#baseball score on record

[dinosaurwithablog]

Anthony Volpe gets on base again today for his 6th game in a row. I hope that this continues. In the beginning of the year, Anthony had 34 games on base. He just needed two more to break Mickey Mantle's record of 36. Maybe he can do it now. As I wrote this, Anthony just scored!! Way to go, Anthony!!! Let's go, Anthony!! ❤️ Let's go Yankees!!!!!

[rlewisphilly]

Maybe next year?

It hasn’t happened in the last 82 years. This year’s Major League Baseball regular season is over and no one (again) has batted over .400.  Ted Williams is last major league baseball player playing for the Red Sox to bat over .400 hitting (a 406) in 1941. Competition causes some to break, it causes some to break records…maybe next year. PS:  Luis Arraez of the Marlins has the top average for…

[dwuerch-blog]

Keeping the Score....or NOT!

In East Texas last weekend, we enjoyed playing cards with Larry and Staci. I think it was a test to see if Carl could measure up to their card-playing skills. They found out quickly (and so did I), that Carl is a pro when he schooled us on some added features of Spades! Larry was the scorekeeper. Staci and Carl teamed up; Larry and I were a team. The first night, Staci and Carl beat us big-time.…

[mentally-gone002]

kisses at the arcade

summary: reader and steve drive dustin to the arcade… and have some of their own fun.

a part 2 to the previous title-less fic that yall loved sm with henderson!reader x steve harrington 

you can find part 1 here, and part 3 here

a/n: so i sent the first part of this to my bestie and she was like “so when do i get a part 2??” and now here we are with a part 2! rlly it is all thanks to her, because not only did she help me make up my mind to make a part 2, but she also helped me completely construct every bit of this!!!! (did i mention she’s never watched ST???) she’s literally amazing so big thank you to my queeeeen!!!!

———————————————————————

dustin charged into the living room slightly out of breath, his ‘thinking cap’ baseball hat smushed over his unruly hair. “mom! can steve drive me to the arcade? mike, will, max and lucas are going.” he panted. 

his sister looked at him from her book while she sat on the couch at the mention of steve. she swallowed back a smile that he’d go out of his way to take her brother to the arcade. 

their mom cleared her throat before she answered. “you can go if your sister does, just to keep and eye on you.” 

dustin looked at his sister with pleading eyes. “please go, we’re gonna try and beat max’s records.” he said. 

“while max is there?” she asked, closing the book and placing it onto the coffee table gently. dustin nodded. “sure, i don’t wanna miss the look on your guys’ faces when she stays with her top score.” her words made dustin scoff while she walked off to her bedroom to grab a sweater and her bag. 

———————————————————————

when steve’s red bmw made its appearance onto their driveway, dustin raced out the front door and his sister followed behind him slowly. she shivered from the early december air that nipped at her cheeks and nose, so she picked up her pace. 

“your sisters got the front tonight, henderson!” she heard steve tell dustin, to which he replied with a groan that sounded like betrayal. she looked at dustin with a smile and stuck out her tongue. 

“real mature.” dustin rolled his eyes while he climbed into the backseat. 

she slipped into the passenger seat and flashed a bright smile at steve before he put the car into gear and began the drive to the arcade across town. 

it was a short drive but after some light conversation and a fair amount of bickering between dustin and steve it felt a bit longer. by the time steve pulled into the parking lot dustin was out of the car and racing towards the arcade. 

“wait until the car is in park next time!” his sister called from out the window before rolling it back up. she turned her face towards steve. “hi.” she smiled. 

“hey.” he smiled back at her, the corners of his eyes creasing in a way that made her heart beat faster. she didn’t know why. 

he reached a hand across the gap between them to connect his palm with the side of her face. she leans into the touch, shifting in her seat to get closer, reaching her own hand to connect with the side of his neck. 

he tried to contain his smile but what was the use if she’s there to create it? steve’s hand slowly drifts down her arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake, which she’d blame on the time of year if he asked, until his palm rested on her knee. the honey color in his irises were almost chased away from how his pupils were blown out. 

his gaze shifted between both of her eyes as he whispered, “you look beautiful tonight, you know that, right?”

she felt her face heat up at the compliment and her eyes shifted away from his for a brief second. “thank you.” her voice was a volume just above a whisper.

steve lifts his hand from her knee to hook his fingers beneath her chin, directing her face towards his. his tongue darts between his barely parted lips prior to leaning over the center console, gently connecting his lips with hers. the taste of her strawberry lipgloss made him smile. 

the sound of her heartbeat was in her ears, making it hard to think of anything other than him and the way his soft lips slowly danced against hers rhythmically. her fingers tangled in his soft chestnut hair while she pulled away to breathe, eyes still closed and her forehead to his. “we should go inside. the kids are probably wondering where we are.” she didn’t want to say this but she knew that keeping an eye on the kids was the best idea, considering that they’d still be paranoid due to the events from a month ago.

steve knew she was right but he was feeling greedy, only wanting her all to himself right now. “they’ll be okay without us, won’t they?” he wondered quietly as he reached for her hip, smoothing his thumb over the fabric of her clothes covering it. steve pulled her closer to him, being mindful of the console separating them. 

with labored breaths and a butterfly filled stomach she nodded, giving in to him. “what if they come out and see us?” she asked with a quick pull away from their proximity. her eyebrows were pinched together, creating a tiny wrinkle between them that steve wanted to smooth away with his thumb.

steve brings her back in and tilted his head to the side. “they won’t, baby, i promise.” he gave her a reassuring grin, making sure she mirrored it before once again connecting their lips together. 

———————————————————————

dustin angrily shifted the joystick and pressed the buttons of the arcade machine, trying to make more progress and wrack up the most points so that he’d finally beat max’s score on dig-dug. as he played, lucas, mike, will and max huddled around his back to watch the screen with nervous anticipation. 

“look out!” lucas exclaimed, pointing at an enemy just before it killed dustin’s character. 

the game made the animated sound signifying that he lost and dustin kicked the machine. “son of a bitch.” he sighed, shoving a hand into his coat pocket to try and pull more coins for another round; his pocket was empty. “anyone have any quarters i can barrow?” he asked the group. they all shook their heads, wanting to keep theirs for themselves. 

