May 15th, 11:15 PM: Brian's apartment.

Brian slammed the door behind him. Stacy perked up from the couch. "I watched the game on TV. What's the word?

Brian tossed the crumpled official notice of trade at her and kept walking without a word. It wasn't so much the fact that he was traded to the Yankees, but that he had already had several "disputes" with their management. This was going to be FUN.

May 17th, 2005, 4:30 PM: Top of the Empire State Building.

Brian stared longingly out towards Queens. There was Shea Stadium, right there. That's where he wanted to play. His life's dream. Then he turned to the Bronx, with Yankees Stadium sitting near the sewer of the Harlem River. That was the anti-thesis of his life's dream. Tomorrow, he would be wearing navy-blue pinstripes, not royal blue as he wished. He took out his trade notice and tossed it off the building. Oh well. Whichever way he put it, he was making his major league debut tomorrow. He'd much rather that he would do it several miles away, but whatever. That's the way the cookie crumbles.

May 18th, 2005, 5:00 PM: Yankees clubhouse.

Brian treaded carefully. It wasn't so much that he was scared of the fact that he was going to debut in one of the most pressure-packed media markets ever, but he wanted to avoid drawing any negative attention from Gary Sheffield. Man, that guy is scary. Brian slinked through and was in the locker room getting his stuff ready when a voice almost caused him to jump through the ceiling.

"HEY!"

Brian turned around nervously to see the 6'0", 215 lb frame of Gary Sheffield glaring right at him.

"h-h-h-h-hello?"

"Are you that new pitcher guy?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You look more like a bat-boy. You were a lot bigger on TV."

"So are you."

Gary's expression suddenly softened a bit and he offered his hand. "I'm sure you know me, so no introductions are needed. A-Rod and Jeter are off doing god-knows-what somewhere, so you'll have to wait to meet them."

"That's ok, I'm not exactly a fan of them."

"Why's that?"

Brian cautiously looked around the clubhouse, motioned Gary to move closer, and dug a little bit into his bag to reveal a Mets t-shirt.

"Ooooh. I see now. Then you shouldn't have any problems with that guy over there."

Gary pointed over Brian's head. He looked over, saw Al Leiter, and almost squealed. He quickly regained his composure.

"Uh, yeah," was the only thing he could manage to say. Gary chuckled, and then his cell phone rang. He checked it.

"----ing hell," he picked it up, "I told you I didn't want to be ----ing interviewed by you! No! I won't! You ----ing moron! The next time you call, imma twist your ----ing neck, you ----head!"

Brian shrunk into his locker a bit when Gary hung up and turned around.

"What?"

May 18th, 6:30 PM: Yankees Stadium.

The crowd was roaring, the cameras were rolling, the people at home were watching, and the analysts were chattering away. Yet, Brian couldn't shrug off the feeling that it was all wrong. He looked up into the owner's box to see nobody. Usually Steinbrenner's glowering eye took in all that happened at Yankees Stadium. Perhaps he was off meeting with the Boss.

Brian's first pitch was a knuckleball. It was a strike, but it still sailed by Posada, who didn't seem to have much experience with the knuckler, much less one that twisted as much as Brian's. Six innings and 10 K's later, it didn't amount to diddly squat as the Yankees and Devil Rays were mired in a 1-1 tie. Brian checked the man on second and threw a curveball ----! It got away from him... It's a sitting duck - wait, no, now it's a meteor into the upper deck right field. 3-1 Devil Rays. Brian's head sank and he stared at the ground. Lovely. After the inning was over, Brian whipped his glove into the dugout as he sauntered in.

9th inning. Brian had taken his licks and for whatever reason was still in the game, despite a tie game, 3-3. He checked the man on second, and as a thought came to mind he stepped off the rubber. This is the exact same situation he faced in the 7th inning. Shaking the feeling of deja vu from his head, Brian threw a curveball - god DAMN, he hung this one too... It's a sitting duck! A BIG SWING! whoa nelly! The breeze! Brian whipped around to see the scorched ball. Where was it? He couldn't see it! The crowd went wild, and confused, Brian turned around to see Posada holding the ball. Strikeout! Brian about melted on the mound, then stumbled over to the dugout.

