Baseball 5

I order a medium size double double, Timspeak for two cream, two sugar, take my cup to a window seat. Could be a long wait, Danny is never a punctual sort. Only way Hannigan kept him in line was periodically bench him a game or two, call up a first baseman from Double A.
Danny shows only five minutes late, must be a serious matter. Asks how things are with Lata, I explain.
"Man you let girls walk all over you, go get a groupie."
"I'm not a star anymore. Groupies don't go for has-beens with career-ending injuries."
"Jaysus Quentin, I'm sorry came out wrong."
I'm shocked; can't recall Danny ever apologizing before.
Deep breath, here it comes, "You see, we talked bout drawing straws. But no, I volunteered, said I was your best friend from baseball days, you'd prefer talking with me. See Hannigan never said why you won't do DH, only you wouldn't so forget about it."
I nod.
"We figgered, wasn't hard, pride of course. See Hannigan gives you DH, as opposed to calling up some young guy from Double A. How does it look? Like an act of charity, a sop to his conscience, like he feels sorry for you. Am I getting close?"
"Not exactly on target, but not far away, keep talking old pal, I won't bite you."
"But more to pride than just that. We ah well ah, God this is awful to say. Ah we thought back to after your injury, we were ah well rude I guess. We want to apologize."
"I am proud of you Danny, took lotta guts, you coulda just left that for drawing of the straws."
"So you accept our apology?"
"I accept your apology."
"Now we put our heads together, some way so you'd see it wasn't charity, but good baseball. Smith is better with numbers than any of us, ran a table of your contribution over the years. Just how many of those runs came from you."
He passes me a paper, I examine it.
He smiles, "as you can see, lotta Ryan's homers were single shots, too many. You come through in the crunch, with men aboard. Produced far more RBI's than him. So, no matter you never field another ball. I have a letter here, all the players signed, asking you to consider doing DH."
I examine it, "Danny it's not just an issue of pride. See it's the death of hope, of dreams. In right field or first base, always the hope of that big or small gig in the Bigs. DH, what century did they last call up a DH? Lottery ticket odds."
He looks puzzled, "then why did Ryan play DH?"
"Father was a doctor, lotsa money, didn't mind helping out. Baseball helped keep him outa trouble, so his dad was pro-baseball. But for guys like you or me, making our own money, it's a lot harder to do baseball for free."
"But you're still working on your degree, can't get a decent job just yet. Still waiting to see how the Lata thing pans out. I ain't saying play til you're 45, but would one season hurt?"
I start to ponder.
He presses on, "you know for a fact, DH takes nowhere near as much time as you used to put in. After all, you aren't an athlete climbing walls or charging line drives anymore. Don't need the same gym time, BP and vids are really all you need."
Why not? "I'll talk to Hannigan, he may have other plans, some guy he's found in Double A. If Hannigan accepts me, I'll do it."
"Take out that cell right now. You know that firm of chartered accountants he works with, doesn't want us players calling him office hours."
Hannigan answers on the second ring, is in traffic will call back. He's over the absolute moon, ecstatic hearing my decision.
Danny leaves looking happy.
The team Christmas dinner is dry for a variety of reasons. The religious scruples of Mr Sanderson the owner might be a factor, but likely not a big one. He's not preachy or self-righteous, doesn't put on airs.
The team budget is far more likely to be an influence.
But first and foremost, half these guys are obnoxious drunks with a capital 'O'. Much as Hannigan would like publicity, he'd prefer not to read of some overweight insurance salesman at the next table being called a fairy and beat up.
We eat in an unlicensed restaurant. Immediately behind it, it's small parking lot. Six inch high concrete divider, then the huge parking lot of a lounge.
No one on the team owns cars (except the late Ryan), so Hannigan is the only one parked out back.
It's a pleasant time. People are a tad uneasy until they sense that no, I ain't a grudge holder, bygones are bygones.
As the party breaks up, Hannigan discreetly pulls me aside. We chat small talk for a minute, til the gang is all gone to the Metro station.
I'm in no hurry, live four blocks away, weather is mild.
Hannigan and I walk around back. During the time it takes him to smoke two cigs, he interrogates me, understands how important honor is to an athlete. He wants details on the team apology, wants to be certain I actually feel ok about things.
Once satisfied with this, he chats on how he loves road trips, an escape from his tedious windbag wife.
"Holy sh**," he gasps, "do you see what I see?"
"Coach, I never drink, nor am I on any prescription. I see two little green men planting devices on that car."
He laughs uneasily, "my wife'd kill me if I took a drop, hafta go to AA meetings you know. I ain't on any prescriptions, and yes, that's what I see."
Thirty feet away, a large man comes around a corner, into view. One of the football players, well paid of course. In a loud drunken voice, he commences sailor talk on these same green men, must be his car.
Next thing you know, there's a pistol in the footballer's hand and he's blazing away like it's the OK Corral.
Hannigan seems a million miles away, as he kneels over me. Blood flow like this, think seconds to live, not minutes.