine yesterday.'
'Well sure, but only because you're in such a cheery mood.', Lance said with a chuckle, handing over a cigarette out of a seemingly full box. 'He got drunk last night, you know. He went off on an angry rant about you; made sense for the first ten minutes or so...he claimed he could manage this team better than you could, and I get the feeling that wasn't the scotch talking. I figure he's still ticked about you booting Titus off the team.', Lance said, staring at the cigarettes for a minute before putting them back in his bag. 'I'll bet he could manage the team better than I could.', Skip said honestly, 'he'd probably pay more attention than I do; probably overall care about it more than I do too. He'll straighten out; I'm not too worried about it. What are you doing here anyways? Today's your off day, yet you still show up earlier than the pine-riders do. And how come you're not smoking?'
'Now, don't get mad. After whats-her-face fell asleep, I went and hung with Steve and Angus for a bit. We made a bet that Sledge...well, you'll see. Oh, and I quit smoking.', Lance said, with a proud grin. 'Just wait 'till I tell Pat.' Skip merely shakes his head in a very fatherly way, and greets Dwayne and Sledge as they enter the dugout. 'Hey boys - ready for a good workout today?', Skip asks, and cracks a grin at the groans they replied with. 'What're you doing here, Lance? You started at third yesterday; isn't today your off day?', Dwayne asked, hoping to hear that he was once again back in the starting line-up and today was in fact his day off. 'Don't worry about it. Say, Sledge...mind if I borrow your hat for a minute?', Lance said, reaching out expectantly. 'Err...sure.', Sledge says cautiously, handing it over. 'Whoa, Sledge? What the hell happened to your hair?', Skip asks angrily. He had a strict code against hair being too long or mohawks...or in this case, inverted mohawks. Sledge felt his scalp and suddenly was overcome by terror. 'I donno, coach! I didn't drink last night or nothin'...I'll get it fixed! Don't worry!'
'So you didn't notice before now? Heh...I just won twenty bucks. You fellas have a nice day.', Lance said, grinning with not a sign of guilt. Skip scowled, and leaned to put his cigarette out in Pat's ashtray. Instead, he hesitates, and puts it out on the helmet marked 'SLEDGE' with scotch tape. It didn't make much of an impression; the helmet had obviously already seen similar treatment. 'Alright boys. You might wanna hustle on out there, 'cause we've got a long day ahead of us.'
The premise revolves around a baseball team's head coach, who the players call "Skip" (short for 'Skipper'). He coaches a professional team I've based completely off of fiction, and they're basically a bunch of misfits.
__________________________________________________ __
Smoking in the Rain
Skip wasn't happy.
'I realize my fastball hasn't been what it used to be lately, but it's not like Steve has been hurling all that great either!', Fargo complained, trying to see through the thick layer of smoke emitting off his manager's damp cigarette. Skip said nothing, but kept staring off into the distance as if he hadn't registered what the veteran pitcher had just said. 'This is the same damn attitude that made Titus not wanna play for you anymore! A little playing time is all I need to get back on track. Nothing's gonna change until you make it change, coach.'
'Your little brother wasn't any good, pal. He was hardly on the team before, and the team's better now that he's been replaced. I'll manage the line-up; you just work on getting back in shape.', Skip replied, doing a fair job of hiding any emotion whatsoever, a task he hadn't been able to accomplish often. Fargo mumbled an obscenity under his breath and stomped out of the dugout with decorum that would put an angry teenager to shame. 'Can't blame 'im for being angry; he hasn't seen an inning all season, coach.', Angus said nonchalantly, finally seperating his left foot from it's cleat. 'I gotta agree with you about Titus though...tha' kid was a bad egg. Sledge is no braniac, but I prefer his bat to Titus' mouth if ya know wha' I mean.'
'All due respect, Angus...I prefer your bat to your mouth. If I want an opinion on Fargo's dramatic demeanor as of late, then I'll ask Lance - how's the calf feeling?', Skip asked, pointing to the leg Angus had stretched across the bench. Angus merely shrugged and said, ' S' alright. Wouldn' mind playin' a few innings in the infield, or maybe scoot to the back of the lineup for a bit, though.'
