As the ball traveled from Brice Turang to Bryce Harper for the final out, Cal Raleigh sighed and emerged from his crouch, ignoring the ache of his aging legs. Around him, the spirits of the crowd rose to a pitch almost unpleasant, and Raleigh found himself wishing he could sit alone, quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the muted, professional celebration of his teammates. Instead he collected and provided his congratulations, milled, offered cheer, and climbed down to his temporary home in the dugout to unequip his armor. But as he began his stroll toward the locker room, a hand fell on his shoulder. It belonged to Mr. DeRosa, his manager. The older man frowned, his eyes still elsewhere, as if finishing a different conversation, and finding it dissatisfying.
“Cal, I must speak to you for a moment, if you please. I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be so unfeeling to Mr. Arozarena? How could you be so distant in your stature to a man you call a friend? I had not thought it possible.”
Cal recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off. ”Nay, how could I have helped acting as I did? Nobody could have helped it. It was not so very bad. I dare say he did not take offense.”
“I—I assure you he did. He felt your full meaning. He has ‘grammed on it since. I wish you could have heard how he talked of it—with what candor, and… well, with what candor.”
“Oh!” cried Cal, unable to meet his skipper’s gaze. His words spilled out. “Randy is a dear friend of mine, as I told him in my greeting: But you must allow, it is ridiculous to engage in civilities in this setting, forced into our roles as combatants.”
“It is somewhat ridiculous,” said DeRosa, “I acknowledge; and, were this October or even April, I might grant you. Were he of your standing, shared your culture of pragmatic reserve and gentlemanliness, if the setting required the most acute concentration, I would not quarrel with you for your mannerisms. But it is not, and he does not. His situation should secure your camaraderie.” DeRosa’s speech elevated to a pitch. “You, whom he has known for several years, whom he has—has stood with and fought alongside, to have you now, in thoughtless obedience to the unwritten rules, in front of his countrymen, humble him—and before thousands of others, too, many of whom (certainly some,) would be entirely guided by your treatment of him.”
DeRosa turned and spat incautiously, composing himself. “This is not pleasant to you, Cal—and it is very far from pleasant to me, but I must, I will—as your acting manager, and mentor, for these few days, I will tell you these truths as I can. It was badly done, Cal. Very badly done, indeed.”
Cal kept his face averted, running over the events of the evening, going over his thought process, the lack thereof. He had not been able to speak, sunk over his untied cleats, and he suddenly worried that DeRosa had mistaken his reverie for sullenness. But when he looked up again to clarify it was just too late; the old man had turned and started down the tunnel, leaving Raleigh finally, terribly alone. I should write him, he thought. He pulled out his phone, addressed a text, and plumbed his soul for the words that would mend this schism.
Dear Randy: Sorry if you felt disrespected or whatever it may be.
Thank you for reading
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Please tell me that if I dig deep enough that I will find your series of Jane Austen fan fiction novels authored under some fantastical Regency Era nom de plume. I need this. Our broken nation needs this!