#that's my canadian pitcher

[sgtbradfords]

1,029 days later and against all odds and obstacles, Michael Soroka returns to the major league mound tonight.

[l0vergirlsw0rld]

Need fluff with logan and a southern reader pretty pretty pls!!!

I’m from a hawt place so a winter man in a winter cabin is needed right about now. Please can I request headcanons or a one shot about the reader that bakes him so many sweets/makes so much food for winter he gets chubby and notices, maybe they swap recipes or bake together? Just so much domestic fluff

It’s a primal need to see this man happy, unbothered in the Canadian wilderness, thriving with anything his heart wants and I know I can make that happen lmao

taste of home

bigdaddy!loganxsouthern!reader

a/n: i got so inspired by this request that I started and finished in one session! was definitely needed to whip up some cute cozy feel feel-good after the hours of writing smut for Ravish. thank you for the request, my asks are always open! hope y'all enjoy it! <3 a/n: i got so inspired by this request that I started and finished in one session! was definitely needed to whip up some cute cozy feel feel-good after the hours of writing smut for Ravish. thank you for the request, my asks are always open! hope y'all enjoy it! <3

wc: 1k

18+ MDNI | sexual themes, FLUFF, the name daddy is used.

summary: Y/N has been a little homesick lately and found a temporary cure through baking for Logan.

"What're you getting all dolled up for?" Logan cooed from the doorframe he was leaning on, his arms crossed. 

Your eyes met his reflection in the mirror of your vanity. 

"Nothin', just felt like being pretty." You smiled up at him as you put on your pearl earrings. 

It was true, you had nowhere to go. Logan's cabin was located in quite literally the middle of nowhere. Miles and miles of trees surrounded the property secluding you both from any and all civilization. 

Back home, it was part of your routine to get ready for the day even though all you'd do was stay home. There was something fulfilling about looking your best every day: if you looked good, you felt good.

You had felt a little homesick lately.

 Logan had dragged you deep into the Canadian forests for the winter because he couldn't stand the southern heat that you were used to. At first, you weren't a fan of the idea, but seeing as how happy it made Logan, it made the move all worthwhile.

He'd let go of his negative ways, he was now affectionate, talkative, and adventurous. His being away from all the stress allowed him to show you some of his other colours and vibrant ones at that.

"What do you always say... as pretty as a plum?" He snorted.

"As a peach. It's pretty as a peach." You giggled. 

"Well then, darling, you're as pretty as a peach." He corrected himself, pushing off the door frame and walking up behind your chair.

"Why thank you, Daddy," You blushed as he placed a gentle kiss on your exposed shoulder. 

"God, I love it when you call me that." He groaned into your skin, giving you a soft bite. 

You giggled from the slight pinch and finished getting ready with a few final pats of powder. 

"Mmm, as much as I'd want to do that with you right now, know what day it is. It's my baking day, Lo'." You tipped your head back and pressed a kiss to his stubbly cheek. 

"Can't you do it tomorrow baby?" He huffed.

"You know it's tradition, Sunday is baking day. Do you want more sweets or what?" You raised an eyebrow. 

"Yes, mam'." He chuckled, taking a seat on the bed and letting you get to your  work station.

He knew how serious you got about your baking, it was your primary way of curing your homesickness. 

You'd always keep a pitcher of sweet tea in the fridge and cupboards stocked with fresh bread and goodies. Logan could not bring himself to complain, he had developed a major sweet tooth since being with you. Every time you'd make new batches they would be gone in a matter of a few days. It's as if he'd eat one each time he'd pass by them. 

You didn't mind though, it warmed your heart to see how much he enjoyed your baking. Often you'd find some powdered sugar left in his beard. 

"You should watch it with those," You'd warn him as he devoured them, one by one. 

"I got bones of steel. No need to worry baby, sugar is the last thing that'll take me out." He mumbled with his mouth full, not being able to control himself around your delicious treats.

His favourites were your peach cobbler, lemon bars and peanut butter-chocolate fudge. Those were also conveniently the easiest ones to make. You had tried to teach Logan how to make them on his own, but it never stuck. 

"Why are they flat like pancakes? I followed your recipe," He had come to you while you left him unsupervised in the kitchen. You put your embroidery down and peered into the baking pan. 

"Did you use baking powder?" You poked the gooey top of his 'cupcake.' 

"Yes." He grumbled.

"Are you sure it was baking powder and not baking soda?" You tasted the batter, making a face. Salty.

"There's a difference?" His eyebrows furrowed.

Baking didn't come naturally to Logan, and that was okay. You had your strengths and he had his, which is what made you two work so well together. 

You spent the entire day working up a storm in the kitchen. 

Multitasking the different steps for each recipe with ease. You had spent so much time of your life baking that tackling multiple projects at once didn't even make you break a sweat. Logan turned his leather armchair to face you from across the house so he could watch you. 

He enjoyed watching you get lost in your little head as you worked. The way your plump lips wrapped around your finger when you taste-tested the recipes, making sure they were just right for him. The slight lift of your dress as you bent over to grab some pans from storage. Your flushed skin, glowing underneath the kitchen light. That little sigh of relief would escape you as you tied your hair up from the heat of the oven. Just like that, silently, he'd ogle you from his corner, sipping his favourite whiskey, and watching his favourite doll. 

Of course, at any chance he'd get he'd be there to come help you when you needed him to reach some things that were too high up or lift the heavy sac of flour on the counter for you. 

Today, you had made the biggest batches yet, pans of cooling sweets covered your entire kitchen surface. 

"Whoa baby, what're you feeding, the army?" Logan teased as he walked by shirtless. 

When you first started seeing Logan, he was in optimal shape. He was nothing but an angry mess of hair and muscle. But since he moved you into the cabin, he had started putting on a few extra pounds, most likely from his overconsumption of your treats. 

"No, I'm feeding a Wolverine that's clearly getting ready for winter." You teased back, poking his stomach. 

 He stopped in his tracks and peered down at his hair-covered gut. 

In no way shape or form did he look bad with the added weight, if anything you like him having a few extra layers? 