Skip cracked a smile. 'You stop hitting homers and start dropping pop flies and I'll see what I can do.' He took one last drag on his cigarette and put it out on a helmet marked 'PAT'. His mind slowly began to wander to the girl with the pierced lip he met from the night before. At once, he plunged into an argument with himself about whether or not the piercing along with the bullseye tatoo on her back should brand her as a 'trashy girl', from which he had gone a good 2 months without. 'Aw, what the hell, Skip? You could've at least used the ashtray I put on the helmet rack, or the floor or tossed it out in the rain or ANYTHING but my helmet! How many times do...', Pat rambled on, later feebly attempting to discourage smoking in the dugout as it was bad for his athsma. Skip sighed and lit up another cigarette, once again delving back into his own thoughts.
Lance was the first one out to the field the next day. Lance isn't by any means "ripped" or "jacked". Skip never did care about his players' height and weight, but if he had to guess...Lance was about 5'11", and 165 lbs. Unlike the other players, Lance never sat straighter or sped up what he was doing when Skip approached, but rather looked at him and gave him the goofiest absent-minded smile you could ever imagine. 'What the hell are you grinning about?', Skip asked, no real hostility intended. 'Harvey and I met a few girls last night.', Lance said with a wink. Skip sighed and reached into his pocket for the empty cigarette box. 'You and Harvey meet a few girls every night. Somehow a short and stocky guy can team up with a tall lanky guy and never strike out, on or off the field. You're like a couple of freakin' cartoon characters. The fact that you two morons can get more play than I can is a mark to show how stupid your generation of women are...now lend me a cigarette; Fargo pushed me to smoke the last of mine yesterday.'
'Well sure, but only because you're in such a cheery mood.', Lance said with a chuckle, handing over a cigarette out of a seemingly full box. 'He got drunk last night, you know. He went off on an angry rant about you; made sense for the first ten minutes or so...he claimed he could manage this team better than you could, and I get the feeling that wasn't the scotch talking. I figure he's still ticked about you booting Titus off the team.', Lance said, staring at the cigarettes for a minute before putting them back in his bag. 'I'll bet he could manage the team better than I could.', Skip said honestly, 'he'd probably pay more attention than I do; probably overall care about it more than I do too. He'll straighten out; I'm not too worried about it. What are you doing here anyways? Today's your off day, yet you still show up earlier than the pine-riders do. And how come you're not smoking?'
'Now, don't get mad. After whats-her-face fell asleep, I went and hung with Steve and Angus for a bit. We made a bet that Sledge...well, you'll see. Oh, and I quit smoking.', Lance said, with a proud grin. 'Just wait 'till I tell Pat.' Skip merely shakes his head in a very fatherly way, and greets Dwayne and Sledge as they enter the dugout. 'Hey boys - ready for a good workout today?', Skip asks, and cracks a grin at the groans they replied with. 'What're you doing here, Lance? You started at third yesterday; isn't today your off day?', Dwayne asked, hoping to hear that he was once again back in the starting line-up and today was in fact his day off. 'Don't worry about it. Say, Sledge...mind if I borrow your hat for a minute?', Lance said, reaching out expectantly. 'Err...sure.', Sledge says cautiously, handing it over. 'Whoa, Sledge? What the hell happened to your hair?', Skip asks angrily. He had a strict code against hair being too long or mohawks...or in this case, inverted mohawks. Sledge felt his scalp and suddenly was overcome by terror. 'I donno, coach! I didn't drink last night or nothin'...I'll get it fixed! Don't worry!'
'So you didn't notice before now? Heh...I just won twenty bucks. You fellas have a nice day.', Lance said, grinning with not a sign of guilt. Skip scowled, and leaned to put his cigarette out in Pat's ashtray. Instead, he hesitates, and puts it out on the helmet marked 'SLEDGE' with scotch tape. It didn't make much of an impression; the helmet had obviously already seen similar treatment. 'Alright boys. You might wanna hustle on out there, 'cause we've got a long day ahead of us.'