Lyndon Baines Johnson vs the Los Angeles Dodgers

by AndThatWasEnough

- and why they're even being mentioned together. {One-shot.}

Author's Note: Yeah, yeah, I know baseball season is long over and the Dodgers didn't even win the World Series, but better late than never!

Warnings for Two-Bit's dirty mind and how disgusting and icky his love is for Bee Stevens. Barf.

I also don't own The Outsiders, Damn Yankees, or…anything, really. I mean, I bought a new sweatshirt today, does that count?

Happy reading :)

XXXXX

"Yes, a man doesn't know what he has 'til it is no longer around

But the happy thought is

Whatever it is he's lost, may some day once again be found."

- "A Man Doesn't Know", Damn Yankees

It's funny how the word "draft" holds two separate meanings to me. Emotionally speaking and all, I mean.

xXx

And I know he wasn't president anymore, but I still blame Johnson for what happened to me.

xXx

I do think about my father sometimes. I do because Jesus H., how could I not? The universe ain't gonna let me forget that asshole because let's be honest: he kinda fucked me up. I'm jealous of my sister sometimes because she never knew him. He left after she was born, sure, but so soon after that she can't remember him. I'm stuck having to remember him. For-fucking-ever. But better me than her.

Okay.

Okay.

So I think about him sometimes, and I'm glad he's dead. I am. But that doesn't change anything that he ever did to me, or really, to my mother. He did nothing for us except give us Sadie.

Except.

There's one other thing.

xXx

"Here ya go, kid."

The Old Man knew two things well: drinking and baseball. That was really it. He gave the ability to do both to me. So I guess I'm really not much better than he was, but I'm not really in a self-deprecating mood right now – I'm just trying to tell a story here, not trying to get you to feel sorry for me. Anyways, I suppose the only nice thing the Old Man ever did for me – besides bringing me into this world, but I'm still not quite sure if that's a blessing or a curse, if ya know what I mean – was when I was nine years old, he told me that I was gonna start playing ball, no ifs ands or buts about it. Not like I was gonna argue in the first place. I think I'd figured it was gonna happen at some point because as he told me, "If yer gonna be good for anythin', it's gonna be playin' ball. Like yer old man." And then he gave me one of his rare smiles, which was just about as if not more unsettling than he was usually because I only ever saw him leer like that after my mother, and no good but my sister ever seem to come of that.

I sometimes wondered – wonder – how it was he got to be the way he was, but that train of thought usually brought me down more than anybody wanted, so I don't think I'm ever gonna figure it out.

Anyway.

This was probably the most cliché moment of my life, and I think I realized that even as a kid, but it was this whole special thing when the Old Man handed me a glove and told me to stand on the other side of the yard. I guess it was the only thing he knew to give me.

xXx

"You're how old?"

I cocked an eyebrow. "Twelve, sir."

The man crossed his arms and reared back a bit, eyes darting up and down. If he were doing that to me now I'd probably make a crack about how on-display he was making me feel, like some sort of circus freak. I glanced over at my mother, who had a slightly worried look on her face. I didn't see what the big issue here was, or if there was really even an issue in the first place. "You're sure?" He asked, and my mother sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Yes," she said testily. "I am the one who gave birth to him!" Oh, for fuck's sake. "I know how old he is."

The coach just shook his head slowly. "Kinda tall for a twelve-year-old."

"How old did you think he was?"

"Oh, fourteen at least." Hey – I didn't mind that. Nobody minds getting mistaken for being older when they're twelve. He shook his head again. I didn't exactly see what the problem was. "You're a catcher?"

"Uh-huh." Mom glared at me. "I mean – yessir."

He nodded again. "Okay. I think I know what we need to do here."

I followed him out onto the diamond and he led to me to the pitcher's mound, but all I found when we got there was Darry Curtis. I'd known the guy for forever, our moms were regular church ladies and all buddy-buddy with each other, so I knew him pretty well. But I wasn't quite sure if he liked me or not. He seemed pretty surprised to see me. I smiled. "Hey, Curtis."

"Hey, Two-Bit," he said, frowning. Darry's pretty much always frowning. "What're you doin' here?"