"You callin' me fat?" Grinned mischievously. 

"I was just playin- ah Logan!" You gasped as he threw you over his shoulder with a swift motion. Holding your ass right next to his face with his arm. He hoisted up your dress with his free hand, revealing your white bow panties. Your legs kicked in protest. 

"Daddy, stop it- you're not fat-" 

"That's not very nice baby, gonna need to punish you." He chuckled giving you a hard spank on the cheek, then placed you back down. 

"Now if you will excuse me, I've gotta get ready for winter." He winked as he grabbed the cookie closest to him. Sinking with teeth in it with that smile you oh so fell in love with. 

🏷️: @babey-fruit-bat <3

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[pinazee]

First season wrap up:

Okay, to start, i should mention my general opinion on first seasons for shows, especially cable shows, is not to read too much of it as canon. The writers, producers, actors- everyone- are all trying to figure out what works and what doesn’t, so i give them latitude, particularly when it conflicts with later seasons. That being said, i do enjoy jumping through the hoops to make it all fit haha

So heres a few leftover notes i had as i revisited the eps to rank them:

I bet part of Lassie was craving the father figure in Henry, since we find out later his own father passed away when he was quite young. I wonder if thats part of the reason why he became a cop, as they are portrayed as the protectors and in the 80’s they were mainly men (i don’t really remember if he states his reason later, i suspect he did and im just not remembering). So when Henry didn’t meet up to the expectation he had in his mind, i bet it hurt a little more as it reminded him of what he lost :/

I think the other reason Shawn plays dumb so much, besides hiding his genius so ppl believe hes psychic, or for laughs, is because its how he gets people talking. Like in Shawn vs. the red phantom, he purposely guessed the wrong room number so the boys would correct him. My apologies if someones pointed this out before, i haven’t combed through the internet for everyone’s theories 😬 i only now noticed. I’m not the quickest at picking these things up lol

If i had to guess, Shawn didn’t want to be a cop for halloween, he probably wanted to be something star wars related to go with Gus’s Lando. So i wonder at what age Shawn stopped trying to please his dad. But also, why didn’t his mother ever stand up for him?? I’ll come back to her later -_-

I somehow missed it the first time, but shawn clearly asked Gus to come to the dinner and Gus even points out that it was a big deal for henry to reach out. Soo, yeah, shawn obviously didn’t wanna be alone with his dad, and even henry seemed nervous about it as hes pretty drunk.

Shawn has a right to be afraid of pointy things, his dad hid his easter eggs under glass when he was 6! Not to mention he later gets stabbed 3 times! (Also its just a legitimate fear???)

So far the list of Shawns knowledge (things i wouldn’t expect an average person to know) includes (beyond the obvious observational skills, deductive reasoning, reading people (poker), and all things police (marksmanship, police codes, etc.)):

Incredible spatial and physical reasoning skills (knowing how much money could fit in the duffle bag, knowing to rotate the water pitcher to catch the reflection from the tv)

Kurt Vonnegut (well, I didn’t know who he was at least)

How to spell aggiornamento (and probably all words because of his photographic memory)

Handwriting expert

Casually spoke and understood german

Has every road he’s driven mapped in his brain, and likely all of Santa Barbara

Familiar with paint (enough to know to mix latex enamel for no messy drips)

Animal tracks (i went back and forth on this but ultimately decided he must have known what to look for)

And heres a list of Gus’s niche interests:

Forensics

Spelling bee

Safe cracking

Historic rifles

Comic books

Astronomy (even though he was going to the planetarium for the girl)

Law

Local tennis

Online poker

Lastly, Ive decided instead of ranking them, im putting them in tiers. I feel like too many of them are hitting at the same level and I can’t differentiate:

Sweetest, Juiciest Golden Pineapple Tier

Scary Sherry, Biancas toast (ohmygod i just got the biancas toast 🤦🏽‍♀️)

Blue Psych Logo Tier

Weekend warriors

Forget me not

From the earth to starbucks

Poker? I hardly know her! (Sorry @pineapple-psychic!)

Pepto Bismo Pink Tier

Spelling bee

Pilot

She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me oops hes dead

Who ya gonna call?

Shawn vs the red phantom

Oops Canadian Flag Tier

Cloudy with a chance of murder

9 lives

Game set muuurder

Speak now or forever hold your piece

Woman seeking dead husband, smokers okay, no pets

[alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody]

kinktober #14

Pumpkin Spice 🎃 / Alien Abduction 🛸

“We don’t do pumpkin spice,” Jack says flatly.

Bitty’s mouth falls open a little. “But — it’s fall! It’s what the people want! Aren’t you losing business to every other coffee shop between August and November?”

“No.” Jack swipes a molecule of ground coffee Bitty can’t even see from the butcher block counter. “We sell specialty coffee. If people want pumpkin spice, they go somewhere else.”

Bitty’s romantic daydreams of cinnamon-and-nutmeg-scented fall afternoons staring out of Zimmermann’s big front windows deflate in a gust of cold air. When Jack introduced himself ten minutes ago, he’d only fueled those daydreams — the sweet agony of a cute coworker crush, some eye candy to make slow shifts pass faster — but now, in front of Bitty with his strong, thick arms crossed over his soft, thick middle, he just seems like a taunt.

Bitty follows Jack’s lead and ties on an apron, then washes his hands. He tries very hard not to notice while he can loop his apron strings all the way around and lace them in front, Jack can’t. 

“Have you thought about selling pastries?” he ventures as Jack silently fills cold brew pitchers and counts jugs of milk in the fridge, noting down the totals with a pen he pulls from the apron pocket that sits below the overhang of his belly. He doesn’t acknowledge that Bitty has spoken, so Bitty rushes on nervously, “I just think people like to have something sweet with their coffee, and this is really the only high-end place in the neighborhood if you’re looking for —”

Jack’s cold blue eyes snap onto him instantly. “What’s your name? Bittle?” Bitty gulps, nods. “No, Bittle. Come on. We open in half an hour and you’re wasting time.”

