Coach Finstock's pregame speeches are always interesting at best. Stiles is pretty sure he spends the time that he should use to come up with strategies and batting orders to perfect the insults he's going to throw at them.
Stiles has heard enough of them that he can usually predict what's coming next. Coach is awfully predictable and borderline painfully unoriginal. Maybe that's one of the million reasons they've only won a handful of games.
"And for the love of fuck, Greenberg. Next time the ball comes your way, try to act like you at least know what you're doing. Catching the damn thing would be preferred, but I guess you all have no intention of keeping the other team from sweeping you away. In fact, why don't the three of you outfielders have a damn tea party out there? You'd probably accomplish more than you do now. My grandmother could probably play better than the three of you combined, and my grandmother's been dead for ten years. Do you think you could play better than my rotting corpse of a grandmother?"
Stiles assumes he's gotten the gist of all Finstock's got to say. Since he's only a pinch hitter – a job that he only gets to do if Jackson's decided there's no chance he's getting lucky with Lydia on any given night – insults are rarely directed at him.
He's one of the tallest guys on the team, but it's easy enough to duck his head and pretend to go help the athletic trainer – a man who's been around for practically forever named Deaton – fill up water bottles. If Finstock ever notices, he probably assumes it's what Stiles is being paid to do.
And once he's out of Finstock's firing range, it's easy enough to pop in his headphones and jam out to the Spice Girls until the game starts. They do a better job getting him in the mood than Finstock's very vivid – though very repetitive and unoriginal – insults.
And by getting him in the mood, he of course means in the mood to run as fast as he can on the off chance he gets to play.
Yo, I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want. So tell me what you want, what you really really want.
"Who is this kid and what is he doing in our dugout? For the love of Christ, if this is one of your friends, I swear to God, Matt…"
So maybe Stiles was just singing that out loud.
Today is not going to be his day.
Since Stiles doesn't ever get the chance to play, he ends up memorizing a lot of Spice Girls lyrics and getting to know their team dynamic way better than any of the players – at least he tells himself that. It makes him feel more important, since being a pinch hitter on a minor league team isn't exactly an ego boost.
They've got a really great pitcher/catcher duo: Jackson and Danny. The two of them have been best friends since they brought their high school baseball team to state four consecutive years in a row – something none of their current team is ever going to be allowed to forget – and have some kind of creepy telepathy with each other that Stiles isn't sure he wants to understand.
The problem comes when Jackson doesn't manage to strike out the other team's batter – something that happens a lot, since he's constantly ogling Lydia, who always has to sit right behind home plate in sinfully low cut shirts.
Not that Stiles is complaining. He gets a pretty good view from the dugout too.
But the thing is that Finstock can't decide which of his infielders he likes best at which base – Scott, Isaac, or Boyd – since they're in different positions every game, and since they've got completely different ways of playing, it throws the entire team off.
Boyd's hesitant and stays glued right to the base even if the ball is two damn feet away. Not a problem, as long as Jackson, Danny, and Derek make sure to cover extra territory. Isaac can't catch unless the ball's gently tossed to him, but he's got a great arm – not so great for hits that make it to the outfield and get thrown in quickly, but perfect for making double plays. And Scott's just so damn inconsistent that Stiles is at just as much of a loss as Finstock over what to do with him.
Derek Hale – yes, the nephew of the hotshot racecar driver and brother of the Playboy model – is their shortstop. When he's up to bat, he's terrifying, and he's leading their team for home runs. Yet the second he gets out on the field, it's like he becomes allergic to leadership and won't take charge.
Then there's their train wreck of an outfield. As Finstock's earlier sermon suggested, Stiles isn't sure Greenberg even grasps the concept of baseball, and Matt's too busy flirting with – creeping on – their left fielder to be any real help.
They have a couple of relief pitchers for their bullpen, but the second Jackson gets pulled out, their entire team goes to shit. Once Finstock even tried putting Stiles in – the score was 22 to 3; it wasn't as if things could get any worse – and immediately regretted it. Pitching takes patience – something Stiles most definitely doesn't have the slightest trace of.
The Beacon Hills Timber Wolves are basically the laughingstock of minor league baseball.
Today they're playing a team that's not much better than them, so Stiles watches with a slight interest, though he doesn't take the ear buds out. They've already lost the first two games anyway, so it's probably a hopeless cause.
Finstock's got Boyd on first, Isaac on second, and Scott on third – probably the worst possible combination, since they've already botched half a dozen easy plays, and Derek looks about ready to throw the ball at Isaac's face the next time he drops it.