"Curtis, Mathews here is gonna be yer new catcher. I'd tell y'all to get acquainted, but it seems you two already know each other. Good start –but by the time season rolls 'round, I need you two to know each other like the back of yer hand."

Coach clapped us each roughly on the shoulder and left, probably back to my mother. I'd seen him eyeing her earlier, so I hope to this day he didn't try anything with her. Darry was still frowning. "You're twelve, though."

I shrugged happily, knowing what he was confused about. "Yeah, well, they sent me on up anyways."

"It's cuz yer too tall to be twelve."

"Somethin' like that. And hell, I ain't no slouch behind the plate, either," I told him. "Aw, c'mon, Curtis. Quit overthinkin' it."

"I'm not!"

"Are too," I shot back. Darry's scowl deepened.

"You swing lefty?"

"Uh-huh."

"And righty?"

"Yeah," I drawled, raising an eyebrow. "Don't you?"

Darry looked embarrassed. "Naw, just righty."

"Well, ya gotta know how to do both," I said, like it was just plain common sense. "I mean, I ain't perfect, but ya know. If I swing left, I'm a step closer to first. If I swing right, I'm usually better at keepin' my hands in position. Advantages to both. Oh – and it's called switch-hittin', by the way."

"I know that," he grumbled. Darry eyed me carefully. "You learned all this from yer old man," he said, like a statement and not a question. We knew each other at least that well. I nodded, not giving anything away about how I felt about him bringing him up.

"Well, sure."

Darry nodded. "You better be as good as they say," he sighed. Already an old man at age fourteen. My god. "Get behind the plate then, Mathews. I wanna try out my curveball."

xXx

Darry quit when he got into high school, trading in his batting helmet for a football helmet full-time, put the arm to use throwing touchdowns instead of sliders. Which was fine. By that point he and I, we were tight, tighter than we were when we were kiddies in Sunday school. He told me that nobody on the football team gave a hang about where he came from; that it didn't matter that he was from the east side of town, especially when he was as good as he was. He said that the same would be true for me, that as soon as the other guys on the baseball team saw how good I could call him and how good I could hit, it would be smooth sailing.

Sure.

I like to be an upbeat guy. That seems to be my default. Life's a crapshoot, might as well have fun while you're at it because we're here for a good time, not a long time. So I was fourteen years old and thought I was the shit because Coach Peterson put me on the JV roster as a freshman. So, yeah Darry Curtis – I am as good as they say. But he knew that. Everybody else knew that. And that wasn't the problem.

I couldn't express it as well as Pony can, especially at his age, but you can tell when people are looking at ya different. Even for something you can't help. This is what Darry didn't get, and wouldn't for a long time; there was always something different about him. He was Will Rogers' golden boy. He was my best friend, I trusted him, but sometimes it don't matter if you're the best at something. I'd always played ball with guys from my side of town, but this felt like the big leagues if only because I was suddenly surrounded by a bunch of rich pricks who looked down their noses at me because my daddy was a scumbag who up and left us and their old men had seen my ma working the bar when they went slumming and, and, and.

I will tell everybody that it was an issue of money, of payment. That it was too expensive for my mother for me to keep on playing ball, the one thing on this planet I've ever proven good at.

But that's a lie.

"I dunno, man," I told Darry, trying to shrug it off. We were sharing six packs even back then. "They look at me like I'm different."

"They used to lookit me like that, too. You get over it."

I shook my head. "Naw, man. No, you don't get it. It's bad. They make me feel crummy."

"But you're good at this, Two-Bit." He was confused, and so was I, to be honest. But then he sighed and said, "They look at us that way because we are different. That's why we have to prove them wrong."

I stared at him while he stared into his beer can. I blinked a few times, trying to gather my thoughts. So maybe it hadn't been all smooth-sailing for Darry, even if it seemed like it to me, even if he said it was. I knew he may never say a word about it to me; it wasn't really our way to talk about what we were feeling. In a few minutes, we'd go back to goofing off. Right then, though, I realized that there was a distinct difference between Darry and I. I knew that I could go to the big leagues, win the goddamn World Series, and those guys would still look at me like I was scum. They'd do the same to Darry even if he won the Heisman or something. It would never change. Like it or lump it.