“ask your sister for some, i’m sure she’d have some.” will suggested with a smile. everyone else nodded in agreement, finding the idea a good one. 

dustin turned around, staring at the bench beside the front doors where both his sister and steve should have been. “hey, has anyone seen my sister or steve?” he looked back at the group. everyone turned their heads towards the bench at once. “they aren’t there, dumbasses, that’s why i’m asking.” he clarified. 

mike shrugged. “maybe they’re still outside?” he sounded bored at the fact they were trying to solve the mystery of dustin’s missing sister and steve harrington. 

dustin nodded. “probably.” he said before running towards the doors, dodging away from other kids. everyone followed on his heels all the way outside into the cold until they all stopped outside the red bmw which was still running. 

dustin reached for the passenger door handle without even looking inside, his only concern at that moment was quarters. “hey, do you have any- what the hell are you doing?” he exclaimed, stepping back with the door still ajar.

his sister and steve pulled away from each other’s lips in surprise, both staring at dustin’s wide eyes and disgusted expression first before noticing all his friends staring as well. steve shot dustin a nervous smile while she wiped the mixture of their saliva and her lipgloss away from her mouth.

“giving mouth to mouth.” max mumbled and caused the group snicker with laughter. 

dustin harshly nudged lucas, the closest to him, as a sign for him to shut up; lucas did after a small protest of how the shove hurt. “do you have any quarters? i spent mine already.” dustin reached for and snatched away his sisters bag off the floor beside her feet.

she stole it back from him. “hey! don’t dig through my things.” she said firmly, going for her wallet. “how many do you need?” her question made the group smile. 

dustin shrugged. “twenty for what i just witnessed.” he muttered. she shot him a glare. “i mean- just three dollars worth.” he reiterated with an innocent smile. 

she dug around for quarters and handed them all to dustin when she found the amount he wanted. the group took that as a sign to go back inside since they began to grumble about the cold. dustin tried to follow but his sister called him back.

“please don’t tell mom, okay?” she asked with pleading eyes. dustin nodded which made her sigh in relief. 

“you owe me though. and you,” he pointed at steve. “you owe me as well.” steve nodded in understanding which made dustin walk back towards the arcade, slamming the car door before he left. 

she looked back at him, bottom lip held between her teeth anxiously. steve frowned at her expression and leaned towards her. “hey, it’s okay.” his hand smoothed over her hair slowly, the curls bouncing back once his hand brushed them over. “maybe it is time to y’know… tell people?” he shrugged. his hand settled lightly on her shoulder. 

her teeth let go of her lip so she could speak. “yeah… i just wish he didn’t have to find out like that.” her concern had steve nodding with adamant agreement. she looked away from him in thought. 

he dropped his head to the side as his hand guided her face and eyes back to his. “it’s all gonna work out for us, okay? you don’t have to worry.” the kindness in his eyes made her feel more sure about the situation so she nodded in advance to leaning forward to press her lips against his again. she just wanted to be extra sure, and he kissed back with a gentle assurance.

it was going to work out for them. 

————————————————————————

to anyone wondering… yes there will be a part 3 and i’m working on it rtn!!! coming very soon yall

[222col]

egotistical possessive bf!patrick who hates men looking at u (very loosely inspired by 'i destroyed disco' by the dare)

patrick was the most erratic, chaotic tennis player the world had ever seen. his style of play was unexplainable, causing havoc every time he played. but there was no doubting he was one of the best in the world. he'd won two slams this year alone, which only inflated his already ridiculously big ego. he'd become the youngest male player to win two slams in a season, breaking records with his unpredictable play. he was known for smashing rackets, scoring big points and his untypical serve. he was magnetic on the court, a mystery to most players.

his behaviour off the court was noticed too, his cockiness mainly, but also making headlines for his nights out. his drinking, arguments with strangers, fights he got into. patrick wasn't bothered by any of it. for one reason only, you. patrick was possessive by nature, jealous. he'd have his hands all over you whenever he could, but having a gorgeous girl on his arm meant eyes. he didn't care about the public's opinion, he usually loved what the tennis world had to say about you. complimenting you, the outfits you wore, the constant support you showed for patrick. it was the men he couldn't stand. the glaring, half-lidded drunk eyes of men in clubs that made his blood boil. he'd knock someone out for just those disgusting, lingering eyes on you. he loved going clubbing with you, in different cities across the world after the end of a tournament. the skimpy outfits you'd wear, the way your body felt against his when you danced, he was addicted to it.

after winning the us open, his second slam this season, you and he hit the town. in some new club in new york, his eyes dark, sitting in some booth with his friends and a couple other players. watching you dance mere feet away, mini skirt and tight baby tee adorning your skin. hands in the air, more of your midriff on show, hips rolling to the beat of the song with a couple friends. his eyes didn't move away from your body, drink in hand, mindlessly nodding along to whatever his friends were saying. watching your head fling to your left, his drink dropping to the floor as a large hand wraps around your waist. jumping to his feet, squeezing past you to push the asshole to the floor that thought it was okay to touch you. you and your girls immediately moving out the way, some of patrick's friends jumping up. the guy lays on the floor, patrick's already bruised knuckles immediately making contact with his jaw. watching him intently, his fist repeatedly hitting into the guys face, blood dropping down his lip, covering patrick's knuckles. patrick's friends eventually manage to pull him off the almost unconscious prick on the floor, only for patrick to spit over his body as he's pulled away, smirking. you can already see the headlines in the news tomorrow, and he's smirking. he thrives off it, gets off to it. no one touches his girl.

"patrick, that was one of the fucking mets pitchers." one of his friends tells him, once getting him outside. patrick still smirking, lighting up a cigarette, his bruised hand draped over your shoulder. "what's a baseball player to patrick zweig?" he laughs, that fucking ego. shaking your head, laughing slightly. "you're unbelievable." his friend tells him, laughing now at patrick's actions. every one knows this is what he's like, the constant 'i don't care' attitude. he blows the smoke out, wincing slightly as you kiss his knuckles lightly. smirking down to you, pulling you into his frame, kissing your lips hungrily. flipping off his friends with the hand holding his cigarette as they all groan at the scene. they all laugh and start walking down the street, as patrick pulls away, holding your face with his hand. his fingers squeeze your cheeks, looking into your eyes. "you're mine."

