Page 95 of Unwritten Rules
And Eugenio left the peelings from his beer label on the table on Zach’s balcony, a faded hickey on Zach’s shoulder, and no promises other than that he’d answer Zach’s texts. Something that felt incredible at the time and now is subtly disappointing.
He stares up at the flawless white ceiling, feeling like he’s been hollowed out. Henry didn’t seem surprised during the session, letting him get up and get the box of hotel-provided tissues and waving off Zach’s apologies. Now his arms are heavy, his back adhered to the mattress like there’s something sitting on his chest, stalling his breath. He lies like that until the light fades even more—evening, or as much of one as the city has. He gets up, cracks open and drinks a bottle of hotel water, considering whether he should call Morgan just to listen to her talk but doesn’t.
It’s still early on the West Coast. He looks up the Gothams’ schedule, and then turns on the TV, advancing the channel guide to see if they’re showing the game, which they are.
Why were you batting third in Miami but fourth in LA?he texts Eugenio. An ellipsis appears, meaning Eugenio is probably at his stall, changing from whatever he wore for batting practice into his uniform for the night.
LA’s actually good. Are you going to watch the game?
Zach sends pictures of his hotel room, the tray with the remnants of his dinner, the view of Central Park, the bathtub, which has jets. The bedspread, the part that’s wrinkled from where he’s been sitting on it, the other side of the bed undisturbed.I talked to that counselor today.
How’d it go?
And Zach doesn’t know how he should summarize the conversation so doesn’t try to.Henry says I’m supposed to make a list of people I want to talk with and find someone who can help me be accountable.
There isn’t an immediate response, and it’s possible Eugenio has been called into a pregame meeting or has to go and warm up the Gothams pitcher, but more likely he’s sitting there, waiting for Zach to continue.
I was wondering if you would,Zach types.
And Eugenio types and erases a few responses, dots appearing and disappearing. Zach gets up, walks to the window, watches the traffic passing below him, the ambient city light keeping the shadows at bay. He considers all the times Eugenio asked him to talk with his family or with a few of their teammates. All the times Zach said he would and didn’t.
I should probably ask Morgan instead,Zach writes.
Yeah, that might be a better idea.
I was gonna tell the team tomorrow but Henry said that might not be a good idea just now. But I will tell them
There’s a long pause, Eugenio typing.You don’t have to.
I know but I want to
Zach pulls up the Union’s schedule, looks at it against the Gothams’, and they both have an off day at the end of the following week. He sends it to Eugenio, asking if he wants to see him then, feeling a little overly formal about it.
Another pause, Eugenio typing and reconsidering before saying,I’d like that.
He watches the game that night, texting Eugenio as if it’s a live feed. Thoughts about his game calling, which is solid. About a strike he manufactures on a pitch that’s at least a few inches outside the zone. A double he hits in the seventh inning, Eugenio standing up as he gets into second, peeling off his batting gloves; his nails are painted electric blue.
The Gothams and Union already played their series for the year, the subway series that commentators hype as a rivalry, even if the rivalry is more between boroughs than between the actual teams. The Gothams’ success won’t hurt or help the Union’s, and so he sits, drinking a beer he orders from room service, trying to remember the last time he watched a game as a fan: Not the playoffs, always watched with resentment in his belly, that feeling like a pulse ofwhy not me, why not me. Or games watched in video review, sped up, all the slow measured things that make baseball baseball—the long pauses, the frustrations, the rituals—removed in order to prepare for the next opponent.
The game as a game, as only a game, nothing more and nothing less, and he watches as Eugenio works the count full in the ninth, as he fouls a few pitches back. It’s a quirk of the sport like no other, the potential infinity built into at-bats: that a hitter can foul, and foul, and foul, and never move the count. That the game can go on forever. That Eugenio could stand in the box and tap each pitch just out of play. That each movement and action and inaction stretch the game, one built on an infinite time scale, just a little bit longer, until Zach’s momentarily sad when it ends, hotel room ringingly quiet without it on.
He gets to Union Stadium early the next morning, carrying a duffel bag with his street clothes and his electric razor, since Maritza gently suggested that he shave a bit closer than normal before doing press. He went through the pockets of his bag that morning, unzipping internal compartments. In it, an extra catcher’s wristband embroidered with Eugenio’s number, an Elephants sign card still inserted. He puts it in his stall. It feels lucky.
He isn’t starting that day, but he sits in on the planning meetings, reading through the scouting reports for this series and the next, talking with Brito, their fourth starter, who played for the Elephants years before Zach was there.
Brito nods to his hearing aid. “When we’re talking on the mound, how do you want to play it?”
Brito’s about his height, tall for a catcher but normal for a pitcher, dark-skinned, and broad enough to block sight lines from snooping base coaches.
“Usually, I use my glove to block the whoever from seeing,” Zach says.
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”
“This place is kind of ridiculous.” Zach waves a hand at their surroundings.
Brito laughs at that. “When I signed, I kept waiting for them to charge me for my equipment bag, or whatever other dumb shit the Elephants used to do back in the day.”
“Feels like I got let into Emerald City.”