Bottom of the 9th, now. How long would this game last? Gary Sheffield provided the answer. First pitch on the inning. KABOOM! You could hear the seams tearing off the ball as it rocketed into the night air to end the game. Brian had won his major league debut with a CG and 13 K's. Good stuff, good stuff.

May 26th, 4:00 PM: Brian's house.

Ever since Brian had ended up on the Yankees, the attacks on him had ceased. So it was that with grand occasion he celebrated his birthday. The details are not important. Let it just be known that much fun was had. Much. Nyahahahaha.

May 27th, 8:00 PM: Fenway Park.

Bottom of the 6th. Brian was pitching in another of baseball's "cathedrals", Fenway Park. Understandably, him being a Yankees player of high caliber, he was not welcomed warmly by the Red Sox Nation. He walked out onto the mound to boos and hisses. It's amazing how loud that park could get despite being so small. But the man who was walking up to the dish drew exactly the opposite reaction. He lumbered to the left side of the plate and dug in.

The Fenway PA system boomed, "Now batting: the designated hitter, David Ortiz."

Brian glared at Posada for the sign. Fastball inside. Alright. Brian set himself, wound and let go. But he held on to the ball just a tad too long... THUNK! Beanball. Whoopsie doodles. Oh well, no biggy. The Yanks were up 7-1, there was no urgency.

But Ortiz didn't like it. He started tossing some words Brian's way. Brian, being a little hot-headed himself, gave him some choice words back. Ortiz stopped on his way to first, and he and Brian exchanged a glare.

Then Ortiz charged.

Brian wasn't gonna take no guff. The instant Ortiz started for the mound, Brian tossed off his glove and charged right back. The two met in an earth-shaking collision that saw the smaller Brian using momentum to grapple Ortiz to the ground. Having laid out Ortiz, Brian got up and looked up to see a flurry of dreadlocks approaching - Manny.

Brian was so settled in his role as a Yankee that without even thinking, he raised his fist and clocked him in the face. Manny stumbled back, hand on his cheek and an expression of horror in his face, and the two teams converged on the pitcher's mound.

This time, without the threat of stabbity death befalling a pitching coach, Brian was dealing out pain to all who wanted it. He didn't even know whose head he was bashing when he was blindsided. Rolling back into an upright position, Brian looked up to meet eyes with Johnny Damon. He lunged and the two locked horns in a test of strength. Now, Brian may be a short fat white guy, but he has afterburners that kick in when he needs them. Having stayed Damon's hand, Brian broke loose his right hand and hooked him in the gut. Damon stumbled back.

The brawl had steadily moved over towards the vistor's dugout, and Jeter and Bellhorn were even having a little exchange of words inside said dugout. At this point Brian and Nixon were toe-to-toe. A punch here, a knee there, and Brian shoved Nixon away in a second wind.

Nixon took one or two steps before arms appeared around his neck and knees. Then he was lifted off the ground. It was Gary, carrying Nixon in a reverse-fireman's carry. Appearing to be inspired slightly by professional wrestling, Gary yelled out as loud as he could and the veins in his neck bulged. He spun the helpless Nixon about before tossing him head-over-shoulders into the stands. Brian's eyes widened. As Gary admired his accomplishment, Ortiz came over and tossed Gary into the stands for good measure, and fans swarmed him.

Brian may be a Mets fan, but he still stands up for his teammates, even if they are on a team he hates. Brian lept into the stands and beat back some drunk fools that were trying to club Sheffield. But not everybody was drunk. One man who seemed to have his wits about him snuck up and whapped Shef in the back of the head with a souvenier bat. Upon witnessing this, various Yankees dropped the conflicts with their respective Red Sox combatants and jumped into the stands. T'was a barnburner.

After three more minutes of pure melee, security finally managed to intervene and apprehend those fans responsible for exacerbating the situation. Brian climbed back onto the field and sat down on the pitcher's mound. He felt his right temple and brought his hand back to see blood.

"That was some crazy ----," Brian thought out-loud half to himself.

"That's a bit of an understatement," Torre chimed in, who happened to be standing nearby. "I'll be damned if this isn't the worst sports fight in modern history. Worse than Detroit."