That time around, I lumped it, and I didn't play ball the next season.

xXx

Which, that move confused everybody. Mr. Curtis, Steve, Darry, Dallas, Johnny, my mother. It's still confusing to people. Even Bee still don't get why I would do it, but to be fair, she thought I was a total fucking loser at first, too.

"I mean, I know Damn Yankees," she said some time later. "But that's not saying much. But I still don't get why you quit just to go back."

"You were there," I reminded her. "You know why I went back."

"So why stop in the first place?"

I smiled at her, said, "You really wouldn't get it, honey," and walked off whistling the tune to "Heart."

xXx

Which, ya know, I found ways to fill me time. Drinking and fighting and playing pool and cards and screwing girls and that demon-spawn called Kathy. Got better at that other talent of mine, shoplifting. I mean, I really became an upstanding citizen. It was more fun off the straight-and-narrow path, anyways. I was fine just where I was.

But then, as with every other aspect of my life, Bee Stevens decided to show up and turn everything upside down.

xXx

"So there was a time when you were on the straight and narrow?"

I'm no stranger to having girls in my bedroom. And before you say anything, we were alone in the house, so relax, okay? And Bee Stevens could be a real prude, God help her, so I was pretty sure she wasn't gonna put out for me tonight or nothing. Someday, man. Someday. To a soundtrack of Blonde on Blonde's "Just Like a Woman." If I thought about it any longer, it'd get awkward.

"The hell you mean?"

She looked my way, held up the yearkbook she was holding. "It's from your freshman year. You were on the baseball team."

"Yeah."

"You didn't tell me that part."

"I didn't?"

"No. Just that you were the best damn catcher in Tulsa," she said, doing a stupid imitation of my voice where all she did was lower her register. Didn't realize it was amateur hour. She added in a sweet voice, "And now you're just a" – dramatic sigh – "hoodlum." Bee stood up, her skirt riding up her thigh just a bit, and she held the annual in front of my face open to the page with the team picture on it, tapping on my face with a perfectly manicured finger. "See? You were all clean-cut. And so handsome! And now…"

"Yes, yes," I waved a hand, "a hood. But hey, peach, I thought that was how you liked me."

I winked, and she rolled her eyes. Classic interplay. I gently grabbed her wrists and pulled her towards me, but she was the one ended up kissing me, which I of course don't mind, asking in between, "Why'd you stop?"

"Hm?" I hummed into the hollow of her throat before working my way back up her neck and jaw. How dare she make me wait to have sex with her? I was getting hungrier for her by the day, but I didn't want to push her, either. "What're you talkin' 'bout? I ain't stoppin', hon."

"Not what I meant," she sighed, pulling away. Goddammit. "If you were so good, why'd you stop playing?" She asked, a challenge in her tone. "Hm?" I cocked an eyebrow.

"Why's it matter? Can watch all the baseball I want six months outta the year. No big."

"I'm just curious, is all," she said coyly. "Secrets are bad, ya know."

"Oh, that's rich comin' from you." But she wasn't exactly wrong.

"Stop," she said softly, so I did. "I'm just wondering. Did something happen?"

I thought about how to put it in a way that didn't offend her. Somehow, I didn't think using terms such as stuck-up rich fucks was gonna make her any happier with me. "I guess I just moved on. We all outgrow things." I shrugged – simple. Bee didn't buy it for a second.

"That's a lie," she said knowingly, sweetly. "Nobody ever just moves on."

xXx

I was also no stranger to the front office. The secretary and I knew each other by name, and she even called me Two-Bit sometimes. But I wasn't in the front office today. No. I was sitting outside Coach Peterson's office, and let me tell you, I hadn't been down here since freshman year, and I had no damn clue what he wanted with me. It was only the second week of school, finally senior year, and I was already having to deal with shit, and I didn't even know what I'd done!

In fact, all this not-knowing was making me kinda nervous.

"Mathews."