But then again, Derek looks perpetually angry. Seriously, he doesn't even break a grin when they win, though his lips twitched once when Jackson got nailed with a ball in a place that had him singing soprano in the locker room showers for a few days.
Jackson's having an off day – it's only the bottom of the fourth and they're already down four to one, and the other team still is up to bat. Stiles sighs, relaxing back against the bench and turning up the volume of his music, wondering if he can get away with a quick nap.
He shuts his eyes for only a moment, and that's when the shouting starts.
"What do you mean Kirkpatrick's on the ground? Well, tell him to get his ass up. Rotator's cuff – my God. Back when I played, we worked through this shit!" Finstock yells, waving a clipboard – something Stiles is pretty sure he carries for the sole purpose of breaking over one of his infielder's heads if they're having a particularly awful day – in the air at Deaton.
"I'm going to go out there and get him off the field, sir, but you're going to have to find a replacement," Deaton explains calmly, already gesturing for a few of the pitchers to follow him out in case their left fielder needs to be carried off.
"God damn – fucking replacement…don't have the budget to have a fourth outfielder just sitting around for when the ones we've got wimp out," Finstock says under his breath, the veins in his neck bulging as he looks around the dugout with rabid eyes.
Carefully, Stiles turns down the Spice Girls and removes the ear buds just in case he's asked a question. Which of course he is, though it's not the one he expects.
"Bilinski! You think you can catch a fucking ball?"
"I, uh…"
"Can you throw it back in if it comes at you?"
"Well, um…"
"Great. Ass on the field. Now!"
That's how Stiles ends up in left field with Matt eye fucking him. The creepy center fielder really should at least try to play attention, instead of remaining oblivious as ball after ball flies over his head – apparently Lydia's being pretty damn distracting, because Jackson's pitching homers left and right.
Danny must finally be able to get Jackson's attention back to the game – that, or they're at the bottom of their lineup and their pitcher sucks ass – because a ball's lobbed into left field, and for a second Stiles is too shocked to do anything before his brain starts working again.
Hey. Ball. Maybe I should get that.
I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want. So-
I need to put new music on my iPod. I hear Katy Perry's pretty good.
Hey, Stiles. Ball. Focus.
If there's a god of baseball, he's watching out for Stiles, because the ball rolls right into his glove, and he even remembers to put his other hand down to make sure it doesn't run up his arm and sock his jaw – not like that's ever happened before.
And then Stiles has this little white ball in his hand, smudged ever so slightly from its trek through the grass. He read somewhere that the average baseball's life is only four pitches before it gets tossed out – either to be signed and sold or donated to some rundown school for kids to play with.
"Idiot! Throw me the fucking ball!" Derek yells. He's practically pushed Scott off of third and is holding out his glove expectantly. The runner's not even hustling, obviously confident that he'll make it with plenty of time.
And to be honest, that kind of pisses Stiles off. When he's out there running for Jackson, he runs his fucking hardest, even when he knows there's no way they're going to throw the ball in fast enough to get him out. It's not even some cliché complex about wanting to constantly give one hundred percent and anything less isn't good enough.
He just really likes showing off how fast he is when he gets the rare chance.
Stiles chucks the damn ball as hard as he can, purposefully aiming low so it'll bounce once before reaching Derek's glove, because he accepts that he's not the strongest guy on the team, and there's no way he could toss it through the air that far.
To his surprise, the ball actually makes it into Derek's glove a second before the runner makes it to the base. Since no one's behind him, the runner's allowed to turn around and try to make it back to second, but he's so close that it's easy enough for Derek to reach out and tag him.
Easy out, and it just so happens to be the third out.
He hustles back to the dugout, but only because the threat of Matt running over and grabbing his arm and pulling him back to reality is repulsive enough to shake him out of his victorious daze. Because really, it's one fucking out in a game that's now not even close. It shouldn't matter, especially since he'll probably get pulled out soon enough.
But when they get back to the dugout, Deaton announces that Kirkpatrick's probably going to need surgery, and there's a good chance he'll be out for the rest of the season. He's sitting on the bench with ice on his shoulder, listening to Stiles' iPod and looking pretty damn content.
Stiles is pretty sure that after putting up with Matt for that long, he'd break his own arm too. He decides not to mention the iPod, but makes a note to ask Greenberg to please for the love of God switch positions with Matt if his position in left field becomes permanent.
He rips his attention away from Kirkpatrick back to the latest team argument taking place in the dugout. These are always good. He's pretty sure that if he doesn't go pro, he can go into the film business and make a comedy off of the shit he hears.
"Seriously, Jackson. Are you catching what I'm throwing here?"