“You can call me Bitty,” he ventures, grabbing a rag and wiping up some water he’d spilled earlier filling the cold brew jugs. “Everyone does.”

Jack doesn’t reply. Instead, he turns away to pour beans into the grinder’s hopper, and Bitty’s teeth find his lower lip. He is definitely tanking his first shift. Ugh. The older man he’d interviewed with had been so nice! So easygoing and fatherly, with a comforting accent that Bitty thought was Canadian but wasn’t quite sure. He sure had neglected to mention that the shift manager here was such a pill.

Tomorrow he’ll bring pie. That’ll sweeten things up. 

—

Jack does not touch the hand pies the next day or the next, which means that Bitty’s got a shitty attitude for most of the week. Nobody passes up his pies! It’s — well, it’s impolite, for starters, and more than that it’s bad taste. How dare Jack be so dang cute when he clearly lacks good judgment?! 

Except then, half an hour before the end of Bitty’s mid-morning shift on Friday, Jack says abruptly, “I’m taking a break. Can you handle things alone for a few minutes?”

Bitty bobs his head. “Of course! No problem. Um, can I text you if I have any questions?”

Jack sighs. “If you have to. You have my number from training?”

Bitty bobs his head faster. He sure does, and it’s burning a hole in his pocket. 

“D’accord,” says Jack, clocking out on the register. The word rings a faint bell in the back of Bitty’s brain — high school French, maybe? Extremely hot if so. 

He handles a handful of customers on his own while Jack’s gone — mostly young professionals dressed in expensive-looking neutrals — and even manages to get a decent tip when he’s able to calm a harried parent’s wailing infant by wiggling his eyebrows. He doesn’t break anything, doesn’t ring anyone up egregiously wrong, doesn’t even spill more than a few drops of freshly brewed dark roast. When Jack reappears from his break, the shop is still standing and there are even a few satisfied customers poking at emails at the cafe tables. None of which explains how surly Jack looks as he clocks back in.

“I think I did okay!” Bitty babbles, fixing himself a to-go cup of cold brew and dumping in plenty of cream and sugar. “Nothing blew up, obviously, and I reset the brew cycle like you showed me, and I even remembered to use a separate frother for the nut milk!”

Jack scowls. 

“Do you want me to make you something before I go?” Bitty goes on, unable to stop. “I could practice some of the harder stuff! Or I could try the espresso machine again?”

“I’m fine,” says Jack tersely, and he doesn’t say anything he doesn’t have to for the rest of Bitty’s shift. When his belly settles on the counter as he pulls espresso shots, he repositions roughly and sucks in. But out of the corner of his eye, Bitty notices him palming his gut under the edge of the counter. He’s probably starving. Jack’s been here since the shop opened at six, and he hasn’t even had a cup of coffee, for heaven’s sake! 

But when he goes to the back of house to get his things, there are only twelve hand pies left on the plate — and there were sixteen when he packed it up this morning.

Well, well. Maybe someone likes pumpkin spice after all.

[oblivious-aro]

do they actually have bagged milk as the norm in canada or is my friend just exaggerating that for the bit

Bags, cartons, and jugs are all normal ways to get milk where I live. Apparently bags are mostly just a thing in The Maritimes and Ontario, though.

It is a substantially cheaper way to buy milk, and it was how we bought milk for most of my childhood, but we switched to 2 litre cartons at some point. I think it's because you can only buy them in 3 packs (amounting to 4 litres at a time), and it can be a bit awkward to store/we weren't through that much milk that fast.

I think it's decreasing in popularity around here, but apparently bagged milk makes up 80% of milk sales in Ontario. So, like all Canadian stereotypes, it is true, but only in select area of the country. Canada is so fucking big....

Oh, and you put the bag in these cheap plastic half-pitcher things and cut the corner of with scissors:

Ours was a darker blue. I have no idea who that child is.

Oof, that hole looks too big. Everyone's gonna hate whoever cut that for the next few days.

[finsterhund]

I really want to talk about the fun things I did with my friend but I'm still trying to settle back in here.

Scott helps, but man.

So I'm gonna wait until I'm feeling a bit better. Will probably be after my roommate takes me to do six thousand different chores. I'm glad my doctor's appointment ended up being tomorrow and not yesterday because he immediately took me to Walmart and Canadian tire to buy things yesterday and was going to also take us to the grocery store the same day but I was so very tired.

The music box we thrifted has helped a lot. And the build a bear (spoilers) has been my main cuddle companion as the guy I brought on the plane with me is quarantining. (Same length of time as my new plant) Just to be on the safe side. So he's sitting on my desk. Sly is in his chair too.

Physically I'm unharmed from the airport struggle but man am I tired (and weak) and missing my friend something awful. I'm trying to be careful not to vent too much so as not to worry anybody but my life was so much better with him. I had to relearn what normal "hungry" actually means because I was no longer actively starving(?) which was surreal.

My sleep schedule has entirely reversed. I am now waking in the morning and falling asleep in the evening. Which is really weird. But my friend's timezone is all the way across the country so that makes some sense.

My plants all appear to be fine, with my pomegranate sapling looking a bit wilted and my oak sapling getting a bit of discoloration of one leaf. If anything it's due to the absence of my body heat making the climate more reflective of the outside. It literally looks like a quarter of the leaf recognized that it is Fall. Poor thing. Eventually I will be repotting my oak sapling and will probably put the pitcher baby in it's place in my self watering setup as it has more similar care needs to the companion plant, a flytrap, nextdoor.