[blastofsports]

The Catch was a baseball play made by New York Giants center fielder Willie Mays on September 29, 1954, during Game 1 of the 1954 World Series at the Polo Grounds in Upper Manhattan, New York City. During the eighth inning with the score tied 2–2, Cleveland Indians batter Vic Wertz hit a deep fly ball to center field that had the runners on base poised to score. However, Mays made an over-the-shoulder catch while on the run to record the out, and his throw back to the infield prevented the runners from advancing. The Giants won the game 5–2 in extra innings, and eventually the World Series. The Catch is regarded as one of the greatest plays in baseball history.

[shares-a-vest]

Prompt: Family Heirloom and Starry Night (Discord Drabble) Two prompts in 24hrs, the drabblers are spoiled today. It's Lex's birthday! @thefreakandthehair I'm so sorry that my Frankenstien prompt for your b'day is also Steve Sad Boy™ hours. But it has a light-hearted end!!! 🏈🏈🏈 tw: death of a grandparent (way in the past)

"Why would mom mail this to me?" Steve finally mutters from his position at the kitchen bench.

Eddie shimmies upright on the couch and rubs at his eyes, long glazed over from forcing himself to pretend to pay attention to tonight's game. He'd flipped it over a good half an hour ago as the space he had given Steve started to linger on a little too long for his liking.

He just wasn't supposed to almost fall asleep while waiting for Steve to join and watch his favourite team win all those... points? touchdowns?

It doesn't matter nearly as much as the package that was delivered late in the afternoon – one that has left Steve glued to his kitchen stool.

A heavy but small and thin box with 'FRAGILE' and 'DO NOT BEND' emblazoned all over it, the red warnings leaving just enough space for their address and the return label.

Steve has opened it, Eddie realises, looking over his partner's impossibly hunched shoulders when he reaches him.

"I don't remember ever seeing that in your house, sweetheart," he says, standing close and snaking his arms around Steve's middle.

He frowns at the small framed print of Vincent Van Gough's Starry Night painting and rests his chin on Steve's shoulder.

"Mom hated it," Steve explains, "Refused to hang it anywhere in the house after my Grandpa passed. He left it to her."

Eddie hums in the affirmative.

The gold and gaudy frame doesn't exactly scream Mrs Harrington's taste in decor...

"Should I call her?" Steve rasps, setting the print down to pinch his nose, "What if something's wrong and that's why she is sending it to me?"

Eddie can feel his lip quivering.

"Maybe we should talk first, hmm?" he suggests, giving Steve a reassuring squeeze.

"Or..." Steve continues, his tone becoming bitter, "She's sending it now to make it official. That I'm no longer..."

He cuts himself off with a shaky exhale and looks around their relatively new (but technically very old and rundown) apartment. A quiet little spot in Indy they'd scored without too much searching.

One that they soon filled with their records and clothes, Eddie's amp and guitar and Steve's old trophies. Too many knickknacks they'd thrifted with the help of Robin and a lot of second-hand furniture Wayne found.

An apartment they are still in the process of making their own as they work themselves out together.

Their place in the world. Their home.

Eddie looks over to a patch of blank wall by the phone.

A spot that could use something...

"Do you like it, the painting?" he whispers, pressing a kiss to Steve's ear.

Steve grips the frame, his knuckles quickly turning white as he tenses up. He nods his head vigorously and sniffles.

"My grandpa..."

"Starry, starry night," Eddie sings low, "Paint your palette blue and grey..."

He reaches out to place his hands over Steve's and feels them relax in his touch.

"Look out on a summer's day..." Steve continues wetly, "Yeah..."

He sighs and closes his eyes, shifting his weight back onto Eddie.

"Looks like a pretty good heirloom to me," he says, swaying them just enough to leave Steve humming contentedly without threatening his position on the rickety kitchen stool.

Eddie continues humming the song, a favourite of Wayne's that he only ever passively listened to enough to pick up on the opening line and tune.

"Wanna watch the game with me?" he asks, nodding back to the television as he finishes the song.

Steve giggles, his shoulders gradually shaking them both.

"Baby, I watched that game two Sundays ago."

"But it's your favourite," Eddie argues, jostling their conjoined form, "The Cubs!"

"Eds, that's baseball!"

[disastrouscanasta]

@evidenceof happy christmas yna!!!! i was your secret santa this year, and it was an absolute BLAST! you were the best giftee, very thorough in your answers to my asks, and if i didn't need to maintain anonymity for so long, i would have picked your brain on soooo many of your wonderful thoughts. YOU UNDERSTAND ALL THE PAIRINGS SO WELL, and literally every prompt and idea you gave me was SO amazing, and incredible to explore. thank you for being so lovely <3 for you, i have a fic that i've worked on over the past few weeks, inspired by your prompts!

A Busy Blur | runner/leckie | 2k | post-war, developing relationship, a touch of epistolary & long-distance love

**

“You’ll write to me, won’t you Cobber?” Runner said, a playful lilt in his voice. Leckie could have sworn he caught a flash of something more vulnerable, more honest, from around the bags under his eyes, under the furrow of Runner’s brow. 

“If you learn how to read, sure.” Leckie said.

And Runner laughed, mouth splitting open in a bright smile that drew Leckie’s attention away from the bruises and the sling his friend’s arm was suspended in.

**

The first letter was simple.

Leckie,

I bet you’re home safe, now. And if you’re not, well, that’s your fault for being the only idiot sonofabitch to get hurt on the train ride from the harbour, instead of being killed by artillery. Somehow, that sounds about right.

Hope the mailing address is right,

Conley.

Leckie smiled wide when he read it, forgetting that he was sitting across from his stone-faced father at the table, half-eaten eggs forgotten in front of him when he had Runner’s letter in his hands.

“Did you get a cheque?” His father asked, speaking up for the first time since he’d come into the dining room and filled the seat at the far side of the table, away from his son.

“No,” Leckie answered simply. If his mother was there, she might have pried, probably asked about a girl, she’d have put just an inch more effort than his dad ever had.

His father made a short grunting sound before turning back to his paper.

(He read the Philadelphia Inquirer. Leckie himself worked for the Philadelphia Record. Figures.)

**

Leckie kept a notebook on him at all times, but he used it most at sports games, taking notes on the plays and activity of the baseball season. The notepad was filled with shorthand accounts of who was doing best, who was doing the worst, teams and rosters and everything he could come up with.

