Page 2 of Unwritten Rules
Because when he looks up, there’s Eugenio, sitting there, looking at him with a flat, unreadable expression. Which, fuck.Fuck.
Chapter Two
February, Three Years Ago
They get put together in spring training.
D’Spara, their pitching coach, nods toward the bullpen. “Morales is out there. Been out there a while.”
A possible criticism for Zach not rolling in on the first real day of spring training earlier than he already is, like he has to prove he’s gonna make the opening-day roster.
Despite D’Spara’s admonishments, Zach doesn’t hustle out to the bullpen. It’s a cool and lovely morning, the makings of a fine baseball day. And so he carries with him his chest protector, his catcher’s helmet and mask, and the promise of the season: Five days of pitchers-and-catchers-only spring training before the rest of the team reports. Weeks of exhibition games. And then the possibilities of the season itself.
A chain-link fence partitions the long spring training bullpen from the practice field, one of four fields situated in a cloverleaf, the bullpen stretching between two like a stem. Around him, the complex sits empty of anyone but a few groundskeepers, a handful of trainers. It’s pristine for what will likely be the last time this spring, not yet littered with sunflower seeds, wads of gum, crumpled Gatorade cups. Its chalk lines are neat and exact, the pitcher’s mound un-pocked by cleats. Familiar baseball smells greet him like old friends: fresh dirt, cut grass, the shaving-cream-and-leather aroma of his new mitt.
It’s chilly this early in the morning, the Arizona air too dry for Zach to see his breath, the sun cutting through some of the desert haze and reflecting off the Phoenix Mountains in the distance. By the end of spring training, it’ll be hot, the kind of hot that makes everyone go, “Well, at least it’s a dry heat.” For now, it’s warm enough to be bearable, cool enough to be pleasant, and, most importantly, there’s baseball to be played.
A few guys are already in the bullpen, including the bullpen catcher, Martinez, who whistles when he sees Zach, before pulling him into a hug. “Looking good, man.Thick.”
Like he’s shocked Zach spent his offseason like every other guy—eating as much as his body will hold in order to put on muscle mass, insurance against the grind of the season.
“You been here since dawn, Marti?”
And Martinez shrugs, confirming that he has.
Soon the place will fill up with players from triple-A or double-A, the occasional warm bodies that teams bring on to fill out their spring training rosters. Guys for whom the pinnacle of their lifelong dream to play pro ball will begin and end at a scrimmage field in Arizona.
Currently, the only players here are a minor leaguer Zach doesn’t recognize and another catcher who must be Morales. He’s facing away from Zach, stretching. He’s got a pretty standard catcher’s build, weight in his shoulders and hips. He’s probably shorter than Zach is, but Zach—as every coach and scout likes to mention—is built more like a pitcher: a little too tall, a little too ropey to be a catcher, even with all the weight he put on in the offseason.
Zach unclips his leg guards, stashes his gear, and starts his own set of stretches. A familiar routine that’s made different by the warmth of the sun and the keyed-up anticipation of a new year, like a kid eager for the first day of sleepaway camp.
He sits on the artificial turf surface of the bullpen, butterflying his legs and loosening his groin muscles, feeling for the remnants of where he pulled something in his hip last season, as if being in a ballpark again will be enough to re-aggravate it. He concentrates, eyes closed, on the small pleasures of the muscles and ligaments in his hips and legs beginning to lengthen.
And when he opens his eyes, Morales is standing above him, saying something.
“What?” Zach says.
Morales looks surprised, the kind of surprised guys do when they want to conceal their surprise—eyebrows shooting up, and then a pronounced effort to relax them. He’s got thick eyebrows, close-cropped light brown hair that won’t provide much protection against the early Arizona cold, and his mouth is hanging open a little.
“Sorry,” Morales says. “I just came over to say hi.” He has a flat, unplaceable Midwestern accent, and he extends a hand down to Zach, who takes it, levering himself up. “Marti told me about...” He gestures toward Zach’s ear, like he’s afraid to say the wordshearing aid.
Zach waits for the things that inevitably come from teammates: Talking comically slower and louder. Sometimes questions, because guys ask about each other’s hitting approaches, training routines, back acne, one-night stands. Questions about if he was born like this, or if he lost his hearing in an accident. How he can possibly hear during games—this asked like a question, though it really isn’t one. They don’t believe him when he says he can, like baseball isn’t a game built on signs. And the last inevitable question about if he minds questions about his hearing. One to which the answer is, yes, he does fucking mind.
“Is there anything I should do,” Morales says, “you know, so you can hear me?”
“What?”
Morales looks like he’s going to ask again but stops when Zach holds up a finger, if only because guys don’t normally ask stuff like that.
“It’s better for me if you could face me when you’re talking.”
Morales smiles. He’s got a mouth full of white teeth and a lower lip that won’t at all be a hardship to watch. The combination of the two makes Zach turn away for a second, the way he might shield his eyes from the bright Arizona sun.
They stretch and go through various warmups. Morales—Eugenio, as he introduces himself, insisting improbably that he doesn’t have a nickname—talks about everything that’s ever happened to him during his entire life leading up to finding himself in a bullpen in Arizona with Zach. Where he’s from: Indiana, but his parents are from Venezuela. What he ate for breakfast that morning: a sandwich from some hole-in-the-wall place that Zach must have driven past a thousand times at spring training in previous years and never once stopped at. “I’ll bring you something tomorrow,” Eugenio says, like they’re already friends.
What Zach thinks they’ll talk about during their first team meeting. “Well, it’s pitchers and catchers report today. So probably pitching. Possibly some catching.”
Eugenio laughs, loud in the otherwise quiet bullpen, sound expanding to fill it. “Sorry. First day of spring training, you know? It’s kind of exciting.”