"Danny, I'm not going to catch anything you throw."
"You're not even my fucking type!"
"I'm everyone's type."
"Christ, Derek. You're up. Just go hit the damn ball."
Stiles settles down on the bench between Scott and Isaac. He wonders if he's going to be expected to hit for Kirkpatrick, but doesn't exactly want to ask Finstock when it looks like he's one snarky comment away from losing it and brutally murdering them all.
"I could have caught the fucking ball," Scott grumbles, playing with the frayed ends of his glove as Stiles mentally runs through Finstock's latest lineup – Derek, then Danny, and then their injured friend who's currently jamming to the Spice Girls.
"I know, dude. Derek's just a ball hog," Stiles agrees with a shrug, watching as the man gets up to bat.
Apparently Derek heard him, because he shoots a glare at Stiles. "I'm a what?" he demands, getting into position next to home plate.
"The pitch, dude. Watch the fucking pitch," Jackson groans, tugging at hair.
"You're one to talk," Danny shoots back, rolling his eyes and jerking his head at Lydia.
"Strike!"
"What did you call me?" Derek yells back at Stiles, who pretends not to hear.
"He called you an incredibly talented hitter who needs to make contact with the ball next time it crosses over the plate," Jackson calls back. Stiles isn't sure why he's trying so hard – they're down by ten mostly due to his awful pitching.
"Derek, can you just drop it and hit the goddamn ball?" Danny pleads, completely forgoing warming up as he twirls his bat between his hands in the batter's box.
"No, I want to know what he fucking-"
"Strike!"
"Can you at least try to swing, man?" Jackson says, shooting a glare at Stiles, as if this is all his fault.
Technically, it kind of is, though if they really think about it, it's Scott's for being so damn inconsistent in the first place. Or maybe Derek's for having trust issues. Stiles doesn't think he's going to want to hear this, though.
"Ball hog!" Stiles yells back, deciding he'll take one for the team.
Derek just rolls his eyes in response, swinging the bat across the plate just in time to make contact with the ball, sending it flying deep into center field. It's a few feet shy of a homer, and the center fielder completely misjudges its drop, allowing Derek to take off and make it to second.
Danny's up next, but Stiles doesn't even watch him go up to bat, though he prays it won't be a quick hit. Since he rarely gets to play – and he plays for the worst minor league baseball team – he doesn't get to keep a bat in the cage, so he's left to awkwardly sift through the others and find something that'll work.
Maybe if he makes it through this game, Finstock will decide to make him a permanent part of their lineup, and he'll actually get a place for his bat. It's a nice thought that makes him feel kind of warm and fuzzy on the inside.
"Bilinski! Put a bat in your fucking hand and get out there!"
And just like that, the warm fuzzy feeling is gone as Stiles realizes he hasn't even looked at the bats hanging up, and Danny's already made it to first while Derek is glaring from second.
The announcer's booth is located a few levels above but directly behind home plate, so when it's not too noisy – since these games don't get too heated, it never is – it's possible to hear the commentary that gets broadcasted to the local radio stations. Stiles quickly grabs a lightweight metal bat and pads over to home plate, catching the end of the quick recap.
"…Hale on second from a double and Mahealani on first. Up to bat we have Stiles Stilinski, a pinch hitter covering left field for an injured player. Stilinski is six foot two, 150, bats left and throws right. We haven't seen much of him this season, so it'll be interesting to see how long he sticks around."
Jesus fucking Christ, Jeff. Way to make me sound great. I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want, yes I will. I really want-
"-and here's the pitch."
Stiles jerks his head back a second too late and jumps back just in time to avoid being nailed by a wild pitch. Honestly, he gets that he's the only lefty on the team, but how hard is it to aim for the catcher's glove?
Nerves significantly rattled, he drowns out Jeff's commentary and gives his full attention to the pitcher. Since he's managed to land a spot as a pinch hitter on a minor league team, it goes without saying that he's better than the average guy on the street, but his problem is that besides the pitches that he completely zones out during, he has a tendency to swing at everything.
But with a fucking wingspan that easily tops anyone on the team, he also has a tendency to hit the ball more times than not.
The next pitch is so slow that it's painfully obvious it's going to fall short. The temptation to overstep and nail it is overwhelming, but with two balls, there's a good chance he might end up getting walked, which would result in the bases being loaded.
Two balls, no strikes. Stiles can do this.
The funny thing is that even though baseball's a team sport, when you're up to bat, there's no one to support you. Yeah, it sure helps when you look out to the bases and see your teammates actually smiling – they're not, but then again, it's been established that Derek only smiles at other people's pain, and Isaac looks like he's ready to puke – but their enthusiasm really can't do anything.