Some days (most,) he wasn’t granted the privilege of good seats, or even tickets to whatever sport was being played. But he had to write the damn article, anyway. So he sat by the radio, listening to the play-by-play accounts as they happened, with their paper’s roster open on the table in front of him.

His notebook looked something like this:

23/04/‘46

NY Giants vs. P. P.

JUDD, Oscar - pitching.

^ 3 SO

NORTHEY, Ron - batting

^ Home run, flyball to deep RF

SEMINICK, Andy - batting

^ Single, F. MCCORMICK SCORES

Playtime : 2hrs 14mins

PS: tell Runner about the weather

**

He’d been surprised at how easy it was to slip back into camaraderie with Runner.

But then again it had been easy on the boat, too, when—

Well, that was in the past. And even if there had been a few road bumps, they had never stopped being friends.

The war being over, reassuringly, didn’t stop that.

**

Runner,

He wrote at the start of his response, and paused. 

Runner’s letter sat next to him on his desk, under the warm light of the lamp. It had been dark for hours, and Leckie just couldn’t bring himself to put anything on the page until nearly midnight.

That letter had started with Leckie, and wasn’t that awfully formal? They’d gotten to know each other more intimately than most people would ever manage and— Leckie. It was impersonal. He’d expected something more ridiculous, Peaches, Cobber, something like that.

Leckie was sticking with Runner, for his own purposes.

(It had taken everything in him not to write Dear Vera. Less out of intent, and more out of habit. He’d never sent her any of his letters, and by the time he got him, she was already married. She looked happy, at least.)

Runner,

Got home in one piece. Based on your letter, and the fact that that chicken-scratch is unmistakably yours, I’ll guess that you’re alright stateside.

Since we haven’t got a war to talk about, I’m telling you a bit about work (a bit of complaining, so that you know it’s really me.)

The Philly Phillips won, 5-2. The paper made me sit by the radio box and take notes like some kind of spook, you’d think I work for the Russians, if you saw me hunched over my notebook like that. Last week, they got me a ticket to the actual game. We lost, with three points down. I think I’m cursed, if my presence makes the team lose.

Whatever. It’s still better than scraping out a latrine, with you sorry folks for company.

Leckie.

He posted it in the morning, and tucked Runner's letter away in his drawer.

**

Hoosier promised to write, so did Chuckler, and that Phillips kid, but ultimately, every time he got handed a personal letter by the postman, it was always, always, from Runner.

It felt ridiculous. He’d gone a whole war with those fellas, and they didn’t say so much as hello? But hey, what was he supposed to do?

(Their mailing addresses were tucked away in the same drawer that he kept any letters he got from Runner. They had his, he had theirs, and maybe his was part of some ongoing game of Chicken that he was playing with Hoosier. Either way, Runner didn’t care.)

Cobber,

The newest letter said, because Runner had quit with the Leckie pretence and cut to the chase with the stupid nicknames. Leckie couldn’t help but feel relief. Too many people had called him by his surname in the Marines. And back home, too many people called him Bob. Runner managed to find that surprising middle ground, by letting Leckie be someone else completely, just for a moment.

I’ve got a reason to write this, for once. Today, is Memorial Day. Which, as far as I’m concerned, is the government telling me to take the day off and get wasted, flashing that little veteran’s tag to get a discount at my local drink house.

Now, you’ll get this on, what? Beginning of June? Take some time for yourself, have a drink. (I’m not paying, though. That’s up to you, and your fancy paper job.)

Runner

If there was one thing that Leckie could be assured about, it’s that Runner’s letters would make him smile. He started reading them in his bedroom, instead of cracking the letter open in the dining room, where his parents had to see.

Everyone seemed to expect him to have left the war overseas. And it might have been over, but he couldn’t help but yearn for something that he’d had then. Not war, but something that had been so closely linked with the brutality of it all, that he didn’t think he’d be able to articulate it to anyone.

Maybe, he pondered, Runner understood him. Runner had understood him better than a lot of people had. On the boat ride home from that Australian hospital—

Runner just got it.

**

Runner,

He started, a couple weeks later.

You should get this by July 4th, and I wish you a good Independence Day. Go to a barbecue, wear your dress blues, go to a banquet. 

I hope it’s better for you than it will be for me. My parents are leaving me all alone to spend time with my brother and his wife, a couple towns over. I’m expecting to spend the night tucked up in my bedroom, shouting bah, humbug! everytime I hear fireworks. I hope the reference doesn’t go over your head— I can explain it in my next letter.

Leckie

**

The Fourth of July was more miserable than he’d expected. The commotion stirred up more in Leckie’s chest than he wanted to admit. The fireworks were too loud, and July was too hot. He laid on his childhood bed in nothing but his boxers, staring up at the ceiling, working through his third glass of beer.

At some point, he got up, pulled a paper from his desk and started writing.

Runner,

These damn holidays might be more exciting if you got closer.

There’s a good bar near my work, they do swing dancing on Thursday nights: I’m sure it’s your venue. You’re the best dancer I know!

I hope you can hear the sarcasm.

I won’t pick Hoosier over you, this time.

Leckie.

In the morning, after a cup of coffee and an aspirin for his headache, he read it through (as well as a typed page-and-a-half of hazy memories from Mbanika, which he crumpled into a ball and tossed under his bed.) and tucked it carefully into the drawer with Runner’s letters.

He didn’t really want to think too hard about all that.

**

Peaches,

I got the reference, thanks. I like to think you have those big mutton chops that I remember from those old pictures. You’re called Peaches, but you’re not all that sweet, are you?

That’s not a real question. I know the answer.

Hope your Independence Day was as boring as mine. I forgot how loud those things were.

Runner

**

Leckie couldn’t stop writing them. Stupid, ridiculous messages that really meant nothing.

He put them in his drawer, tucked away just in case he ever needed it. Leckie didn’t think it was vain, but some of them were well written. He didn’t feel that too often, so he kept them.

**

I saw a guy with your haircut, made me look twice just to be sure. I should have known it wasn’t you; he was taller.

That one was scribbled in his work notebook, while he was at the game (Phillips vs. Chicago Cubs), and the audience clapped and jeered around him.

You’re a marine, but how well can you swim? I’ve never asked.

Leckie wrote that question on a napkin in a diner. His pen ripped through it at the end.

**

I miss the boys. I miss you.

