Rules of Play (The Script Club 2)

“What does math have to do with baseball?”

“All sports use math to figure out who can score and how often they can rely on those players to perform. I want to be an analyst—the guy who evaluates player stats throughout the season and comes up with a model a team can apply to put together a winning season. The average baseball player makes four point four million bucks a year. Any organization paying hundreds of millions wants to see their money work.”

“That makes sense.”

“I’m not into finance, but I like numbers when I can apply them to something interesting. Collecting and analyzing empirical data for in-game activity helps predict a player’s future contribution. It’s significant at the end of the season when you’re trying to win games or determine trade value. I don’t want to bore you, but it’s pretty interesting shit,” I assured him.

“No doubt.”

“I’ve been taking online statistics courses to refresh my math, and I’m sharper at it than I thought I’d be. The more I learn, the more I want to make a go of this. It could be a bust, but as that saying goes…you lose a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take. I don’t want any regrets. I don’t want to wind up working for my uncle for the next decade or longer, wondering if life would have been different if I’d tried something new, ya know? It’s time to start taking chances.”

He smiled. “Good attitude.”

“Thanks.” I paused when the bartender came around. I ordered another round of drinks and asked to peek at an appetizer menu. “You ate my lunch. I’m hungry. What looks good?”

“I did not eat your lunch. I had a few fries. How about wings?”

George leaned against me to check out the selections. We sat elbow to elbow, knee to knee now. In a bar setting, it was just part of the scenery, but my body didn’t get the message. My pulse skittered and my hands felt clammy. Weird.

I cleared my throat and straightened. “I love wings...and sliders.”

“Good call,” the bartender commented cheerily as she gathered the menus. “Comin’ right up.”

When we were alone again, George nudged my hand. “How can I help? Do you want me to check spreadsheets or something?”

Of course, that was more than sufficient. I nodded in agreement, then shook my head and blurted, “No, I want you to come to a game with me. Are you free this weekend? Or the next?”

I wasn’t sure who was more surprised. A baseball game? With George?

He stared at me for a long moment and pointed to his chest. “You want me to go to a baseball game with you?”

Did I? Well, it might not be a terrible idea. And since I did my best thinking on my feet, I went with it.

“Yeah. Here’s my proposal—the local junior college team plays most Friday nights. Come with me. I’ll show you the data I’ve collected. You can check my math while I take stats. If this weekend isn’t good for you, we’ll go another time. I’ll check their schedule and get back to you.”

“That doesn’t make sense. I can analyze data without going to a game. Forward the spreadsheets to me and—”

“No, the numbers make more sense when you see the physical evidence in play. Think of it as a science experiment,” I bluffed.

He frowned so hard his face had to hurt. “But there’s no hypothesis involved. A science experiment is a procedure carried out to support, refute, or validate a hypothesis.”

“Thanks, Merriam-Webster. I know the definition,” I snarked. “And I know that experiments require controls to minimize the effect of a single variable. I need another variable. Like you.”

Geez, I couldn’t believe I remembered enough science shit to sound like I knew what I was talking about. I was impressed with myself, but George wasn’t quite there. And I wasn’t sure why I was arguing for this.

“I’m a bad variable, Aiden. You should ask someone who knows the game. Like Simon.”

I snorted derisively. “Simon sucks at math.”

“True. But I suck at baseball.”

“You know the basics, and I can teach you the rest. I can’t teach Si math. We’re talking about a few hours out of your life in exchange for repairs.”

“That’s a good deal,” he said with a wobbly smile.

“I’m a good guy.”

“Yes, but—”

“Stop thinking so hard, George. I’m not asking you to hack into a government data bank. I need an impartial voice I can trust to double-check my reports and make sure I don’t look or sound like an idiot.” I put a hand up when he narrowed his eyes slightly. “Forget about the game. I can email you the reports for now. No pressure, man. If you’re not interested, we’ll think of an alternative way to pay for repairs. Maybe Simon could—”

“No. I don’t want Simon’s money. I need to handle this myself,” he replied firmly.