The climate is perfect for me. Cold as fuck with a topical heating pad for my lumbar. Feels very comfy but obviously I wish I was cuddling with my friend 😭

[altschmerzes]

I do follow hockey, but definitely not enough for this thing with Thierry because all I’m coming up with is Fleury and I don’t think he’s from Montreal and I don’t think he played there either so can you explain? Google informed me that Carey Price exists which like yes thank you google I am aware

LOREAUX. YES. WHEEZE. THANK YOU.

just- okay. bear with me for a moment here where i wax on a bit about the huge potential for A Big Interesting Internal Landscape in thierry zoreaux, a canadian goalie from montréal. (if i get anything wrong in the process forgive me, this is all off the dome based on My Personal Experience And Perspective as a longtime sports fan. also it got.... long lmaooo sorry for that. i simply think goalies are fascinating and thierry specifically has such an interesting context for Being A Goalie. also no season 3 spoilers in here!.)

you're correct that fleury isn't from mtl, no! he's from another city in the province, and he never played for the habs. and you're also right, carey price does exist sldkfjs and he's CONSTANTLY on my mind when i think about thierry and about the role of goalies in sports that have them - whenever there's a team sport that has One person who is uniquely different and has a radically different role (goalie, pitcher) compared to the rest of the team (whose roles are pretty similar even if they're first baseman, outfielder, midfielder, fullback) there's gonna be a Lot going on there. goalies have a reputation for being Really Fucking Weird. like. those guys are Odd and everyone knows it. (pitchers are the same way. known for superstitions, habits, Generally Being An Absolute Oddball.) they have a different kind of attention, a different kind of pressure. at the end of the day it always is going to come down to them on their own, in one way or another. goalie characters in sports fiction obsess me because of all the Baggage and all of the Stuff that goes into Being A Goalie and man. that was enough to make thierry really compelling to me, as the goalie we see the most of. and then specifically being a goalie From Montréal? ohohohohoho.

i watch football/soccer a lot these days and have for a couple years but i've been a hockey fan for much longer and i can't help see things through that pov sometimes, and as soon as they intro'd a character from mtl, my background as a habs fan perked right up. a goalie from mtl. that was the first hockey team i ever followed and boy does it have mountains of history that make it a fascinating team to follow/learn about/think about especially as a narrative background/parallel/foil/whatever.

obviously thierry's a soccer player, he's a soccer goalie, but in the words of someone i spoke to yesterday, "hockey suffocates every other sport in this country." it's always around, always present. your average torontonian can probably name the last year the leafs won the cup even if they hate sports. the canadian viewership numbers during playoffs is nuts. i've seen a few percentages come up - in the 70s-80s. i also have had some fun daydream thoughts about thierry being a multi-sport player growing up. there's a hockey player i can think of who pretty much got all the way to the point of draft eligibility before deciding whether he was gonna play hockey or baseball. that's a headcanon i have about thierry too, that he spent a while playing hockey when he was younger and was pretty damn good at it, probably could've gone pro, but decided to stick with soccer in the long term because he liked it more.

anyways, so. the sport is huge, it's unavoidable, and one of the biggest teams is the canadiens. especially if you live in mtl. it's hard to overstate the extent to which they are an institution, practically a religion. and one of the things that's important to understand about the context of thierry specifically rather than if like- if any other player had grown up in québéc, is that the habs have an...... intense history with goalies. like a VERY specifically intense history with goalies. they've had some of the biggest names in hockey goaltending history in their nets and the combination of the team's history, the goalies who've been there, and the media market of montréal means that being the habs goalie is one of the most heavily scrutinized, highly public roles in the sport.

the whole...... sports fabric of montréal is steeped in goalies. jaques plante, patrick roy, carey price. so many more enormous names, names everyone who's into hockey knows immediately, names that left permanent marks on not only the habs and mtl but on the sport as a whole. every year the league awards the best goalie of the regular season the vezina trophy, named for georges vézina, who played his entire career for the canadiens. (these days, the likes of sam montembeault. québéc born and raised goalie who now plays in the habs organization, heir apparent to carey price's net. monty, with goalie masks depicting jaques plante and the torch that is literally passed every year at the beginning of the habs season at their first home game, that is mentioned in the motto in their dressing room, inside the collars of their jerseys. it's a quote from a poem about the first world war - to you from falling hands we throw the torch be yours to hold it high.)

for thierry this would've been just.... all around him. when i think of him i think of him growing up in a habs watching household, because most families are in one way or another in that region, and having this idea of like. the role of a goalie. the pressure of being a goalie, watching particularly the way that carey price, one of the best goalies who's ever played, was completely wasted by the catastrophic mismanagement of the habs during his prime. i think all the time of this screencap from either the behind the scenes videos the habs produced for PR stuff or some feature on tv or documentary thing, a shot of carey price with his iconic thousand yard stare, the subtitles from the voiceover saying if he could score, he would play alone. i have to think that'd do something to a person, you know. seeing how important the goalie is, how revered and respected they can be, and that it can still not make a difference in the end. not enough of one. there will still be people who hate you because you're not the guy who came before you, because you can't just do it all yourself. and then choosing to be one anyway.

so you know. you're thierry zoreaux. you grow up in montréal. you can't avoid the habs if you tried, it's baked into the city. it's in the air. and you're a goalie. it doesn't matter whether you play hockey or soccer, the role of a goalie is a different thing, a unique experience. you are involved in everything, and you are alone. you are so, so visible, and so, so overlooked. you never appear on the goal sheets, but some media outlet will blame you for every loss. you're a little weird, a little wired. a little in your head, a little in another world. your teammates adore you but everyone knows there's something about you that's different, that sets you apart. every one of them sees it as their job to protect you, but at the end of the day, none of them can help you do what you do.

also, as an aside, i checked his wiki page real quick, and have learned the actor is jewish and sees his character that way too to which i say: ONE OF US. ONE OF US. ONE OF US. also i am about to write fic about this IMMEDIATELY. thierry zoreaux, quebecois goalie and jewish king. i've always been a little extra attached to him - minor character enjoyer that i am and enthralled by the potential in him, and also just finding him. very funny, and his actor a delight in his scenes. i love him and i need to write way more about him Right Now. it just occurred to me earlier, when i made that first post about him, and realized the line i'd jotted down wasn't half as good if you didn't have the story that exists around him in my mind, around his role and his experiences and cultural context about his role. and well! here we are now.

