Page 92 of Unwritten Rules
“Morales always seems to enjoy it here,” the reporter says.
“Yeah, well,” Zach says, “some guys just got your number. That’s baseball.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Miami’s general manager calls Zach early in the morning, seven hours and two minutes after the trade deadline.
“Fuck.” Zach scrambles as his phone flashes at him, vibrations sending it hopping across the surface of his nightstand. “Hello?” and then, “Can we switch to video?”
Over FaceTime, their GM looks like most other front office executives—like he’d wear a suit and Oxford shirt to a school picnic. He’s saying something that’s hard to track, the volume on Zach’s phone turned down, Zach bleary.
Zach holds up a hand, retrieving his hearing aid from its case and putting it in, wincing as his hearing adjusts to the ambient early-morning noise in his apartment. “Okay, let’s try this again.”
“You’ve been traded,” the GM says, “to New York.”
New York. And there’s the initial screech of surprise and then the slow realization of what that means: To play in a city that breathes baseball. One with packed stadiums and definite opinions and Eugenio sitting next to him on the bench.
“New York?” Zach repeats, still processing. “Uh, I didn’t think the Gothams needed another catcher.”
“Not the Gothams—the other team. Plays in the Bronx? Wears pinstripes? Maybe you’ve heard of them?”
Zach blinks a few times. Because that’s not just the big leagues, but the biggest baseball stage in the world, the other New York team its winningest franchise. “I’m going to the Union?”
“They’ve chartered you a plane.” The GM rolls his eyes at the Union’s famous lavishness. Which Zach is apparently going to be the recipient of. “It leaves this afternoon.”
Zach feels around for what he’s supposed to say in these circumstances, especially since, when he hit free agency, the GM in Oakland shook his hand, wished him luck in future endeavors, and made it clear he shouldn’t come around looking for a contract. “It’s, uh, been a real privilege to play for the team.”
“Save it for the press conference. We’re getting a top-100 prospect back for you, so consider that thanks enough.” And then disconnects the call, leaving Zach staring at the screen.
He gets a text message telling him to read his email, which contains a long set of instructions that must be boilerplate—that the team will assign someone to help him break his lease if he wants. That a moving company will come and pack for him and put his stuff in storage or ship it to him when he settles in New York. That they’ll send him his personal effects from the clubhouse, like he’s getting out of a night in a holding cell and not going to play for another team.
He texts his parents, his agent, Morgan, Aviva and Eitan, the Miami group-chat, the Oakland group-chat, Womack. Stephanie, saying he probably needs to talk with her.
Johnson, who sent him a picture of his college graduation a few weeks before, Sara Maria holding their daughter, Johnson’s wrist enclosed in a brace from surgery.Congrats!Johnson writes, adding an excessive number of exclamation points and a request for Zach’s mailing address.My mom is doing graduation announcements.It’s accompanied by an eye-roll emoji, like Johnson isn’t twenty-five and married with a newborn.They want to have a party sometime in the offseason.
Lmk when,Zach says.
Probably December or January,Johnson replies.I think they’re inviting the whole town. In case you want to bring someone.And it’s too early and Zach is too frantic to consider whatsomeonemeans in this instance, especially since he didn’t bring anyone to their wedding. Especially when the onlysomeonehe wants to bring is in the city that he’s moving to. Today.
He texts Eugenio, starting and stopping a few times. Because what can he say that can be reduced to a text? That his heart is racing, from the adrenaline that accompanies a trade. That he finally unpacked in Miami, and now has to box it up again. That he didn’t expect to see Eugenio until September when the Swordfish play the Gothams. Now each second feels impossibly long, even as his mind spins with what he has to do in the next few hours.Traded to the Union,he writes,will be in NYC tonight.
News of the trade hits social media, because there’s an avalanche of notifications and alerts after that, enough that Zach puts his phone on airplane mode and starts packing. He goes through his apartment, contemplating what he should sell, what he should store, what he should take with him. Which is how he ends up on the tarmac walking to his plane, duffel bag over one shoulder, holding an aloe plant.
The flight is less than three hours, one that begins over the clear blue Florida ocean before heading north. The flight attendant keeps him in coffee and offers champagne, which he declines. He rests with his face on the cool glass window, wondering if they’ll wake him before they touch down. If someone will come to greet him at the airport or if he’ll need to figure out New York transportation.
His phone is buzzing with notifications, Union social media tagging him, a bad photo manipulation of himself in a pinstriped uniform from the league’s “spicy” Twitter account, a farewell message from Miami. He fires up his real Twitter and Insta, the ones he only posts on with a review from team social media—or if they draft it for him, more often—and writes how grateful he is to the city and to Swordfish fans. He wishes the Union prospect who’s taking a flight in the opposite direction, from the stratosphere of the Bronx to Florida swampland, all the best in his new baseball endeavors.
His parents text a long message, one they sign at the end like it’s an email, about driving up and getting him settled and who they know in New York. Another from Aviva that’s mostly emojis and firework gifs.
One from Morgan that’s similar, except he responds, asking for the dates for this year’s qualifiers for the Women’s Baseball World Cup. She tells him it’s in Colombia in November, up on the Caribbean coast.
Thanks, he writes, and gets a string of question marks back.Just thinking about something.
He gets a call from a number labeled Todd Miami. The flight attendant, seated across the plane, is ensconced in a large hardcover book. He accepts the call. It’s the counselor, whose name is Henry, returning his voice mail.
It takes some doing to switch to FaceTime. “I wanted to set up an appointment,” Zach says.
“Sure, when can you come in?”
