2063.13 – “We’re Hitting Like a Church Picnic”

[Graham]

Spring training was one-third complete, and the Johannesburg Gold were, depending on your level of caffeine intake, either settling in or slowly unraveling.

AGM Fernando Rosario sat behind Graham Luna’s desk, flipping through a printed pack of scouting reports from the back fields, because despite everything, he remained loyal to paper.

“We’re hitting like a church picnic,” he muttered. “Everyone brought buns. No one brought bats.”

Graham stood at the window, arms folded, not hearing him. He was staring into the middle distance with the silent intensity of a man haunted by something, specifically, a faxed credential form and a mysterious signature that simply read “Darryl.”

“You haven’t called him, have you?” Rosario asked, not looking up.

“No,” Graham said.

“You’re going to have to call him.”

“I know.”

“Because otherwise he’s just going to keep showing up. In increasingly creative disguises. That man tried to DM the mascot account yesterday.”

“I know.”

Rosario let it go, for now. “Anyway. Let’s talk pitchers. 'Marty Party' has been spotless so far. Seven and a third, no runs, 7:1 strikeout-to-walk ratio. Kid’s got ice in his veins. Or Novocain.”

Graham turned from the window. “Love that. That’s great. What about our Rule 5 guy, Ortiz?”

“Manny’s been…visible,” Rosario said, diplomatically. “Two starts, two home runs. ERA’s bloated. Looks like he’s allergic to ground balls.”

Graham frowned. “I want ground balls. Ground balls are our friends. Tell him if he doesn't get with the program, I'll return him back to Jerusalem faster than you can say 'holy pilgrimage.'”

“I know,” Rosario said. “I told him. He told me the altitude in Johannesburg is affecting his release point. I reminded him that we’re currently in Cape Town. He changed the subject to sandwiches.”

Graham sat down, rubbing his temples. “And Marcha?”

“Ah, The Fabiao Conundrum,” Rosario said, flipping pages. “Ten strikeouts in four and a third. Also gave up seven hits and walked two. It's either dominance or disaster. Nothing in between.”

“He was our Single-A closer last year, this was just a spring invite.”

“Well, he’s getting attention. Had a fan hand him a signed headshot yesterday. He hadn’t even given one out.”

Graham shook his head. “Hayagawa at least is hitting, right?”

“Oh yeah. Slashing .462/.462/.692. Best bat in camp, hands down. Might be our best player. I’m terrified of what that says about us.”

Graham flipped to the hitting summary. “Adam MacDonald?”

Rosario raised an eyebrow. “.200 average, .368 OBP. No extra-base hits, but he’s getting on base through sheer stubbornness. I respect it.”

They sat in silence for a beat.

Then Rosario added, “Also…Romano hit a home run.”

Graham looked up. “Albert Romano?”

“Yeah.”

“Our reliever Albert Romano?”

“The very one. The league decided there wouldn't be a designated hitter that game so pitchers got to take hacks. Albert took a fastball over the left-field wall.” Rosario paused. “There are whispers.”

“Absolutely not,” Graham said.

“I’m just saying—”

“No.”

“He might be our cleanup hitter.”

“Get out.”

Rosario grinned and flipped the stat pack closed. “Alright, alright. I’ll go see if I can trade for a bat. Or at least someone with power in their bio.”

As he walked out, Graham stayed seated. He stared at the phone on his desk. It hadn’t rung, but it felt like it was going to. Any minute now.

He picked it up, hesitated, then set it back down.

Darryl could wait another day.

[Jwalk100]

Ma! Get me a chili dog!