[7r0773r]

String Theory by David Foster Wallace

Midwest junior tennis was also my initiation into true adult sadness. I had developed a sort of hubris about my Taoistic ability to control via noncontrol. I'd established a private religion of wind. I even liked to bike. Awfully few people in Philo bike, for obvious wind reasons, but I'd found a way to sort of tack back and forth against a stiff current, holding some wide book out at my side at about 120° to my angle of thrust—Baynes and Pugh's The Art of the Engineer and Cheiro's Language of the Hand proved to be the best airfoils—so that through imagination and verve and stoic cheer I could not just neutralize but use an in-your-face gale for biking. Similarly, by thirteen I'd found a way not just to accommodate but to employ the heavy summer winds in matches. No longer just mooning the ball down the center to allow plenty of margin for error and swerve, I was now able to use the currents kind of the way a pitcher uses spit. I could hit curves way out into cross-breezes that'd drop the ball just fair; I had a special wind-serve that had so much spin the ball turned oval in the air and curved left to right like a smart slider and then reversed its arc on the bounce. I'd developed the same sort of autonomic feel for what the wind would do to the ball that a standard-trans driver has for how to shift. As a junior tennis player, I was for a time a citizen of the concrete physical world in a way the other boys weren't, I felt. And I felt betrayed at around fourteen when so many of these single-minded flailing boys became abruptly mannish and tall, with sudden sprays of hair on their thighs and wisps on their lips and ropy arteries on their forearms. My fifteenth summer, kids I'd been beating easily the year before all of a sudden seemed overpowering. I lost in two semi-finals, at Pekin and Springfield in '77, of events I'd beaten Antitoi in the finals of in '76. My dad just about brought me to my knees after the Springfield loss to some kid from the Quad Cities when he said, trying to console me, that it had looked like a boy playing a man out there. And the other boys sensed something up with me, too, smelled some breakdown in the odd détente I'd had with the elements: my ability to accommodate and fashion the exterior was being undercut by the malfunction of some internal alarm clock I didn't understand. (Derivative Sport in Tornado Alley, pp. 13-14)

***

Michael Joyce—whose realness and approachability and candor are a big reason why he's whom I end up spending the most time watching and talking to—will later say, in response to my dry observation that a rather disproportionate number of unranked Canadians seem to have gotten wild cards into the Montreal Qualies, that Brakus "had a big serve, but the guy didn't belong on a pro court." Joyce didn't mean this in an unkind way. Nor did he mean it in a kind way. It turns out that what Michael Joyce says rarely has any kind of spin or slant on it; he mostly just reports what he sees, rather like a camera. You couldn't even call him sincere, because it's not like it seems ever to occur to him to try to be sincere or nonsincere. For a while I thought that Joyce's rather bland candor was a function of his not being very bright. This judgment was partly informed by the fact that Joyce didn't go to college and was only marginally involved in his high school academics (stuff I know because he told me it right away).(24) What I discovered as the tournament wore on was that I can be kind of a snob and an asshole, and that Michael Joyce's affectless openness is a sign not of stupidity but of something else.

24. Something else that's hotly debated by tennis authorities is the trend of players going pro at younger and younger ages and skipping college and college tennis and plunging into the stress and peripatetic loneliness of the Tour, etc. Michael Joyce skipped college and went directly onto the pro tour because at eighteen he'd just won the U.S. National Juniors, and this created a set of overwhelming inducements to turn pro. The winner at the National 18-and-Under Singles automatically gets a wild card into the U.S. Open's main draw for that year. In addition, a year's top junior comes to the powerful but notoriously fickle and temporary attention of major clothing and racket companies. Joyce's victory over the 128-man National field at Kalamazoo MI in 1991 resulted in endorsement offers from Fila and Yonex worth around $100,000. $100,000 is about what it takes to finance three years on the Tour for a very young player who can't reasonably expect to earn a whole lot of prize-money.

Joyce could have turned down that offer of a three-year subsidy and gone to college, but if he'd gone to college it would have been primarily to play tennis. Coaches at major universities apparently offered Joyce inducements to come play for them so literally outrageous and incredible that I wouldn't repeat them here even if Joyce hadn't asked me not to.

The reason why Michael Joyce would have gone to college primarily to play tennis is that the academic and social aspects of collegiate life interest him about as much as hitting 2,500 crosscourt forehands while a coach yells at you in foreign languages would interest you. Tennis is what Michael Joyce loves and lives for and is. He sees little point in telling anybody anything different. It's the only thing he's devoted himself to, and he's given massive amounts of himself to it, and as far as he understands it it's all he wants to do or be. Because he started playing at age two and competing at age seven, however, and had the first half-dozen years of his career directed rather shall we say forcefully and enthusiastically by his father (who Joyce estimates spent probably around $250,000 on lessons and court-time and equipment and travel during Michael's junior career), it seemed reasonable to ask Joyce to what extent he "chose" to devote himself to tennis. Can you "choose" something when you are forcefully and enthusiastically immersed in it at an age when the resources and information necessary for choosing are not yet yours?

Joyce's response to this line of inquiry strikes me as both unsatisfactory and marvelous. Because of course the question is unanswerable, at least it's unanswerable by a person who's already—as far as he understands it—"chosen". Joyce's answer is that it doesn't really matter much to him whether he originally "chose" serious tennis or not; all he knows is that he loves it. He tries to explain his feelings at the Nationals in 1991: "You get there and look at the draw, it's a 128 draw, there's so many guys you have to beat. And then it's all over and you've won, you're the National Champion—there's nothing like it. I get chills even talking about it." Or how it was just the previous week in Washington: "I'm playing Agassi, and it's great tennis, and there's like thousands of fans going nuts. I can't describe the feeling. Where else could I get that?"