I looked over and saw he'd opened his door and was nodding me in. Peterson wasn't your typical dumbass coach, with a layer of fat over his aging junior varsity muscle. He was more the quiet, thoughtful type – so, the exact opposite of how I am. At least, that's how I remember him from when I was fourteen. I remembered that I felt bad when I left the team, and that he'd actually seemed sorry I was going. Then I stopped caring. I sat down on the other side of his desk and looked around a little at his office. It even looked just like I remembered it, considering the team hadn't really been all that great the past couple years.

"Whaddya want, Coach?" I asked good-naturedly. "Don't tell me I'm missin' any credits, man."

He shook his head. Peterson sat back in his chair and crossed his arms and considered me, and I had to keep myself from squirming; I don't like getting watched so closely. "No, you're not," he finally said, offering me a small smile. I grinned back.

"Great! So what's with the big times?"

Peterson put his folded hands on top of his desk. He looked like he didn't quite know where to begin. "I wanna thank you for stoppin' by in the first place," was what he started with.

"No problem."

He cleared his throat. I had to try real hard to keep from telling him he needed to get a move on, that I was meeting my buddies for lunch and he still hadn't told me why I was here. "Might as well cut to the chase" – Finally – "I'm sure you've noticed the team's record that past couple years."

"Sure have," I grinned grimly. "Not so great."

"Yes, not so great," he repeated, sighing. "I'm tryin' to piece together a better team."

"Aw, coach, new guys are always comin' up. You'll find the right guys someday."

He cleared his throat again. I think I knew what he was getting at, but I wanted to hear him say it. "Mathews."

"Peterson."

"I guess what I'm sayin' is I remember how good you were. We woulda been better off with ya the past couple years, and I guess I'm sayin' I'd like ya to give it another shot."

My eyes bugged out. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Did he know who I was? Who the hell I'd become in the few years since I'd last played? Hell, I was such a joker I'd gotten purposely held back, even if I had my reasons. (I mean, I'm not a total idiot.) No adult in their right mind wanted me. "You serious?" I asked. "Peterson, you know who I am?"

"Yes – "

"I'm trouble," I told him, shaking my head. "You should see my permanent record. Nothin' good, man."

"Are you trying to tell me you don't want to?"

I stopped. Really thought about it. He didn't know why I quit in the first place. I thought of Bridget, about how she said no one ever really moves on. I suppose she was right – no one ever really does. There was always an itch. There had always been an itch. I guess I'd tried to find ways to ignore it, to get rid of it all together, but it hadn't fully worked. I just wasn't so sure any of the guys would like me any better this time around. "That's not what I'm sayin'," I said. "I'm just makin' sure you know what you're doin'."

Peterson nodded his head very quickly. "I do," he assured. "I need to try something. I need a hitter. Just…get in the cages. See how you feel."

xXx

What Peterson didn't know is that I still got in the cages. Even soused I could still poke 'em.

"Good God, Mathews," he said, leaning against the cage. "It's been three years."

"Nah," I said, stepping into my swing as the next ball came outta the machine. I sniffed and got ready for the next one, choking up on the bat, feeling the smooth wood beneath my calloused hands. "Been maybe a week."

He made an interested noise. "I'll see you in the spring, then, Mathews."

Guess it was a done deal.

xXx

"You're playin' again?"

"Sure," I shrugged. Ponyboy was just full of questions. "Team sucks. Need a hitter."

"And you'll be catching again?" Soda asked. I nodded.

"I assume so."

"Whaddya know," Darry breathed, shaking his head while he washed dishes. "We've come full circle."

"Can you get us into games for free?" Pony asked. I smirked at him.

"For you, kid? Anything!"

xXx

Things change on a dime, don't they?

xXx

Something was really, really wrong.

Steve and I were sat at the Curtis' kitchen table, watching Soda pace back and forth while Darry leaned tiredly up against the wall. He was so much more tired than he used to be. I wanted to force him to grab his glove and make his way through a six pack with me, like in the old days. Neither of us could get out of either of them what was going on over the phone, and Ponyboy's absence from this little family meeting was conspicuous. The air in the room was tight; I felt like I couldn't breathe. Steve looked like he was feeling the same way. I think I had my suspicions of what was going on, what was happening at the time, but I was trying doggedly to ignore myself, tried to convince myself that everything was just fine and dandy, even though it clearly wasn't.