He didn’t write that one, but he heard it reverberating in his head when he flicked the lamp off. It was burned into the backs of his eyelids, anyway.

I miss you.

He was surprised that he meant it.

**

Professor,

That was how Runner opened his next message. It made Leckie smile. (Of course it did. They all did.)

Why DO we celebrate Labour Day? I saw them putting streamers and banners and what-not up in the streets today. New York City is a funny beast— you should come by, watch the parade.

Hope you get a day off work, and some time to yourself. (I’m still not paying for your drinks)

Runner

Leckie stared at that message for longer than he had any right to. By the time he sent his reply, Labour Day had passed, and he could only wonder what Runner had meant by any of it.

**

Runner,

I’ve got to come up with something more exciting for you. It’s difficult when I can’t see all the ridiculous shit you’re getting yourself into. And you don’t have the inclination to write it to me, I bet.

I’d call you a coward, but you’d call me one right back. Have you ever realised that we bicker like school children?

Leckie

**

To the man who mocks me,

Yeah, well, it’s hard to come up with nicknames for you too. That one just now was shit.

You want to know what I’ve been up to? Really? Well, I’ve got a job at the steelworks, which is great and all. Except I ran into a piece of machinery the other day, busted my lip wide open. There was a hell of a lot of blood. I think the 16-year-old kid who works next to me fainted. How’s that?

We’re both cowards, so what? We served our damn country.

Buster (I sure buster’ed my lip open. Get it?)

**

Bruiser,

All I have to say is that: you’re an idiot!

Yours,

The brilliant professor who’s kept himself out of danger

**

Leckie thought about Runner too much, he realised.

Some part of him was always waiting for the next letter, waiting to write, to come up with something short and stupid to say to the man, just so that he could imagine Runner’s familiar laugh.

Shit. Leckie thought, as he folded up another half-drafted, but unsendable letter.

**

Professor,

Tell me a story, if you’re so wise.

Your bruised-lipped-friend,

Runner

**

Runner,

If you really want to know, I’ve been more of an idiot to you.

My mother asked me this morning if I was getting married soon. I told her no.

She said that she thought I had been in contact with “that lovely girl from across the street,” and the woman she meant was the dearest Vera that everyone was so tired of hearing about. I had to break my mother’s heart and tell her that Vera moved away months ago, and that she was already married— to an army man, no less.

The old woman was more distraught about it than I was. Turns out she thought that Vera and you were one in the same. I’m surprised she never sent you an engagement present.

Leckie.

**

Leckie,

Hell, why didn’t you say so? I would have acted soppier.

In that case, you should come to New York this November and visit your sweetheart, how’s that?

Runner

**

Leckie blinked at that, then he stared for a long time, hoping to make sense of it all.

**

Runner,

November’s no good, I’m all booked up. How’s early December?

Leckie

**

To a difficult guest,

I guess I can fit you into my busy schedule.

I’ll see you in three weeks, then?

Runner.

**

Leckie booked a train ticket before he could convince himself otherwise.

Then, he stuffed a handful of his little messages into an envelope, scribbled Runner’s address, and mailed it all without a second thought.

Five days letter, he got an envelope back, inside, with no signature, was something simple, etched in Runner’s charming chicken-scratch:

We should have done all this in February. I would have wished you a happy Valentine’s.

[t-u-i-t-c]

Tokucember Day 8: First Toku Series

The High School Heroes (2021)

Translations for Background Text:

Translation Credit: oidesunshines

Manaka Taisei:

School Defense Club's President

Life Bible: Gorenger

School Point's: 4520 pts

Class 3-B, Manaka Taisei

Takigawa Yusuke:

The Baseball Team's No.1 Pitcher

First Place in School Tests for 3 Consecutive Years

School Points: 35800 pts

Class 3-B, Takigawa Yusuke

Domon Ryuhei:

Part of the Basketball Team, Appeared in National Tournament

The King of Shooting Scores

School Points: 1350 pts

Class 3-B, Domon Ryuhei

Morimura Naoya:

The Star of the Dance Club

Valentine's Day Chocolate Record: 35 Chocolates

School Points: 8580 pts

Class 3-B, Morimura Naoya

Oura Hyuma:

The School President for Three Consecutive Years

School Points: 127770 pts

Class 3-A, Oura Hyuma

Sakurai Ichika:

The Art Club's Conscious Artist

A Well-Known Student Artist

School Points: 19400 pts

Class 2-A, Sakurai Ichika

[the-football-chick]

Baseball legend Rickey Henderson has passed away at the age of 65. The cause of death was not reported. Henderson is the all-time stolen bases leader, with 1,406 stolen bases over the course of his 25-year career. He is the only MLB player to have ever reached the 1,000 stolen bases milestone. Henderson also holds the MLB record for the most career runs scored, with a total of 2,295.

[dystychiphxbia]

☆ - on a different league | narumiya mei

this could've been a longer story but the daiya fandom is not at its peak anymore so i decided to sum it up into this one shot but it just doesn't have the right vibe </3 i did finish it though so im posting it, not proofread she/her pronouns for reader wc: 1.7k

You met Narumiya Mei in your first year of high school.

You went to Inashiro for their track team. During middle school, you harbored some honorable records and thus managed to score a scholarship - your parents would've never afforded to send you to a private school otherwise.

You were excited for your new school life - focusing on your club activities and training hard, getting new friends...You never thought that Narumiya Mei would become part of your life.

He was your classmate. He had charm, you had to admit, and soon enough your whole class seemed to be infatuated with him. But you could see past that.

"And then I got the guy with my ultra super awesome changeup-"

"Changeup? What was that, again?" A smug grin appeared on your face as you watched Narumiya's smile drop. You were now in your second year, and he had gotten into the habit of bragging to you whenever he did something "cool".

"I've told you tons of times, (L/n)!! Are you stupid or something?!" "You've seen my grades, Narumiya. I think that answers your question." You watched the blond grit his teeth.

Narumiya was someone who did not need to worry about his grades - his future lay in baseball. Yet ever since your first year, he wanted to compete with you in every single subject. He just never failed to get the hint - that academically speaking - you would always be superior.

"She's so infuriating, Masa-san!!" Was Narumiya's most common phrase when he arrived to practice. And everyone knew that they were in for a long rant about Narumiya's so-called 'enemy'. They had started placing bets on when their ace would realize that he was most likely head over heels for you.