What he says aloud is understandable, but it's not the marvelous part. The marvelous part is the way Joyce's face looks when he talks about what tennis means to him. He loves it; you can see this in his face when he talks about it: his eyes normally have a kind of Asiatic cast because of the slight epicanthic fold common to ethnic Irishmen, but when he speaks of tennis and his career the eyes get round and the pupils dilate and the look in them is one of love. The love is not the love one feels for a job or a lover or any of the loci of intensity that most of us choose to say we love. It's the sort of love you see in the eyes of really old people who've been happily married for an incredibly long time, or in religious people who are so religious they've devoted their lives to religious stuff: it's the sort of love whose measure is what it has cost, what one's given up for it. Whether there's "choice" involved is, at a certain point, of no interest... since it's the very surrender of choice and self that informs the love in the first place. (Michael Joyce's Professional Artistry, pp. 57-58)

***

The idea that there can be wholly distinct levels to competitive tennis—levels so distinct that what's being played is in essence a whole different game—might seem to you weird and hyperbolic. I have played probably just enough tennis to understand that it's true. I have played against men who were on a whole different, higher plateau than I, and I have understood on the deepest and most humbling level the impossibility of beating them, of "solving their game." Knowle is technically entitled to be called a professional, but he is playing a fundamentally different grade of tennis from Michael Joyce's, one constrained by limitations Joyce does not have. I feel like I could get on a tennis court with Julian Knowle. He would beat me, perhaps badly, but I don't feel like it would be absurd for me to occupy the same 78' x 27' rectangle as he. But the idea of me playing Joyce—or even hitting around with him, which was one of the ideas I was entertaining on the flight to Montreal, to hit around with a hot young U.S. pro—is now revealed to me to be absurd and in a certain way obscene, and during this night match I resolve not even to let Joyce(47) know that I used to play competitive tennis, to play seriously and (I'd presumed) rather well. This makes me sad.

47. Who is clearly such a fundamentally nice guy that he would probably hit around with me for a little while just out of politeness, since for him it would be at worst somewhat dull. For me, though, it would be obscene. (Michael Joyce's Professional Artistry, pp. 70-71)

***

Michael Joyce in close-up person, like eating supper or riding in a courtesy car, looks slighter and younger than he does on-court. From close up he looks his age, which to me is basically a fetus. He's about 5'9" and 160; he's muscular but quietly so, without much definition. He likes to wear old T-shirts and a backwards cap. His hairline is receding in a subtle young-man way that makes his forehead look a little high. I forget whether he wore an earring. Michael Joyce's interests outside tennis consist mostly of big-budget movies and genre novels of the commercial paperback sort that one reads on planes. In other words, he really has no interests outside tennis. He has a tight and long-standing group of friends back home in LA, but one senses that most of his personal connections have been made via tennis. He's dated some. It's impossible to tell whether he's a virgin. It seems staggering and impossible, but my sense is he might be. Then again, I tended to idealize and distort him, I know, because of how I felt about what he could do on the court. His most revealing sexual comment is made in the context of explaining the odd type of confidence that keeps him from freezing up in a match in front of large crowds or choking on a point when there's lots of money at stake. Joyce, who usually needs to pause about five beats to think before he answers a question, thinks the confidence is partly a matter of temperament and partly a function of hard work:

"If I'm in like a bar, and there's a really good-looking girl, I might be kind of nervous. But if there's like a thousand gorgeous girls in the stands when I'm playing, it's a different story. I'm not nervous then, when I play, because I know what I'm doing. I know what to do out there." Maybe it's good to let these be his last quoted words.

Whether or not he ends up in the top ten and a name anybody will know, Michael Joyce will remain a figure of enduring and paradoxical fascination for me. The restrictions on his life have been, in my opinion, grotesque; and in certain ways Joyce himself is a grotesque. But the radical compression of his attention and self has allowed him to become a transcendent practitioner of an art—something few of us get to be. It's allowed him to visit and test parts of his psyche that most of us do not even know for sure we have, to manifest in concrete form virtues like courage, persistence in the face of pain or exhaustion, performance under wilting scrutiny and pressure.

Michael Joyce is, in other words, a complete man (though in a grotesquely limited way). But he wants more. Not more completeness; he doesn't think in terms of virtues or transcendence. He wants to be the best, to have his name known, to hold professional trophies over his head as he patiently turns in all four directions for the media. He is an American and he wants to win. He wants this, and he will pay to have it—will pay just to pursue it, let it define him—and will pay with the regretless cheer of a man for whom issues of choice became irrelevant long ago. Already, for Joyce, at twenty-two, it's too late for anything else: he's invested too much, is in too deep. I think he's both lucky and un-. He will say he is happy and mean it. Wish him well. (Michael Joyce's Professional Artistry, pp. 84-85)

[trashyswitch]

Day 9: Lie

Despite having a doctor in the house, Jackie goes to Jameson's room to get some tender loving care from his non-verbal friend. Jameson happily provides that, and a little more.

Happy Thanksgiving weekend to all the Canadians! And I believe today is Columbus day/Indigenous People's Day for Americans too. There's two independence days as well, and overall...24 holidays today! I had no clue. either way, I hope you all enjoy!

Jackie walked up to the door and knocked gently. When the person came to the door and opened it, Jackie looked up to the person at the door. 

‘Hello Jackie.’ the person signed. Jackie smiled and lowered his right arm. “Hi Jay. May I come in?” Jackie asked. 

Jamie nodded his head and opened the door for him. Jackie walked in, and sat on the chair at the side of his room. ‘What’s wrong?’ He asked. 

Jackie sighed and bit his lip, before removing the unzipping his onesie and pulling his arm out. “There’s a reason I wear red.” Jackie explained. “I wear it to cover up any blood that leaves my wounds.” He unrolled his sleeve to show Jamie his arm. “I…” 

Jamie widened his eyes and covered his mouth. Jamie pulled up a chair and checked the slice wound on his arm. ‘Does it hurt?’ Jamie asked. 

Jackie chuckled. “Yeah…but it’s nothing I can’t handle!” Jackie declared, smiling with a thumbs up. 

Jamie hummed silently and stared at the man for a moment before going back to checking the wound. He conjured up a mask and gloves, before putting both on, followed by a pair of glasses. He took a better look at the cut and looked at Jackie. ‘Hurt?’ Jamie asked. 

“Nope.” Jackie replied. 

Jamie opened the wound slightly with his fingers. Then he looked at Jackie and raised his eyebrows in an attempt to ask. 

“I’m fine.” Jackie replied despite some visible strain in his voice. 