"Soda, man, what's goin' on?" Steve asked, more worry injected in his tone than I'd ever heard.

"Yeah, and where's the kid?" I asked. Soda suddenly stopped pacing and put his hands on the table. The room held its breath.

"Um," he squeaked. Soda didn't look as if he knew how to say it; almost like he'd forgotten how to speak English (which I'm pretty sure has happened to him before, as it has to us all). "I got a letter in the mail the other day."

Steve sharply inhaled from beside me, but I didn't look at him. We were all staring at Sodapop. Yeah, no – this was bad. This was really, very bad. He had only just turned eighteen a couple weeks ago, for Christ's sake. Steve and I had driven him over to the draft board to get him his card and his army physical in the helmet Steve's old man wore trekking through Germany and his underwear. We all had a great big laugh. We all thought it was the funniest thing on the damn planet. We all thought that nothing could touch us. We'd always thought that, and lookit what happened to Dallas and Johnny. We weren't untouchable. I thought we'd learned that, but I guess we hadn't. Suddenly, none of this was a joke. This was all very real. It was too real.

"You did, did you?" I asked, my voice barely more coherent than a mumble. I felt like I couldn't speak, for once in my damn life. Sodapop nodded.

"You can prolly guess what it was," he said miserably, his eyes starting to look sort of glassy. Being around people when they're crying always makes me feel sort of embarrassed, like I don't know what to do. I hoped he wouldn't go any further. I wondered what Steve looked like beside me, but I didn't dare look at him. "Um."

"Jesus God." Steve's voice was a whisper. I thought that pretty well summed up the situation.

xXx

"Oh, I love a man in uniform!"

"Hush," I mumbled, but Bee's hands were getting dangerously close to literally every erogenous zone on my body as she smoothed and straightened out the jersey and the pants, making sure the legs were even and showed the same amount of bright yellow sock, so…I wasn't exactly complaining.

"It's sharp!" She chirped, running her hands over my shoulders. "You look like the guys on television that Dad's always watching. You know, I've never thought about it before, but I guess baseball players are kinda cute, huh? Must be the tight pants."

"Bridget!" I grabbed for her, but she just laughed and tried to run away. I just circled my arms around her waist and pulled her back to me. "Nice try, kid." She turned her head to look up at me, and that's when I realized I had her in a very suggestive position.

"The only problem is," she continued, her face turning red from all the blood rushing to it, "is that I won't be able to see your face behind that catcher's mask. Or any of the rest of you, for that matter. They have you boys wearing so much gear."

"Then I guess you should thank God for at-bats," I growled into her ear, and she just squealed again and tried to wriggle out of my grasp.

"Let go!"

"Uncle, Honey Bee!"

"No! I'm not one of your buddies!"

"Oh, fine."

I let up on her, and she started circling me again, looking me up and down, and started to slowly nod her head in approval. Bee squeezed my upper arm. "You've gotten more muscular."

"Hot."

"Mm," she hummed. "Shut up."

"Okay."

"Two-Bit?"

"Yeah."

"Do people really hate the Yankees so much?"

I rolled my eyes. "That's just a stupid play. And shouldn't you know better than I do? You're from there."

"I don't really pay them much attention. Do you hate them?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"They win too much."

"Oh. Who do you like, then?"

"The Dodgers." I didn't tell her that my Old Man was a big Dodger fan himself, that he was from New York, too, just like her but from Brooklyn, that he was on their farm team when they were out there, before they moved to LA. That my Old Man and I had a lot in common, maybe too much in common, and that she should run in the other direction. Save herself.

I looked at myself in her mirror. I felt kinda stupid looking into it because it was all girly and shit, even for a mirror, but where else was I s'posed to look? I don't usually go in for feeling self-conscious or anything, and generally take any opportunity I can to embarrass the fuck out of my buddies and even myself just for a laugh, but this was different. Thought I'd given up on this shit. Fuck hopes and dreams, I'd said. But now here I was, in the same uniform from my freshman year, Kathy replaced with Bridget, things so different but oh-so the same.