If one of them even hinted at something like that, Narumiya's face would twist and turn into a look of grimace, and he pretended like he was about to throw up.

But the thing is, even he was not so sure why he was so keen on speaking with you. Everyone else always enjoyed talking with him, he just had tons of charisma, you know? But, you. You. You never smiled, genuinely, only grinned smugly whenever you somehow gained the upper hand. You didn't know the rules of baseball despite attending a school that regularly went to Koshien - and the rules wouldn't stick in your head no matter how many times he explained them to you.

And you. You always focused in class, wrote your notes diligently, raised your hand way too often. You would only ever look at him to glare if he was whispering too hard with some other (female) classmate. "Jealous?" His smug grin would ask you - and you would raise your hand, outing him to the teacher for disturbing class.

You never came to any of the baseball team's games. He always asked you, even invited you, but you always said that you weren't interested. Sure, Narumiya knew that you had your own club, in fact, he heard that you were one of the track team's most promising members. But everyone else found time to come to the games, at minimum the finals, why didn't you?

Seriously, who came to Inashiro and then claimed to not be interested in baseball?

He would occasionally see you running around the campus. The track field was high quality and had plenty of space, yet you would always warm up by running around the school grounds. Why, he did not know.

He did once ask you, but you just shrugged. "I enjoy watching the other clubs being hard at work." "Even the baseball team?" "No, not the baseball team."

You were strange.

Maybe that's why he always seemed to spot you in crowds. You were different - and not entirely in a bad way.

''(L/n), do you have any friends?''

Your brows furrowed - you did not like what he was implying. ''What kind of question is that, Narumiya? I have plenty of friends.'' ''Is that why you are always sitting alone and reading a book?'' Your eyes darted up from your book. Narumiya was sitting on the chair in front of your desk, facing you, and resting his head on your desk.

''Are you trying to imply that I'm a loner?'' ''Well, you are always alone, aren't you?'' ''No, Narumiya. I'm always with you.''

That afternoon, Inashiro's ace pitcher couldn't focus in practice. He was always surrounded by people, whether or not you were there. He hadn't even realized that he did spend a lot of time with you.

''Masa-san, I think she's a witch.'' He had announced in the bullpen. ''Hah? That's a new one.'' His catcher had answered, kind of curious to see what Narumiya had on his mind this time. ''Yes, she's a witch. And she's put a spell on me.''

The school year seemed to fly by. The baseball team went to Koshien in the summer, got defeated, and tried again in the fall. Yet they had lost in a game that was supposed to be a guaranteed win. And yet again, you were not there to watch. Narumiya tried to spot you in the bleachers, even though he knew that you wouldn't be there.

''You aren't bragging about your latest game.'' You pointed out, closing the lid of you lunchbox. ''We lost, (L/n). There's nothing to brag about.'' The blond whined, glaring at you for reminding him. ''Really? You didn't do even one good play?''

Narumiya thought back to the moment he had disagreed with his catcher - his first mistake. It all just went downhill from there. ''No, this time there really isn't anything to brag about.''

''Ah, is that so? So are you still crying yourself to sleep every night, then?'' Narumiya narrowed his eyes at your words. ''No! I've gotten over it already!''

He had never realized, but you actually knew quite a lot about him. ''I think she's a mind reader, Itsuki!'' ''Mei-san...you've been classmates with her for two years...'' ''She can read minds, I'm telling you!!''

Whatever helps him sleep at night.

You were now both third years. You found it hard to describe your relationship with Narumiya. On the outside it really did seem like you were friends. Because you did often eat lunch together, he would tell you about his baseball team and you would always find something to make a witty remark about.

But you did not have his phone number, you did not talk about what either of you did during the weekend, you never laughed at his jokes.

You weren't sure how to feel about him.

You never decided to be friends. And thus, you think that you aren't. Because Narumiya was out of reach for you, so far away.

Yet you found yourself reaching for him. Hanging onto the little thread he was handing to you, which he would eventually just cut down. Because you just weren't meant for each other.

''She was quiet today.'' Narumiya's expression was difficult to read, but he seemed distressed, at least in Itsuki's mind. You held such power over him, Itsuki was worried that they would one day lose a whole game because of you.

''Who was quiet?''

Narumiya was about to throw another pitch, but instead dropped the ball on the ground. He looked at you, his mouth wide open. ''(L-L-L/n)?!'' His hand trembled as he pointed at you.

''Yes, it's me. You look like you've seen a ghost, Narumiya.'' You were clearly fighting back a laugh. This was the first time Itsuki had ever seen you - and you did not match Narumiya's stories at all. You were beautiful.

Suddenly Itsuki understood why Narumiya paid so much attention to you.

''W-w-what are you doing here?!'' You had never shown any interest in baseball, yet here you are, standing on the field. You are wearing your track uniform - seems like you were in the middle of warming up.

''Oh, me?'' You pointed at yourself, acting like you were confused. ''Yes, you! Don't play dumb!'' At this point, Narumiya had stomped over to you - his pitching practice long forgotten.

''Oh, I'm here to see my little brother.''

''Huh?''

''You know. My little brother. The one who joined the team this year.''

''WHAT?''

Itsuki connected the dots. But for Narumiya, it seemed impossible. ''Who's your little brother?!'' ''...(L/n)? Do you not know your first years by name?'' ''No, I do not! Point them out for me!'' He grabbed your shoulders, turning you towards where all the first years were currently running.

You squinted your eyes trying to spot your younger brother in the crowd. When you finally did so, you raised your hand to point in that direction, and Narumiya desperately tried to follow your line of sight. ''Him, over there. The one with (hc) hair.'' ''That's one of our most promising rookies???!!!!!!''

He turned you around, shaking you around lightly. ''You claimed to know nothing about baseball! And now you are telling me that a super rookie is your little brother?!'' ''Did I claim that? Oops, I lied.'' You stuck your tongue out at him.

Narumiya's hands left your shoulders - slumping down. ''I can't believe you have lied to me all these years...''

You laughed. Oh, you laughed for a long time.

You had started the game of acting dumb because you enjoyed the reactions Narumiya gave you. And, because you wanted to kick him off his high horse - to you, it seemed like you were successful.

''I'm so hurt, (Y/n)!! How could you!'' Your laughter stopped. Did he not even notice that he called you by your first name? It was a stage you thought you could never reach.

