Third Base (The Boys of Summer 1)

“Sports media. It’s for a research paper,” she says and I want to believe her, but surely her professors would require a reputable site and not some random blog that isn’t reporting the facts.

“What’s wrong with ESPN or CBS Sports?”

In a rare occurrence in the City of Boston, I come upon a parking spot that doesn’t require me to parallel-park and I take it. Putting my SUV in park, I turn in my seat to face her. I can’t read her expression because I’m not very good with this girl shit.

“I don’t understand why you don’t like the BoRe Blog. It’s funny and informative.”

Is she serious right now? “It’s anything but, Daisy. He posts rumors, falsifies information and publicly outed you. Nothing about that blog is okay.”

“Are you just angry because you think the blogger picks on you?”

“No, Daisy, I’m not,” I say sharply. “I’m pissed because I asked you not to look at that shit and when I come to surprise you, you act like I caught you doing something wrong. It’s not a lot to request.”

I don’t know what’s happening here, but now I’m fucking pissed. Daisy turns and looks out the window, ignoring me. I know it’s stupid to fight over a blog, but the shit that particular blog publishes is a sore subject with me and she knew that. I thought it was a fairly simple request that she not read it but apparently I was wrong.

When she takes out her cell phone and starts doing whatever the fuck she’s doing, I know the conversation is over. I put my car back into drive, heading back onto the road, and instead of going to my house I take her home.

“I can’t believe you’re pissed off,” she says as we turn onto her street. Truth is, neither can I, but I am.

“If that blog didn’t post about my friend’s failing marriage, or how many times I adjusted my cup, I might take it serious... but shit, Daisy, it’s not fucking news.”

“Yeah, well, my friends and I like it. So what if they post how many times you pick your nose or the fact that Bainbridge is cheating on his wife? It’s newsworthy to the fans. It makes us feel like we know you.”

“Are you shitting me right now?” I stop abruptly in front of her apartment, failing to put my car in park. “Whatever is going on in Steve’s life isn’t news and if they’re getting a divorce they certainly don’t need some half-assed blogger posting inaccurate shit that’s none of anyone’s business. God, why can’t you see it’s wrong?”

“Because journalists support freedom of speech.” She’s out of my car, slamming the door before I can even say anything. My only comeback is the squealing tires of my car which I hope she hears as I pull away from the curb.

The only place I can go to try and get my mind off what just happened is the stadium. Once I’m there, I hit the gym. I want to lift weights and punch the shit out of the bag that hangs in the corner, but I’m too pissed and that’s a bad idea. I can’t afford to tear a muscle right now. My game is the most important part of me. That and my integrity, which is something Daisy doesn’t seem to understand.

The whole “journalists support freedom of speech” thing is bullshit. I’d support it too if it were the truth and not some made up gossip to stir the pot. And where does the BoRe Blogger get his information? There must be someone on the inside that leaks it because we didn’t even know about Bainbridge, his wife and a potential mistress, until we read about it in the damn blog. Guys talk in the clubhouse – there’s a code that it doesn’t leave – and nothing has been said. But again, if I were cheating on my wife, I probably wouldn’t tell anyone. No one can keep a fucking secret anyway.

I step onto the treadmill, put my ear buds in and push the speed button until I’m in a steady run. My heavy metal playlist blasts into my ears, blocking out my thoughts of Daisy and the fucked up conversation we just had. Our weight room looks out over the field, reminding us why we’re busting our asses in here – so we can bust our asses out there for the fans, the town and our team.

The grounds crew is out, mowing and fixing minute holes in the dirt infield. When I was in college, I followed the grounds crew around to see how they did everything. It fascinated me and I thought if I couldn’t make it in baseball I get a degree doing that instead. This way I’d still be with a team, in a stadium and part of the atmosphere. My advisor thought I was stupid for thinking about it and talked me out of it. I ended up with the standard communications degree, guaranteeing me a telecasting job when I retire or become washed up.

Still, watching these guys out there, lying on the ground making sure each blade of grass is the same length, making sure the Renegades pattern is perfect and brushing the dirt in the proper direction amazes me. Everyone who works for a baseball club takes their job seriously, from concession stands, to souvenirs, to laundry. It’s a high-end operation here and if there’s ever any trouble, we never hear about it.

The treadmill next to me starts up. I glance over to find Bainbridge starting a slow jog. I push the button to slow down and pull out my ear buds, but leave the music playing. As far as I’m concerned, he’s my mentor and I feel like a shit for bothering him with the bullshit weighing on my mind, but I need help.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“So you know how I have an issue with that blog?” he nods, so I keep going. “Well, I’ve been seeing this girl and I’ve asked her not to look at it.”

“Why?” he asks, without breaking stride.

“Our second date, or meeting, she brought up something about rumors she’d heard and I told her that not everything she reads online is legit and that if she had questions, she should ask. Then, somehow, the blog came up in a conversation and I asked her not to look at that shit. Today, when I surprised her at school, she was looking at the website and when I asked her about it, she flipped out on me.”

Bainbridge sighs and I have a feeling I hit a sore subject. “I don’t blame you, but that shit is addictive to them. Lisa has emailed that blogger before about crap in our marriage even though I’ve asked her not to. Whatever happens in our house needs to stay there; she knows that, but she loves the attention.”

“Daisy says all journalists support freedom of speech.”

“The first part of the blog is great. I enjoy his critique of the game. He’s a real fan. The gossip part though – that shit has no place in baseball and takes away from the point of the blog, at least that’s how I feel.”

We continue to jog for a few minutes without talking. A few of the other guys come in and out of the gym, but lift weights or hit the massage room, leaving us alone.

“I think that whatever was going on with Daisy is effectively over.” Saying that out loud actually hurts. I really like her, but need to have her respect in regard to something as simple as not indulging in a blog she knows pisses me off. It all seems so petty now that I think about it, but I can’t help how I feel.