"What's on your mind?"

"I look stupid," I lied because if we're being honest, I looked groovy. Bridget sighed and got up on her toes so she could rest her chin on my shoulder, staring back at me through the mirror.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Two-Bit. You're good at this. Don't let go of it just because the school colors are atrocious, okay? Knock 'em dead, pal."

xXx

Here's a newsflash for y'all: Being good at things is a mistake! Because someday, even after a triumphant return, it's just gonna be ripped right outta yer hands.

xXx

"…and Louis steps up to the plate. He's two for three today…"

I wanted this announcer to shut up. For Christ's sakes, people knew what was going on! I needed to fucking focus, needed to think, dammit. This was the one thing I used my brain for, for Pete's sake. I signaled to the pitcher to go a little higher this time because God knows this guy had been poking everything else we'd sent his way. Then I let my mind go blank as the pitch played out, vaguely registering the ball hitting my glove, having caught it without even thinking. I was cruising, sure. The calls were the hard part. The rest of it was just…ya throw the ball, ya hit the ball, ya catch the ball. It was just…fuckin' hot, and I wanted out of all this gear and to get to the plate and end this game and just pass the fuck out and be done with it. Some games are like that.

" – and that's strike three, and we're now heading into the final inning – "

Strike three, ball four, walk around'll tie the score. Thank God. I popped right up and yanked off my mask as I headed into the dugout and started pulling off the rest of my gear, settled my hat back on my ever-thickening head of hair, and shoved some more chew into my jaw. Our pitcher, Hamilton, clapped me on the shoulder. I looked up at him, wishing for a pair of sunglasses to combat this sunshine. Three years later and suddenly everyone's my buddy. Guess my dumbass reputation did me a few favors – everybody loves a clown! (I refused to believe it was all because of Bridget, that I had some street cred of my own with these guys.) "Finally got a good call outta yer dumb ass, Mathews."

I barked a laugh. "Hardy-har. No thanks to you," I bit out, trying to keep the humor in my voice. I'd forgotten how competitive I could get. Thought I'd given all that up for a bad job, but I'd forgotten I could get as bad as Darry. Past couple years, it's only come out in fights and rumbles. Hamilton smirked and flipped me the bird; I returned the favor.

"Gosh" – said the way Goofy would say it, garsh, cuz we're all just a bunch of hillbillies when you get right down to it, no matter how loaded some of these fuckers are – "Gosh, you two, there're ladies present," our resident Bible-thumper, McCoy, chastised. I cocked an eyebrow.

"Where? In the dugout?"

"There's women in the dugout? Hot!" Someone crowed, and I could hear someone else smack him upside the head.

I mean, I guess McCoy was technically right. They just weren't in the dugout; they were out in the stands. He was being overly cautious. I thought of Bee in her cat-eye sunglasses and capris, sitting with Evie because Steve had dragged her along with him, talking and barely paying attention to the game. I thought that neither Bee nor Evie would care; hell, both of them have flipped me off before, and I was sure I had deserved it!

"You know you're hittin' third, Mathews," Hamilton needlessly reminded me.

I flashed him a shit-eating grin. "Yessuh."

"Feelin' loose?"

I popped up off the bench and spit. Nobody cared. I leaned my arms up next to him, looking out at the diamond. "Yeah, man, feelin' good."

"Hope yer right," he drawled. "Want this one wrapped up."

"I'm always right," I said, sure. "Ain't I always right?"

Hamilton just shook his head, but he sighed and said, "You're always right."

"Like Babe – I'mma point where I'm sendin' it."

"You'll look like a real jackass when you don't get it there."

"Watch me."

