Page 27 of Unwritten Rules
“I know it wasn’t a good idea. But I don’t know what else to do.”
“Jeez, kid.”
“And I met this girl. I’ve been going to that church. The one with the service in Spanish. We’ve been talking.”
And Zach can only imagine what nice, church-going girls talk about with young future pro-baseball stars. He doesn’t think he needs to talk with Johnson about, like, marriage or using protection, because however much they’re paying Zach, it is not enough to have that conversation.
“About workers’ rights and unions and stuff.”
“Oh,” Zach says.
“I didn’t really understand some of it. But it sounds good, the way she explained it. When it comes down to it, it’s just not fair. They get so much, and we don’t, and it just doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Yeah, I hear you. But you can’t be talking about this around the clubhouse either. The front office-types, they don’t like it when guys make a fuss or stand out. They got a whole camp full of players they can replace you with.”
“Sara Maria says that it’s pretty messed up that they call guys replacement-level or whatever.”
“I’m not saying it’s not,” Zach says. “I’m just telling you that you can’t talk about it here.”
Johnson looks around the bullpen like he’s checking for listening devices or hidden cameras.
“I just meant at the park,” Zach says. “Say whatever you want in church. And look, if you need something, just ask, okay?”
“I don’t like taking charity for what I’ve earned.” Johnson’s standing a little straighter, and looks older, somehow, face shadowed by a passing cloud. After a minute, he seems to realize what he said and deflates. “But, um, thank you.”
“You should bring her around. Get her to come watch you pitch.”
“Yeah?” Johnson goes a little pink. “You think she’d like that?”
“Sure, why not?”
“When you’ve brought girls around, did the other guys give you a hard time about it?”
“Guys give each other shit constantly. But, uh, probably not? If she’s someone you’re serious about.”
“She is.” Johnson says it with a definitiveness that makes something in Zach’s gut flare, a little ember of jealousy at the idea of just meeting someone and bringing them to the clubhouse. To have them sit in the stands and cheer for him and go home after. He douses it with a swig of Gatorade.
“Well, if she does come to see you,” Zach says, “you can’t tip every single one of your curveballs. So, let’s focus on that.”
When Zach gets to the bullpen a week later, there’s another guy in catcher’s gear. One he doesn’t recognize.
“Uh, hey.” Zach glances around for Eugenio or Marti or D’Spara, for Johnson or Giordano or any of the pitchers still not yet relegated to minor-league camp.
The guy—who’s almost as tall as Zach is when he springs up—offers a hand, demanding a handshake, his palm as leathery as a mitt when Zach takes it. He’s older, probably in his mid-thirties, creases at his eyes and on his forehead, and he has the look of someone who’s played the game for a long time. “Francisco. Everyone calls me Frannie.”
Zach introduces himself. “Have you seen anyone else around?” Because someone’ll know why the hell there’s a new guy in the bullpen with no warning.
“Joe said he’d be back in a few minutes.” It takes Zach a second to register that Joe is D’Spara, whose first name Zach always thinks of as being Coach.
There’s a white bag sitting by the shelf of stretch-out straps, food inside still warm, so Eugenio has been there recently. Zach takes it out and eats, chewing loudly.
Frannie goes through standard catcher’s stretches, facing away from Zach, and Zach googles until he finds Francisco Medrano, erstwhile catcher for the Crowns organization, who bounced around affiliated ball for a while before spending a few seasons playing in the Mexican leagues.
There’s an article about his attempts to return to the majors, one titled, “The Pitcher Whisperer,” that discusses his ability to calm volatile young pitchers, to call quality games, even if he’s now too old to spring up with Eugenio’s enthusiasm to catch base runners. He’s an unsigned free agent, though possibly—and Zach’s breakfast goes leaden in his stomach—not for long.
Frannie’s moved from stretches into fuller warmups, like he might go play a game, even though theirs isn’t scheduled until later. The clipboard where they hang the lineups is zip-tied to the fence, and it sits empty, yesterday’s gone, today’s not yet posted. Even if it were and Frannie is on it, there’s no guarantee of being anything more than a showcase for a new catcher the organization can bid farewell to if things don’t work out, like a one-night stand who leaves with a promise to text.
Still, Zach waits. Chews his lip. Starts his stretches. Drinks his coffee. Texts Eugenio to see where he is and if he wants his espresso. Considers the sun reflecting off the mountains in the distance, all the forces of geology and coincidence that shaped them.