"What about soccer riots?" Brian asked.

"Soccer?"

"Never mind."

Selig himself personally handed down the order for the game to be called.

So, the Yankees won a riot-shortened game by the score of 7-1. Sports analysts would have a field day with this one.

May 28th, 6:40 AM: Brian's house.

Something compelled Brian to wake up. He woke with a start, and noticed a piece of paper falling off his chest.

"Your life is in danger again. Beware of the player 'Jari Afinogenov' on the Devil Rays in the June 1-3 series. He is an agent of the Organisation. - MP and CF"

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June 1st, 1:00 PM: LaGuardia International Airport.

After a little breakfast in bed with Stacy (take that for what you will) Brian hoofed it over to LaGuardia to board the team flight to Tampa to take on the D-Rays in combat. On the 2nd, he would be pitching. He took out the note he found on his chest four days ago. Jari Afinogenov, eh. Not every day a Ruskie tries to play baseball. Couldn't they have made it a little less obvious? The flight there was uneventful. I guess during this whole thing they never thought to sabatoge the jets.

June 1st, 6:30 PM: Tropicana Field.

Brian sat in the dugout wearing his cute little pitcher's jacket. Game time was on. Pitching today would be Mike Mussina. The leadoff hitter was the man of the hour - Jari Afinogenov. Coming up to the box, Brian caught him sneaking furtive glances into the Yankees' dugout. They REALLY couldn't have trained this guy better?

It was a non-game, Yankees winning 11-0.

June 2nd, 4:15 PM: Tropicana parking lot.

Brian parked his rental car, made sure it was locked, then hoisted his bag over his shoulder and started trotting to the Diaper Bowl, as the locals tended to call Tropicana. A familiar voice called out to him.

"BRIAN! Over here!"

Brian looked in the direction of the voice, dropped his bags, and gaped. It was Mrs. Mac, his chemistry teacher from junior year of high school.

"What the - how the -"

"I know what you're thinking. I have a summer home down here."

"Well, that explains my first question. Why are you here?"

"The commercials for the game advertised you playing, so I figured I'd see the game and watch you pitch. I got good tickets, too. Only a couple rows behind home plate."

"Uh, thanks..."

A few more pleasantries and they were on their merry ways.

----, Brian thought to himself. If stuff starts to pop off tonight at Trop, she's going to witness it firsthand. He walked into the stadium, got changed into his BP uniform and walked on field - and nearly died at who he saw.

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June 2nd, 4:20 (LOL) PM: Tropicana Field.

"DENTON!"

The 7'0" frame of Denton was unmistakable. Denton turned around and gave the "homie nod". Brian ran up and they started talking.

"How the hell did you end up here?"

"After you were traded, I threw a hissy fit and started to hold out for an obscene amount of money, so they dumped me off to Tampa, after which I stopped my hold out."

"That's a good way to get traded."

"It worked."

As the conversation turned, Brian began to feel dirty on the inside. Here one of his friends was playing for a franchise that was going nowhere fast, and he's on one of the storied franchises of the MLB. It wasn't right. Soon team drills started, Denton and Brian said their goodbyes and rushed off to their respective sides.

Gary noticed the somber manner of Brian and decided to interject. He is, after all, the leader of this team.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Eh, I just don't feel too good right now."

"Why's that?"

"You see that really big guy over there? The tall thin one?"

"How could I NOT see him?"

"Well, he's my friend. We played together on the Royal's farm system all the way up through Triple A. It just doesn't feel right that I end up playing for the Yankees and he ends up playing in the Diaper Pail."

"Uh, well... I'm not too good at the psychological stuff."

"Meh, that's ok. I'll get over it."

June 2nd, 5:45 PM: Game time Tropicana.

The leadoff hitter was Denton. Brian tried not to vary his routine: a staredown, wind-up, pitch. After getting the count to 0-2, Brian went with his money pitch, the knuckler. Denton waited patiently then ROCKETED the ball down right field, denting the wall near the foul line, and chugged merrily along to 2nd base.