Jamie looked at Jackie with suspicion. Jamie then conjured up a bowl and a pitcher of cool water, before dumping bits of the water onto the cut at a time to clean it out. This made any loose bits of blood and dirt fall out of the wound and into the bowl. Jamie looked up and raised his eyebrows again, asking once again for an update on the pain. 

“mm- fine.” Jackie muttered. It seemed like Jackie was determined to keep his pain and anguish a secret from Jamie at any cost. 

Jamie looked at Jackie with eyes partly closed, clearly unamused and annoyed. He didn’t want Jackie to suck it up for him. So, Jamie shoved his finger into the wound and raised his eyebrows slightly more dramatically. 

Jackie yelped and pulled his arm back, grabbing it with his other hand. “OW! DUDE!” Jackie yelled. 

‘Did that hurt?’ Jamie signed, showing slight frustration on his face, as well as in his ASL.

“YES! What do YOU fuckin’ think?!” Jackie yelled. 

Jamie looked him straight in the eye. ‘Thank you for telling me the truth.’ he replied. 

Jackie stared at him and blinked, taken aback. “........I’m sorry, what?” Jackie asked. 

Jamie put the bowl down and picked up a piece of gauze from the bed. Ripping open the gauze, he reached out and took Jackie’s hand. He stayed silent while he did so, due to his hands —his only form of communication— being occupied. 

Jackie was left confused, but strangely let Jamie work at his arm again. But…why he let Jamie work at his arm again despite Jamie’s malice towards him…he couldn’t be sure. Maybe because he was desperate? Or maybe it was because he knew Jamie was proving a point, and wouldn’t do it again. 

After Jamie was done, he put the gauze down and let go so he could sign. ‘You are not being truthful about how you feel.’ Jamie told him.

Jackie blinked. “That…that’s because I feel fine, despite the cut.” Jackie replied. 

Jamie let out a long sigh, and shook his head. ‘No you don’t.’ Jamie said as he conjured up a roll of gauze. 

“But-…but I do!” Jackie repeated. 

Jamie cleared his throat loudly and started to wrap the gauze around the wound. Again, Jamie stayed silent through the wrapping process due to both his hands being too occupied to sign anything. This left Jackie in an uncomfortable state of silent agony. But Jackie didn’t need Jamie to tell him anything…because Jamie’s face said it all. 

Disappointment.

Jamie tied the gauze ends together and put his hands down. ‘Done lying?’ Jamie asked. 

Jackie widened his eyes and blinked. Gosh…it’s scary knowing how much Jamie could see through him. The man was not only naturally talented at conveying nonverbal gestures, but also at observing other people’s non-verbal gestures. It fascinated Jackie to no end. 

He finally let go. “Okay, fine…” Jackie sighed and put his arm down. “I’m not okay. I can’t stop thinking about the robbery victim.” Jackie told him as he put on his onesie sleeve again. “The victim’s in the hospital with life-threatening injuries.” Jackie told him. “And the perpetrator got away. He was the one who…” Jackie looked down at his arm and sighed. 

Jamie nodded and adjusted himself in his seat. ‘Why go to me?’ Jamie pointed to the arm. ‘Henrik is a doctor.’ Jamie made the D sign and touched the left inner wrist to make the sign. 

“Doctor?” Jackie clarified. 

Jamie nodded with a smile. ‘Why me? Why not go to the doctor?’ Jamie asked, repeating the sign. 

Jackie bit his lip. “Henrik is very against what I do.” Jackie admitted. “He doesn’t say it out loud, but he doesn’t need to in order to make his opinion known.” he explained. 

Jamie smirked. ‘What does he tell you?’ Jamie asked. 

Jackie sighed. “He warns me about overdoing it and getting injured too often.” Jackie admitted. 

Jamie smiled a bit more. ‘I warn you too.’ Jamie mentioned. 

Jackie grunted. “But you do it with a lot more patience.” Jackie complained with a laugh. 

Jamie chuckled and showed his teeth in his smile, shrugging his shoulders and signing the word ‘true’ back to him. 

“You also know how to cheer me up.” Jackie admitted. “Even when I don’t want to be.” Jackie added with a laugh. Jamie smirked and looked to the upper right, wiggling his mustache playfully. This alone was enough to make Jackie laugh. “Yeah! Like that! We have the same visual humor.” Jackie admitted. Jamie smiled brightly and cleared his throat, getting up. He conjured up a doctor coat and scrubs, put on a medical mask, and wrapped a stethoscope around his neck. Then, he put on a name tag that said [Cheer Up Doctor]. Jackie smiled brightly. “Ooohoho, nice get up! Still not a doctor though…” Jackie teased. 

Jamie rolled his eyes as he pulled out the stethoscope and waved the end of it. ‘Check heart?’ Was roughly what Jamie was asking. 

“Sure!” Jackie replied. 

Jamie placed the stethoscope onto his chest and listened to his heart. Jamie looked super focused on his heart, almost like he WAS able to hear his heart. Jamie soon lowered the stethoscope and removed the earpieces from his ears. ‘Small bit low. Signs of sadness.’ Jamie told him. 

Jackie chuckled. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.” Jackie teased. 

Jamie gave him an unimpressed face before pulling out a thermometer. He waved the thermometer, as if saying ‘check temperature?’ To him. When Jackie gave him the permission, he placed the thermometer in his mouth, under his tongue. A few seconds later, the thermometer beeped and Jamie removed it. He sighed with a smile and showed Jackie the thermometer screen: [Sadder than Eeyore] 

Jackie read it and laughed, loving the little reference. 

Jamie pulled out a clipboard from his doctor coat and conjured up a pen. He started vigorously writing, before removing the paper and giving it to Jackie. 

Jackie read the paper. 

[Treatment: 10 minutes of tickles] 

Jackie widened his eyes and looked up at Jamie. “...Really?” He asked. 

Jamie tapped the paper. ‘Wanna be treated here? Or at home?’ Jamie asked. 