You just have to hit the fucking ball and run as fast as you can.
Maybe Stiles should turn up the volume on his iPod louder when Finstock starts talking. His mental pep talks are slowly becoming more and more stupid and degrading.
He swings at the next pitch a second too late and nicks the ball into foul territory.
Okay, maybe Stiles just needs to get his head in the game. He can do this. No Spice Girls. No worrying about Jeff's commentary. No mental pep talks. No fantasizing about just how nice Derek looks when he-
"Strike!"
Stiles really needs to quit selling his Adderall for rent money and actually take the damn stuff.
It takes effort, but he manages to focus on the pitcher, ignoring the way Finstock is cursing him out in the dugout and Jeff's going on about how it looks like the Timber Wolves will be looking for another outfielder if he doesn't get hit this.
Stiles doesn't have some cheesy moment where it feels like time slows down as the ball leaves the pitcher's hand, but he does feel as though he's got plenty of time to lean back, shifting his weight forward as he takes a small step, following through with his bat and nailing the ball just as it passes over home plate.
Not even looking where the ball goes – it's one the advantages of being the batter, not having to worry about doubling back if the ball's caught – Stiles tosses his bat aside and takes off as fast as he can, even though Derek will likely be the out they go for.
When he's a few feet away from first, Stiles looks out of the corner of his eye to see Derek slowing down as he approaches third. Following his lead, Stiles runs through first, turning around a few feet later and walking back.
There's no huge screen where everything gets replayed – it probably wouldn't anyway, since no outs were made – but Erica, their first base coach, walks up to him, resting a hand on his hip and pulling him close.
He doesn't know what it is, but base coaches always have this hard time understanding the concept of personal space. Seriously, he's surprised Erica's hand's on his hip instead of his ass.
"Nice line drive," she praises as Scott gets up to bat. "Lucky it got past the guy at third or Derek would be giving you hell later for-"
"Pretty sure he's already gonna give me hell. Can you just do your job and coach me?"
"Jesus, fine. No outs. Don't lead off too far – there's no point since you can't exactly steal. If it looks like it's going to be caught, don't run too far," Erica says, and though Stiles doesn't turn to look at her, he's pretty sure she's rolling her eyes and giving him common sense advice on purpose.
Stiles leads off a bit as Erica steps back, smirking as the pitcher looks back to give him a warning look. This guy's got a wild arm – if Isaac wasn't in front of him, he'd consider making a run for it, but as things stand, he takes a small step towards first and the pitcher looks back to Scott.
Scott's far from the fastest guy on the team, and he's not as ripped as Derek – no one even comes close – but he's always loved baseball, so when his parents split, his dad thought he could buy his love with batting lessons from a retired major leaguer.
And while he definitely didn't buy Scott's love, his son became one hell of a batter – enough that the Timber Wolves overlooked his terrible record in the outfield to get him on their team.
"Come on, Scott. You've got this!" Stiles yells, earning himself a dirty look from Finstock back in the dugout, who's waving around two halves of a broken clipboard. Stiles wonders who the unlucky player was this time.
Scott really is a good player, but he works himself up to the point where he can't even throw a damn ball his muscles are so tight. And since the bases are loaded, there's added pressure, because unless he hits deep into the outfield, it's fairly easy for the team to get an out at any base.
Stiles watches as Scott readjusts his gloves, stepping up to the plate and making eye contact with the pitcher, tensing but not swinging when the first ball comes through – proof that he has some natural talent, since the ball was just barely off the edge of the plate.
That, or he was too goddamn locked up to even swing at the ball. Stiles, ever the optimist, likes to think that it's the former.
Scott hits the next ball foul, and Stiles wishes he was in the dugout so he could yell to him to quit worrying about it and just focus on the next pitch.
Which comes a moment later, and Scott nails it, hitting it high over the infield.
"Don't drop, don't drop," Stiles says under his breath, inching off the base and urging Isaac to do the same as the ball heads towards right field. He breathes a little sigh of relief when it goes into the nearly empty stands, making a casual jog around the bases and turning around after making it home to high five Scott.
The grand slam only brings their score to a measly five to the other team's eleven, but it's the top of the fifth, and they don't have any outs. Jackson's up to bat, and then they're back to the top of the order.
Optimistically, they could come out to win this.
Realistically, it looks like Derek's about ready to kill him for the comment he made about being a ball hog.
And sadly he's pretty sure there's no sexual innuendo in that statement, though it would easily make this the best day of his life if there was.