Next stepped - oh boy! Afinogenov. Now Brian had to contend with a potential attacker at home and a thief on 2nd. First pitch was fastball, however slow it might be, Jari whiffed on it. Brian checked Denton on 2nd. Alrighty. BIG curveball - and Denton's stealing third! Posada rocketed to third, but A-Rod fumbles it and the ball rolls away. Denton continues to home plate as A-Rod tossed to home. Posada gets it, and goes to apply the tag - but Denton ain't there! Denton had lept into the air and was soaring over Posada, landing on his hands and rolling over home plate to be called safe. The 100 fans in the Diaper Pail went wild at this Top Ten play.

Next pitch was a rare slider from Brian, slammed right up the middle only to be picked off by Brian hisself.

8th inning and Brian was leaning on the dugout fence, poised to take the loss 1-0. Denton had really made a psychological impact with his Superman impersonation to deflate the Yankees' spirits, it seemed. Jari came up to bat. A swing and a miss - DUCK! He let go of the bat!

Brian dove for his life as the lumber flew into the dugout and clocked the assistant trainer in the head. The game was delayed as he recieved medical attention and was transported away. Brian got back up and glanced at Jari. Nice try, he thought.

Sadly, Brian did take the loss, 1-0. Going back to his hotel room, Brian spotted Jari in the lobby. Jari did the same with Brian. Brian saw Jari pull something out of his jacket and dove for his life again.

A gunshot sounded.

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June 2nd, 9:10 PM: Generic Tampa Bay hotel.

After the gunshot rang out, a woman screamed and mass chaos ensued. In the confusion, Brian slipped out and skidded to a stop in front of his car. He unlocked it, jumped in, and floored it out of the parking lot, the little Ford Fiesta making its tires squeal. He turned hard onto the street, bringing the car onto two wheels before he counter-steered and caused it to crash back down.

Strangely, the streets were relatively empty. Hmmm... What could be made of this? Brian didn't have much time to think as he was flanked by jet-black sedans on either side of him. Deja-vu all over again. A man leaned out the front-passenger door of the left car and produced a P90. Brian's eyes went wide at the sight. A P90 could shred a puny little car such as his with little effort. Hell, Solidus destroyed several Metal Gears with one clip. Brian prepared for the end. Suddenly, there was an explosion of blood and the man, now headless, slumped and fell out of the car. Brian could see the driver looking in shock at where his partner just was.

Looking back, Brian saw another orange-and-blue sedan, which he remembered from the battle on the Omaha freeway. A tall black man was standing out of the sunroof, toting a PSG-1. Good stuff, I say. Brian's momentary feeling of relief was quickly dissipated when an attack helicopter flew overhead and turned around to face him. The black sedans backed off as the helicopter steadied its crosshairs. Two missles were let go to fly. In a desperate move, Brian swerved the car to the left. The missiles whizzed by, but the Fiesta was getting quite tippy...

CF noticed Brian's car swerving on the road. Hope he can hold it... ----. The Fiesta finally went arse over head and rolled over violently multiple times before depositing itself in a newspaper stand, upside down. He told MP to stop the car and jumped out, pulling the unconscious Brian from the wreckage and tossed him in the backseat. As he got back into his front seat, he heard helicopter rotors. The copter was coming up behind him again.

"----! The chopper's found us again! Do we have anything to take it down?"

MP took a look at the car's radar. "Yes we do. Just calm down. It'll be handled."

A sonic boom shook the earth, and a shower of glass rained down on the streets as windows all around the city shattered. The helicopter pilot looked all around, baffled at this phenomena. Suddenly, he was standing at the Pearly Gates.

CF looked back to see the flowering explosion, and the fighter jet that zoomed through it. It climbed in altitude going straight up before coming back down and going down the other way.

"DW here," the radio crackled. "I don't see anything else - holy ----! They must have gotten wind of us, MP, because they're deploying jets too!"

MP grimaced. "You can handle 'em for a couple of minutes while we get back to base to try and provide backup."

Brian sat up in the back, still groggy from the whoopsy-doodles he had with the car earlier.

MP turned around, "ah, you're awake. Can you fly a fighter jet?"

Brian gave him a dazed and confused look in return.