2063.38 - Brunch Before the Storm

[Graham]

After dropping Game Three in frustrating fashion, the team needed a chance to regroup, breathe, and recalibrate before Friday night’s pivotal Game Four. Johannesburg still led the series 2–1, thanks to a pair of gutsy wins at home, but last night’s 5–4 loss had exposed some cracks.

It was decided to reserve the entire back room of an aggressively trendy Sydney café called “Yolked.” The decor was best described as minimalist chicken coop: concrete walls, brass cage light fixtures, long wooden tables lined with artisanal mason jars full of local lavender, and an unsettling mural of a giant sunny-side up egg wearing sunglasses and riding a wave across the back wall.

Fernando Rosario loved it.

“This place slaps,” the Assistant General Manager declared, inhaling a croissant stuffed with spicy lamb and something purple.

No one acknowledged him.

At the head of the room, manager Alberto Sanchez was carefully unwrapping a cloth napkin from around his utensils like it was a ceremonial scroll. He didn’t like eating in public; he once claimed toast “betrays your chewing rhythm." But, alas, here he was, receding hair combed and team-issued polo tucked into his chinos, sipping a flat white with quiet dignity. His first base coach, Matt Brear, was eating his third breakfast burrito and had already proposed playing “Two Truths and a Lie” to lighten the mood. No takers.

Graham Luna sat at the far end, beneath the surfing egg mural, pretending to nurse a cappuccino. He hadn’t touched it. Caffeine made him jittery before game days, and he had enough on his mind.

He was watching Jeff Bannon.

Bannon, the scheduled Game 4 starter, sat alone at a two-top like a dad lost in IKEA. A hardcover sudoku book sat unopened next to his plate. His hands were resting palms-down, motionless, like he was waiting for divine intervention or perhaps a pregame séance.

“He’s been like that since we got here,” Rosario whispered, sliding into the seat next to Graham with a chia pudding he had not paid for. “Do you think he’s visualizing the Sydney lineup or experiencing dissociation?”

“Hopefully both,” Graham said.

Bannon blinked.

“Dude’s got ghosts in this city,” Rosario added. “Had a great season with the Sharks last year, then he didn't make the opening day rotation and they tried to sneak him through waivers.”

“I remember,” Graham said with a sly grin. “I claimed him.”

“And now look, boss. Game Four. Revenge script. You couldn’t write it better,” Rosario boasted.

A few tables down, Simao Hayagawa sat hunched over a plate of seasonal fruit, cottage cheese, and cardboard-like strips of tempeh doing their best impression of bacon. The team's star catcher was 0-for-11 in the series so far, and had spent the first ten minutes of brunch silently stabbing his sourdough like it owed him an apology. Rosario had tried a few pep talks. Nothing stuck.

“How we feelin’, Cap?” he asked gently.

Simao didn’t look up. “If I line out again tonight, I’m going to start hitting from the left side.”

Outfielder-extraordinaire Adam MacDonald wasn’t doing much better. He sat across from Simao, frowning into a giant waffle covered in whipped cream and chocolate chips like he was decoding a breakup text.

“Third game in a row I just missed one,” MacDonald said, to no one in particular. “Timing’s off.”

“You’re still seeing the ball well,” Sanchez chimed in from a few chairs down.

“No I’m not.”

“Then lie to yourself better, Mac” the manager said, and went back to his coffee.

Further down the table, closer Cesar Torres was giving rookie pitcher Fabiao Marcha tips about slider grip pressure using a single boiled egg as a visual aid.

“If you want the break to snap late, you hold it like this,” he said, fingers wrapped around the egg with surgeon-like care.

Marcha nodded solemnly.

“What happens if you hold it too loose?” asked reliever Larry Soukup.

Torres squeezed, popping the egg and causing the jelly-like bright orange yolk to spray in all directions.

“Chaos.”

At the bar area, bench coach Vicente Garza was teaching a few of the reserves how to say “You got this” in four different dialects of Portuguese. It was unclear if this was for team unity or a personal side quest.

Rosario leaned back and took it all in.

“Weird vibe today, huh” he said.

“It’s Game Four,” Graham said. “Tension should feel like a frozen rosin bag.”

“What do you think?” Rosario asked, nodding toward the team. “Are we tight? Or just brunch-confused?”

Graham didn’t answer right away. He looked around. They were nervous, sure. But it was a good nervous. A good quiet. The kind of silence right before something happens, like a win or a bench-clearing brawl.

“I think we’re fine,” he said finally. “As long as Bannon doesn’t try to manifest a no-hitter using numerology.”

Behind them, Bannon coughed, then placed his Sudoku book face down and whispered, “Tonight feels...sacred.”

Rosario frowned. “Okay maybe I'm a little worried.”

Sanchez stood. “Let’s wrap this up, boys. Game time’s in nine hours. I want everyone in the stadium early.”

As most of the group began shuffling through the exit, Hayagawa finally stood and pushed his chair in. He exhaled and turned to MacDonald.

“Feel like breaking the slump tonight?”

“Only if you do it with me.”

Hayagawa cracked the faintest smile. “Let’s ruin some ERAs.”

The Johannesburg Gold filed out into the streets of Sydney. Tonight, they'd either return home with a shot to end it, or carry the weight of missed chances. Either way, brunch was over.

It was time to play.

[Jwalk100]

You've got home field. Things SHOULD work out but you know OOTP.

[Graham]

You've got home field. Things SHOULD work out but you know OOTP.

Ahh, yes...the s word.