Despairingly, Michael stared down at the four ticket stubs in his hand.
"All I'm sayin'," he grumbled, "is that if I'd known they were gonna pay us with baseball tickets, I woulda said 'no deal!' We shoulda sold these."
Micky skipped down the stone steps, looking back happily as he shoveled popcorn into his face. Completely unfazed by Michael's grousing, he shuffled into their designated seating area, which just so happened to be awfully close to the action. "These are amazing tickets, Mike," said the curly-haired young man. When he smiled, Michael's anger dissipated almost immediately. Micky's expression was always unintentionally goofy, but it sure did wonders to dispel any animosity that cropped up in their household.
Sighing, Mike rolled his eyes. Somehow along the line, the other guys designated him as the "leader," though he never figured out exactly how that occurred. It couldn't have been his presence. Tall, gangly and awkward, Mike never thought of himself as someone who should ever be put in charge of anything, let along a band comprised of four fledgeling musicians. Still, during moments like these, when his friends were all acting like children, he understood the power his conservative reservation could have over people. And, as a leader, sometimes, he had to concede.
"Fine, fine," he drawled. "Look— Mick, that ain't your seat. Move down some. Davy and Peter've gotta sit down here, too!"
Apparently ignoring Michael, Micky stared into the red and white-striped popcorn box for a second, before upending it and letting the remaining kernels spill into his mouth.
He then proceeded to spit them at Michael.
His temper unraveling, Mike finally grabbed Micky by the shoulders and shoved him down into one of the seats. "Now you stay put, or else I'll find a way to seatbelt you in."
As Micky opened his mouth to argue, another of their quartet bounded down the stairs. The youngest of them all, Davy was almost as full of energy as Micky, but he seemed to be able to use it with much more discretion. Possibly, this was due to his upbringing in England, although that didn't stop him from occasionally being just as inappropriate as Micky. "He still goin' on about those tickets?" Davy asked, plopping down next to Micky.
"Oh, we'll still be hearing it ten years from now," Micky said. "Maybe twenty, if we're very unfortunate."
"I'm just tryin' to look out for you guys," Mike said, feeling slightly stung by it all. Going to a baseball game cost a lot of money, not just in the form of the provided tickets. There was gas, concessions, and the inevitable souvenir with which Micky would run off, leaving one of the others to pay for it.
Davy draped his arm over Mike's shoulders, which looked completely absurd, considering the extreme difference in their height. There was a reason the English boy's nickname was 'Tiny.' "It'll be all right, Mike. We got another gig lined up later this week. We'll be able t'pay the rent."
Finally, Mike allowed a smile. A baseball game would be pretty fun, after all. "Hey, if I don't complain some, you'd think somethin' was wrong with me. Now where's Peter?"
Davy turned around in his seat, squinting in the direction he'd come into the stadium proper. After a moment, he pointed, then raised his hand and waved. Mike turned around, too, quickly locating the blond-haired boy, whose appeared wholly confused until he spotted Davy waving. With a bright smile, he traversed the maze of milling fans, down the steps, and to his seat. "There was a line," he explained. "So I stood in it. It turned out, it was for the ladies' room."
No one spoke for a moment, then Micky asked, "Why would you just stand in some random line?"
"There were girls in it?" Peter replied meekly. He pouted, then said, "Why would there be women at a baseball game, anyway?"
Mike absently gestured at the assembled thousands of people, many of which were female. "I dunno. Who doesn't like a good baseball game?"
"You, for one," Davy chuckled, settling back in his seat, as Peter got to his. "We almost didn't come, y'know. I think I heard you grumbling about rent and how we couldn't afford fun in your sleep last night."
Despite the sun beating down on them, Michael was sure they could all see his face turning a little red. He couldn't think of a way to respond; thankfully, while he was thinking up an answer that didn't sound too stupid, Micky interjected.
"Aw, that? It's called 'Somniloquy.'" When the others looked at him, he smiled. "Yeah, it's a cool word, huh? Anyway, talking in your sleep doesn't necessarily reflect how you really feel. You like to have fun, don'tcha, Mike?"
Mike nodded. He also offered Micky an almost imperceptible, grateful smile.
"Look," Micky continued. "If we all believed what happened in our dreams— Well, let's just say my dreams are full of monsters and crazy doomsday scenarios and endless, endless gorgeous women. And we all know that our house isn't full of any of those things."
"Too bad," Davy muttered. "About the women, I mean. We don't need Godzilla in our bathtub or nothin'."
"I'm just tryin' to look out for you guys, is all," Mike said, finally finding his voice. "Look, let's all agree that I'll stop makin' a fuss about the game if we all promise to not accept payment in baseball tickets anymore." The four boys looked amongst each other, all of them eventually nodding at the terms of the agreement. "All right, then," Mike said. "Put your hands in."
They stacked their hands atop one another, and Mike said, "No more accepting goods as payment. Cash or nothing. That way, we can decide what to do with it, and sometimes, that might just include a baseball game."
The little addition to the agreement drew a smile from the others, and eventually, Mike allowed himself a smile, too. "It's settled. Now, I made a promise and I intend to keep it. Let's watch ourselves a game."
"There's just one problem," Peter said, pulling a small program out of his pocket. He opened it up, and Michael leaned over Micky to take a look at it.
"Problem?"
Peter nodded. "I don't know whether to root for the Angels or the White Sox."
Mike shrugged. "I guess whoever you personally like— "
"Nah, you gotta root for the Angels! It's our home team, mate!" Davy interrupted "Gotta show some home team spirit!" Proud of himself, he sat back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head and grinning.