And boy, was Hamilton ever mad about being wrong about that one, even if we did win.

xXx

Not to get sappy and wax poetic, but – well, I guess that's kind of exactly what I'm doing, but I loved this game in the same way I love Bridget Stevens. It had its ups and downs, its complications. But nothing beat the feeling when April rolled around and I could find a game on any channel or station, and it felt even better when I was still playing. I know I'm not supposed to take any seriously – not my move – but this, this I took very seriously. The one thing. Nothing felt better than sending a ball over the fence, or helping a pitcher to the rare perfect game. Boys of summer, that's what we were. April, May, June, July, August, September. Playing under the lights. Up to my elbows in dust and getting in my eyes. Dugouts full of spit and sunflower seeds and chewing gum. A girl that liked how my ass looked in baseball pants and told me that if this is what I wanted, then I better take that guy up on his offer and go to Oklahoma City. Buddies who said the same, even though I hated to leave them behind, hated that this was the exact sort of thing Darry wanted and he never got, but here I was. But I couldn't say no. I couldn't fucking say no. And I'm glad I didn't, even looking back on it.

But that's what makes me even more bitter about the inevitable happening.

xXx

"How you doin', man?"

My immediate response was that I was doing great. That minor league play was a blast and the guys were better than the ones in high school. That by the end of the season, my hitting was holding steady after a brief slump. That the wallop I'd taken to the head hadn't turned out to be serious. That the last jackass that tried to pull shit with me lost. That my pitcher and I had a great rhythm and could read each other like the back of our hands (but that didn't stop me from missing Darry). That my buddy would be home from 'Nam soon and that my mother and sister were doing well, and that Sadie wrote me letters every chance she got. That Ponyboy would be graduating soon. Everything was great.

But there was one little thing.

Actually, one very big thing.

"You seen yer girl lately?"

Yes – that. I hadn't, and I missed the hell out of her. I was hoping she'd come down in February so I could see her for her birthday, her nineteenth. The big One-Nine. Jesus, she still seemed so young at nineteen, like my being twenty really made me that much more mature. But then I had to remind myself that I'd seen a helluva lot more in my time on the planet than she had, and I wasn't much older than her. Different upbringings; upbringings that were lightyears away from each other, and every shade of different you could think of.

Oh, but man oh man, did that not make one lick of difference. Why'd our center fielder have to bring her up right now, in the middle of the day? Just thinking about her made the pit of my stomach get all warm and feel all funny; missing her made my chest tighten up worse than the stupid chest cold I'd picked up did. (Fuckin' January, man.) And it wasn't just the hangin' and bangin' I was missing, no; it was that just listening to her on the phone or reading her letters wasn't damn near enough. I needed to see her, run my hands through her kinky hair, hear her voice without the static, see that gap between her teeth when she smiled.

Yeah, man – love fuckin' hurts. Wish someone woulda warned me.

"Not lately."

"Ah, rough break, man. Rough break. She's a hottie."

"Yeah, s'pose she is."

xXx

The first time was my fault. The second time was all the draft board's.

xXx

I was waiting to get called up.

Ya know, you'd think some team, somewhere, was waiting for a catcher. Instead, it was the other way around, and I was the one waiting. Waiting for someone to retire, to get hurt. Which is cruel, sure, and made a few dark thoughts cross my mind, but I tried not to dwell on it. The whole thing made me understand how my old man had felt, though, with all this waiting.

This game was all I had.

It was all I'd ever had, the only thing that was my own. I'd tried to explain this to Bee. See, she was a smart woman, gettin' all college-educated, honing her talents. Which was exactly what I was doing, minus the college part. I was never gonna be like her, or Pony, or even Darry or Steve. I wasn't exactly stupid, not completely, but I did the whole high school thing – my own way – and I was done with furthering my education. Period! Full stop! What did they have left to teach me anyways that life wouldn't teach me on its own?

"It's been over a year," she said, confused about the whole thing still. "Aren't you getting sick of waiting?"

What I was gettin' sick of was living in Oklahoma City. I had convinced myself that the Dodgers and Los Angeles needed me. Besides – I figured Bee was getting sick of Oklahoma City, too, and would probably prefer LA. Would probably prefer a boyfriend that was a major leaguer, not a minor leaguer, too. One that actually made a lot of money. I sighed and leaned my forearms on the kitchen table and just looked at her for a moment. She looked cold. I grabbed her hand.