''Mei-san, the coach will get angry at you if you don't get back to practice...'' The younger catcher tried to grab the ace's attention - who just continued sulking. Itsuki gave you an apologetic smile, but you just shook your head. You were used to Narumiya being like this.

Your little brother had noticed you and came to talk to you, but instead he was startled by their team's ace pitcher. ''You-! Why didn't you tell me that you were related to (Y/n)?!'' Narumiya had pointed at him, accusing him of withholding information. In truth, your little brother did not even know that you were ''friends'' with Narumiya Mei.

Sighing, you had flicked Narumiya's forehead. ''Don't drag my dear little brother into this. I was the one playing with you this whole time.'' Narumiya held his forehead, refusing to admit that it actually hurt, though his expression said otherwise.

''Then...as an apology, will you come to our next game?''

''I'd be happy to, Mei.''

[somber-sapphic]

If You Can't Handle The Heat

〖Notes: I wrote this because I almost passed out yesterday. Oops. Also, it's been years since I played baseball so please excuse me if I messed up on any rules. Also pt 2 I'm writing this at 2 am so it's probably not great.〗

〖Summary: You and the heat are not the best of friends.〗

〖Word Count: 1296 〗

〖Pairing: wandanat x reader〗

☾Masterlists☽

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

For some damn reason, Steve had decided that the Avengers needed to bond. Maybe it had been the mild infighting, or the fact that you had thrown a metal pot at Tony’s head (he deserved it) but he had declared it, and Tony, still nursing a minor head injury, had agreed. For the ‘bonding experience,’ the men had chosen baseball. 

Why baseball? Who knows. Perhaps it was the overly American of the sport nature which Steve thrived on, it could also have had something to do with Tony’s wish to wack something with a bat. In all reality, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that now you all had to play the game and you were cooking in the sun. 

The day wasn’t going to get a record for heat or anything, it was only about 80°F but you weren’t drinking enough water and the temperature was getting to you. 

You had never been particularly good at handling hot temperatures, but you had hoped it wouldn’t be an issue. In your mind, you should be able to handle it. Everyone else was fine, Steve still even had his shirt on. They were all sweating lightly, but no one looked as uncomfortable as you felt. In fact, they seemed to be enjoying themselves. 

You stood up and took a sharp breath, blinking rapidly to keep yourself from falling over. You leaned against a tree and Wanda touched the back of your thigh, giving you a concerned look. Her beautiful chocolate eyes sparkled in the sun, hinting at the wisdom and mystery behind the orbs. You just smiled, trying to assure her that everything was okay. 

Wanda was the only one who wasn’t playing, she had flat-out refused. There was just no arguing with the witch when she had made up her mind, and the look on her face when she had said that she was ‘not playing this stupid American game’ she meant it. She would not be participating. 

So instead, the beautiful witch was sitting on a picnic blanket guarding the waters and keeping score. She would cheer whenever a ball got hit, but she didn’t seem to be paying much attention. No one really minded, they had all gotten into the game. 

 Natasha was ahead of you to bat, muttering to herself about how she was going to kick everyone’s asses and other such obscenities. To be fair, she had the highest batting average according to Wanda’s surprisingly detailed piece of paper. 

It was a surprise when she only made a single, hitting the ball almost directly back into Bruce’s mitt. Her annoyance was clear in the way that she glared at the ground, and you, expression that of pure rage. Your girlfriend didn’t handle losing well. That’s why she didn’t lose.

You pulled yourself up to the plate, picking up the bat with heavy limbs. It felt like it weighed a million pounds, the leather grip hot in your hands. You settled into your position, hands choked up on the bat while you stared at Bruce who was ready to throw the ball. 

It felt like the world was moving in slow motion as if you were swimming through a pool of corn syrup every muscle working overtime to go at half of the speed. 

You put every ounce of force behind your swing and the ball connected with a loud crack. Natasha’s face lit up and she turned to run as you threw the bat, springing forward with your eyes set on first base. 

You had barely made it three steps in when your entire body began to tingle. The feeling of a thousand ants crawling across your skin wasn't enough, it came with incredible fatigue and the loss of vision around the edges. You could feel yourself losing consciousness, but you continued to run, desperate to keep your teams lead. 

As you rounded first base, your limbs turned to jelly, and the darkness in the corners of your eyes became a haze that engulfed everything you could see.

You knew that you were slowing down, but you tried to continue forward, even as your knees buckled and your head bounced against the sand of the baseball diamond. It was only when you found yourself fully splayed out on the ground did you realize that you were falling unconscious. 

Your vision continued to dim as cries of your name filled your tinny ears. Oh well, you had given it your best shot. Now at least you could get out of the heat. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Hey, there she is. Open those eyes, pretty girl.” A soft voice coaxed, pulling you out of stuffy darkness. You whined softly and wrinkled your nose, an overwhelming sense of cold suddenly washing over you. Why were you so cold? It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t overly uncomfortable, just cold. 

Determined to discover the source of the inherent lack of heat, you opened your eyes to find yourself staring up at a terrified-looking Wanda and Natasha who was clearly trying to mask her worry. She wasn’t doing very well. 

“Mmm…” You groaned, your entire body aching in protest. Everything hurt, even your eyelids hurt. Parts of your body that you weren’t aware existed hurt. Your ears throbbed, increasing the pain in your throbbing head. 

“Hi Y/n, do you remember what happened?” Natasha asked gently, reaching over to card her fingers through your damp hair. 

“Why’m’I wet?” You slurred, too tired to move enough to sit up or rollover. Your body was actively working against you and you really weren’t enjoying it. Not that anyone would, but it was particularly frustrating for someone who always needed to be in control. 

“You had a temperature of 106°F, you passed out. We got you to medical and put you in an ice bath to cool you back down. Baby, you really scared us.” Wanda whispered, her voice breaking slightly on her emotion. Natasha was blinking back tears, sniffling quietly as she tried to pretend like she wasn’t about to break down. 

Now that it had been mentioned, you recognized the medbay. There was an IV in your arm, presumably administering fluids, and you were most definitely not in your bed. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t your room. 

“Why do’I feel like I got h’t by a bus?” You mumbled, already ready to go back to sleep. You simply had no energy. 