But Michael just shook his head. "Look, the only one here who's got a home team playin' is Micky. Me? I'm from Texas. Peter's from … well, everywhere, but let's just say Connecticut for argument's sake. And Davy, you're from England."
As the smile vanished from Davy's face, Micky pointed around them, at the other fans nearby. They were all wearing Angels shirts and hats. "Well, I'm rooting for the Angels, on account of I don't want to be murdered."
As much as Michael hated to admit it sometimes, given Micky's sometimes flighty personality, the curly-haired brunet often made a good point. Not only would they lessen the enjoyment of the other fans nearby, but they could very well cause a fight to break out if they cheered for the wrong team. It shouldn't have really taken any thought; still, Mike tended to solve his problems based on personal logic, where Micky took things such as environmental concerns into account. Their environment, in this case, consisted of their fellow fans, who could be either hostile or friendly depending on one single, seemingly insignificant choice. "Angels it is, then," Mike said.
As the players took the field, Michael allowed the slightly infectious excitement to claim him. He wasn't used to letting his worries go, since there always seemed to be something to worry about. They were still bleeding funds and had no way to pay their rent, the Monkeemobile badly needed an oil change, and the fridge remained almost bare. But how often could they get together like this and just be boys? He kept that thought in mind as the Angels scored their first runs, and as the White Sox failed over and over to catch up to them.
Picking a team wasn't exactly the most important choice in the universe, but the decision just felt good. It was, after all, far easier to cheer for a winning team than a losing one, and certainly circumvented any disappointment that may have tried to ruin their fun. Michael actually found himself standing up and cheering at times.
"Does anyone actually know anything about this sport?" Davy asked, as the Angels took the field again. "I mean, I know you gotta hit the ball and run around the bases…"
Mike gestured vaguely to the field. "I guess that's about it, really. You got three outs per team, then you switch back n' forth." Not particularly eloquent, he thought to himself, as he squinted at the field.
Shyly, Peter remarked, "And three strikes per batter. Or four balls."
Micky giggled inappropriately, and Mike cuffed him upside the head. "Cut it out. This is basic stuff y'oughtta know! I can see Davy askin' questions, but you?"
Micky shoved Mike away. "Aw, stop. I know baseball. But Peter just said— "
"That's about all you need to know about baseball, Davy," Mike said, smirking and covering Micky's mouth with his hand.
It didn't take long for Micky to wiggle free, though, no matter how much Mike tried to prevent it. Thankfully, it took just long enough that Micky's short attention span shifted gears to something else. Standing, he said, "It's the fifth quarter! Time for snacks. Who wants somethin'?"
"Baseball hasn't got 'quarters,' Micky," Mike sighed. "It's got innings."
"Yeah, but 'inning' is a silly word. It doesn't mean anything."
"Look, you can't have nine quarters. There's more than four of 'em," Mike said. "Weren't we done with the baseball lesson?"
Micky scrunched up his face. "Well, that's dumb. How about 'fifth period'?" He turned his back to the field, leaning on the fence. "Who came up with the word 'inning,' anyway? What, they couldn't fit the description of what happens out there into an existing word? How about 'span?' or 'block?' And you know, while we're at it, why are they called 'dugouts?'"
"Would you cut it out already? I don't always know why things're the way they are. They just are! Now sit down, we can't afford more snacks!"
Out of the four of them, it was Michael who was the calmest. Like anyone, he shouted and screamed and carried on when he had to, but it was usually for a reason. The others told him that there was a certain tone he used in conjunction with his shouting when he was absolutely, deadly serious - and they knew there could be no arguing with him at that point. By their dejected faces, it appeared that he'd made use of that tone, and summarily ruined their experience at the game.
Even though he promised he wouldn't.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. "Look, guys, we'll… We'll get summore snacks if you wanna, but just keep in mind that the stuff here's expensive. We could go to the grocery store and get enough food to feed all of us for the cost of one hot dog here."
After another moment of silence among them, during which the roar of the crowd almost became white noise, Micky smiled. "Hey, we'll just get one box of popcorn and split it. That should be okay, right?"
Davy and Peter both looked hopefully to Mike, who considered. It wouldn't set them back too much. Feeling himself about to relent, he reiterated, "You know I'm just looking out for all of us."
The crowd roared again immediately after the crack of a powerful hit reached their ears, but the boys, lost in their debate, really weren't paying attention. They could continue watching the game again after they sorted out this argument, hopefully with the smallest number of snacks possible.
Micky crossed his arms, shaking his head. "Mike— "
A second crack, not as sharp, reached Mike's ears.
Suddenly, Micky stumbled forward and fell heavily to the steps.
An inexplicable baseball fell next to him, bouncing a couple times, before Peter, leaving his seat, deftly caught it. He snuggled it into his shoulder, disappointing a couple crowd hopefuls who sought to take home the foul ball as a prize.
Unable to decide whether to direct his incredulity toward the apathetic people around him, or to the fact that Micky had apparently been struck by the speeding baseball, Michael knelt down next to the unconscious drummer. He couldn't figure out what to do with his arms in that moment - should he lift Micky into them, or just give his shoulder a tentative pat? In his moment of indecision, one arm started to turn Micky over, while the other nudged his arm. Neither action elicited a response.
"Oh, oh man, that can't be good," Davy muttered, settling next to Micky as well. "Micky? C'mon, Micky," he pleaded, as he helped flip the stricken young man onto his back.
Peter was the last to join them, continuing to clutch the baseball in his hands as his pale eyes glared frightfully at the gathered people; they were leaning over now, trying to get a good look at the unconscious boy on the stadium steps. Unable to help it, Mike leaned protectively over Micky, cradling him close, as Peter confirmed everyone's fear: "It hit him, Mike. Right in the back of the head."