"Baby," I sighed again, weirded out that I'd called her baby. Felt impersonal, almost, by our standards. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

Bee gave me a small, sympathetic smile. "I figured. Maybe you should just…I don't know, maybe it just isn't working out? You could find steady work, move back to Tulsa, and then come up with me to New York when I finish school. Or…you could come to New York with me now…"

"No," I said quickly, shaking my head. "No, I can't. Not yet."

"And why not? Keith." Whenever she used my name, my real name, in that soft, honeysuckle voice of hers, man, I just about melted. And to think I didn't even like my real name. "Keith, I miss you." She was about to start crying, I could tell. "And I don't want to stop you from doing what you love, but I also don't want what each of us is doing to tear us apart. We've fought too hard for that to happen. I couldn't bear to let that happen. I love you," she whispered.

"I know," I whispered back. "God, kid, I know. I, uh. Um. Shit - "

"I know," she nodded. "I know." I was glad she did, because for whatever reason, sometimes it was hard for me to say. Not because I didn't love her because shit, I did. It's just…it's just hard sometimes. "We'll figure it out."

As it turns out, the United States government figured it out for us.

xXx

The team was put up in a boarding house in OKC, but Oklahoma City was only about an hour and a half-ish southwest of Tulsa, so I was up there often enough. I headed up right before season started up again, figured I'd go see the guys. Stay a night with Mom and Sadie, check in on them, make sure things were okay. Sadie still seemed like such a little kid…not even in high school yet. And I sometimes felt like I had abandoned her.

But hey – we still had the same permanent address!

Which was exactly the problem, as it turned out.

Mom had told me distractedly one morning, "Keith, honey, go get the mail," while she worked out my sister's hair. So I loped out the door, down the porch steps and the front walk to the mailbox. I could see Steve and Soda making their way down from the Curtis's, yelled out a "Hey!" and got them to notice and wave back. Sodapop was looking better, and we were all glad as hell to have him back stateside. Steve looked the same as always – cranky. We wouldn't have 'im any other way.

"Hey, Two-Bit." Soda chucked me in the arm. "Mail call?"

"Yessir," I drawled, absently flipping through the stack. Bills, mostly.

"Whatta ya say we go get lunch, then y'all come help me find that part I've been lookin' for?" Steve offered. I nodded distractedly as I listened to him and Soda talk back and forth. Then I saw something that made my heart jump up into my throat.

"Two-Bit, you game?"

Game? Game for what? The only game I could think of at the moment was the one I automatically knew I was about to leave behind. Everything was eerily quiet.

"Two-Bit?" Steve repeated.

"You hearin' us, man?"

I was, but it wasn't easy over the thrum of blood rushing through my ears. I breathed in sharply and kept flipping through the mail, casually as I could, through bills and mailers and coupon books, and yes, yes, yes, fuck me to hell goddammit Jesus H. Christ this was coming all the time and God I know I haven't always been a good guy but are you kidding me are you serious are you really fucking kidding me are you really doing this to me? It was that thick cardstock, that thick envelope, the one I'd seen twice already, and I felt like throwing up.

"…Two-Bit?" Soda ventured again, the sound his voice seeming like it was traveling through molasses.

I had a feeling he already knew what was the matter. I smirked sardonically at the two of them and ripped the envelope open, their eyes widening and the color leaving their faces and now nobody wanted to go out anymore, and I thought of my mother and my sister and Bee Goddamn Stevens and the Curtis Brothers and Steve Randle and LBJ and Richard Nixon and how the Brooklyn Dodgers became the Los Angeles Dodgers, and maybe if they hadn't made that move, enough cosmic tumblers would have fallen into place to keep this from happening. It looked to me as if I wasn't gonna be a dodger in either sense of the word. I sighed and pulled out the letter, already knowing what it said.

Game over.

XXXXX

AN: There's a Bull Durham reference in there. Because this story wouldn't be complete without one. For those curious, Two-Bit plays for the Oklahoma City Dodgers, and in the sixties that was the farm team that fed into the LA Dodgers.

Thanks for reading!