“Well, heatstroke tends to do that. You could’ve died. You keep almost dying, do you know how scary that is?” Natasha demanded, shifting onto the cot so that she was spooning you. It had apparently been determined that you had cooled down enough to be cuddled. 

“Mhm.” You grunted, too tired to say anything. You reached out with a limp arm and fumbled for Wanda, pulling her over so that she was on your other side. 

“This is serious, we can’t just brush past it! You have to take care of yourself, it’s getting dangerous!” The witch insisted, laying stiffly beside you. It wasn’t like she was wrong, it was just that you didn’t care enough. You could care later when it didn’t feel like you had been burnt alive and rehydrated. 

“Wands, just let her rest for now. We’ll talk about it in the morning.” Natasha sighed, reaching across you to lay a hand on her waist. She hummed her disapproval but relaxed and laid her head against your chest. 

You heard the redhead say something about having a few more hours left until something, but you were already falling asleep. It didn’t matter anyways, they’d take care of it. For now, you’d just sleep. Sleep, and figure out what was going on later. Wanda and Natasha would make sure that everything happened as it was supposed to, they always did. 

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[dreadfulgentleman]

People keep mentioning interviews of Meet the Robinsons characters, but I have no idea where to find them. Do you know where I can find the interviews?

Without more info to go on, I can only assume what you're referring to, anon, so hopefully this answers your question. Feel free to message me again if this isn't what you're talking about. A few of the voice actors from Meet the Robinsons were given a fun task of answering interview questions while in character. There are interviews from Goob, Mr. Willerstein, Lewis, Wilbur, Mildred, Carl, Art/Gaston, Lazlo/Tallulah, and Franny. Some of these interviews were a mix between asking in-character questions while others were just casual questions for the actor. (For example, a lot of young Goob's first monologue in the opening of the film was taken from Director Stephen J. Anderson simply asking Matthew Josten how his real-life baseball activities were going. The resulting answer led to him saying, "We've lost every game. Yesterday, the score was 1-13... It's about having fun, really. I don't really care about winning... Well, like, now I do, 'cause, like, we've lost every game, I've gotten tired of it. Come on! Let's play some baseball, okay! Okay? Not the lazy game."**) **Despite the in-movie quote being taken from what Matthew Josten literally said, he still had to re-record the real lines later. At first, these interviews were just for fun. A way to get the actors in the groove and warm up. As time went on, some of these interviews were written on purpose to give the animators something to play with and a get a feel for the characters. It is possible that these could have become bonus content at some point, but they never went anywhere and so they remained shelved. The only time I've ever seen anything said online about this content was back when this blog used to be a Meet the Robinsons themed blog and I shared behind-the-scenes fun facts and trivia from the film. I believe I had once posted summarized text snippets from these interviews as part of the 10th anniversary celebration that the fandom was going through at the time. Since having changed my blog's theme since then, those old posts were deleted. As far as I'm aware, these interviews cannot be found online. But I haven't done an extensive search into what's available online these days with MTR content, so who knows!

[dinosaurwithablog]

The LA Dodgers have set a record for their team and for the National League by getting 46 home runs in 6 games during this series, and they're still scoring!! It's 10-4,Dodgers, and they still have an out left!! Phenomenal baseball ⚾️ 👏🏽

[optimistredsox]

2024 Red Sox and thank goodness the Dodgers beat the Skanks

Mookie Betts knocking in the game-winning run, even in a Dodgers uniform, made me very happy. The Yankees looking like they should've had Yakkity Sax from Benny Hill playing behind their error-laden disastrous top of the fifth also made me very happy. If you are going to have the two richest teams in baseball fighting it out for the World Series, then at least the one I hate less won. And I don't really hate the Dodgers. I could never hate Dave Roberts or Mookie Betts. I even have a fondness for Kiké Hernandez's brief time at Boston. Anyway. I am delighted the Dodgers won and, as always, fuck the Skanks.

It also provides a bit of comfort that the Sox performed admirably against both World Series teams this year. They didn't dominate, but they didn't roll over and die either. Which I think is my takeaway on the season as a whole. We didn't roll over and die. I would have liked a winning record but will totally take .500 considering how low the lows were (and how low the pundits put us at the beginning of the season).

Speaking of lows, I might as well get those out of the way first. We were diabolical on the field. Our unearned run totals looked as though we were the Skanks in the top of the fifth in game 5 almost every day. Those were so decisive at the beginning of the season I'm sure they ended up keeping us out of the Wild Card. Yeah, it's a young team, but oof. It was painful to watch. And to have to watch it so frequently was brutal.

We struck out A LOT. We did not walk very much. On the 20th anniversary of The Comeback, seeing the incredible level of plate discipline and willingness to lay off bad pitches, it was tough to see a Sox lineup so free swinging and impatient. It also led to struggles with runners in scoring position and getting runners into scoring position. Anyway. That was grim.

Jarren Duran never really felt contrite for the homophobic slur he used. It undermined my ability to cheer for him for the rest of the season and left me downcast that he was the problem but actually indicative of the unreconstructed atmosphere of the clubhouse and perhaps even the nature of the whole of Major League Baseball. Which is a fucking bummer in this day and age.

That all said, the 2024 Red Sox could be so much fun to watch. The avalanche of injuries at the beginning of the season, instead of burying them, allowed a young, exciting, not-terribly-disciplined group of players keep us on the edge of our seats.

The rotation and bullpen at the beginning of the season were lights out when we were on the ropes.

Wilyer Abreu and Ceddanne Rafaela were so much fun to watch. Except when they were striking out.

We signed Rich Hill! Pride of Medford!

This team gave us way more hope than any of us ever expected. They were three games up for the Wild Card at the All Star Break.

Connor Wong was fun. Most athletic catcher since Joe Mauer?

Dom Smith was such an appreciated addition whilst Tristan Casas was recovering from his injury. One of the lone veterans on a super young team.

Tanner Houck, anti-vaxxer though he may be, grew into a solid ace.

We extended Alex Cora who managed a hell of a season with almost no help from upstairs (ownership/senior management, not god).

I'm not sure what the future holds. FSG and John Henry seem to still be chasing the illusion of a chasing championships whilst not spending any fucking money, which I don't think is going to work. But this last season gave us some good baseball. I want the Red Sox to play good baseball. I'd like them to play MORE good baseball in 2025. Winning record and playoffs. Let's do this.