Jackie could feel his face heating up slightly. “Uhhhh…” He chuckled awkwardly and adjusted himself in his seat. “Here? I guess?” Jackie replied, giving Jamie permission to tickle him.

Jamie nodded and offered a hand. ‘Paper please.’ Jamie signed. Jackie laughed and handed him the paper. Jamie took the paper and adjusted his glasses to read it, nodding like a good doctor would, pretending like he had not just written the ‘prescription’. Then, he turned away, put the paper into his pocket, before turning to face Jackie again and sprinting up to him. 

“ooOHGOD-!” Jackie yelped as he was playfully tackled to the bed and tickled mercilessly on his armpits. “eeEEK! WAIT-HAHAHA! Eeek! Noho! NAHAHAHA! You ahahahaHAHAHASS!” Jackie yelled. 

Jamie smiled brightly and winked, before lifting up Jackie’s right arm and signing the word ‘cute’ to him…only for him to resume his tickle attack on just the right armpit. 

Jackie threw his head back and shook his head as his laughing fits filled the room with gleeful noise. “HAHAHAhahaha- Cohohome ohon! Hahaha! Hehehehe- Whyhyhy tihickles?!” Jackie asked. 

Jamie let go of his arm and signed the word ‘fun’ to Jackie. 

“Fun?!” Jackie reacted. 

‘Strong man is ticklish’ Jamie signed next before moving his hands to his ribs. ‘Your laugh is funny’ He signed right before gripping his ribs. 

“Is this really the only treatMENT OPTIOHOHON?! BAAAHAHAHAHA- Hahahaha! This ihihis ridihihiculous! NahaHAHA!” Jackie argued. 

Jamie only squeezed his ribs in response, earning him another fit of hysterical laughter. 

Jamie wiggled his fingers evilly in his face, and moved them around to figure out where to touch down. 

“Oh no, oh no, Jahamie dohon’t you dahahare!” Jackie pleaded. 

Jamie smiled and made his hands into fists facing down. Slowly, he began to count his fingers one by one. 

‘1…2…’ Jamie had both index fingers stretched out. And Jackie was giggling helplessly as he watched Jamie’s fingers anxiously. 

‘3…4…’ Jamie had both middle fingers out now, joining the index fingers in the fight to tickle. And Jackie could only close his eyes and shake his head as giggles left his lungs. 

‘5…6…’ Jamie’s thumbs were now outstretched for poor, vulnerable Jackie to watch and fear as his mind filled with teasy daydreams and phantom tickles.

‘7…8…’ Jamie’s ring fingers were now outstretched, further tormenting Jackie with their look alone. This made Jackie tense up and shake with an anxious, wobbly smile filling his face. 

‘9…10!” The moment both of Hamie’s pinkies were stretched out, the dapper boy let his wiggly fingers touch down. With no moment to lose, he skittered and scraped Jackie’s ribs as gently and as teasily as he possibly could. 

“eeeEEEEEEHEHEEEEK! Heeheeheehee- HAHAHAhahaha! Ihihihihi cahahan’t! Ihihi cahahan’t dohohoho ihit!” Jackie yelled at him. 

Jamie took pity on him and stopped his fingers. For now, anyway. But when Jamie started visibly scanning the man, Jackie immediately began to sense that something else was afoot. “…what?” Jackie asked. 

Jamie looked up at Jackie. ‘One more?’ Jamie asked.

Jackie groaned slightly at this. 

But Jamie was considerate beyond the insistence. ‘Finale! I’ll stop after! Promise!’ Jamie signed. 

Jackie could only look at Jamie’s puppy dog eyes for a few seconds…before he ultimately gave up the cause. “Fiiine.” He replied.

Jamie smiled brightly for a few moments before removing the medical mask from his face, Then, Jamie took in a quick deep breath, and lowered himself down! 

PPFFBBBFFFBBBBFFT! 

Aaaand out came any ounce of leftover sadness left inside of Jackie. 

[50c14lly4nx10u5]

ahhh, the weird in between that is canada— stuck between the us and europe

i use feet for example for height of myself but only height, distance is meters. then again, meters/kilometers is for roads or area of my property or something. the distance between me and another person? a distance between me and a door? feet. "yeah i'd say the door is around... 12 feet away from this couch" i. idk everything around me is measured in meters and such so when i measure i do it with that but when it comes to perception of stuff i'm like "ok i'm around 5'8, and that's around 3 mes away—"

and i use celsius for everything EXCEPT our oven which is fahrenheit and so whenever i think baking i think yeah 350-400 degrees is standard baking temperature, while i'm like omg this 30 degrees weather fucking SUCKS i need to lay down in front of a fan for a good 5 hours and have an ice cream

for measurements at this point it's whatever the recipe says, most of our measuring utensils have cups and mLs on the same thing. i know my lattes get ~6oz of milk because that's the measurement i have in my pitcher, but i use 0.18-0.21g of coffee beans... sometimes. when i bother to weight them out. lol. most of the time we use american recipes tho so baking mainly stays imperial

wait is there a difference between a canadian gallon and a us gallon? cuz i'm looking at a conversation chart— whatever i only ever recall "using" gallons once when my mom asked me to convert her clear orbeez instructions (my mom's helping my cousin come up with wedding table centrepieces or something) to mL because none of us knew what a gallon was aidbidhd

anyway units of measurement are wack

[cmlbcommish]

CMLB:  Saskatchewan Skates vs. Eekburg Billiards, S1D1, 4

Primed and ready. The Saskatchewan Skates stand on the field, taking in the atmosphere of the stadium.

They’re not a hugely followed league, especially for being so new, but Haruta was honestly not expecting so many people to show up. She shifts her feet nervously and Eli, who is standing next to her, extends an arm and rubs her upper back. Haruta looks at him and he beams at her, having the time of his life out here on the field.

It’s absolutely unfair how Eli’s positive attitude affects her so much. She smiles hesitantly back at him and he is about to say something when a bit of microphone feedback rings out across the stadium.

Everyone looks in the direction of the sound. It’s Nagomi and Parker. Nagomi is fiddling with the microphone a little bit before she starts her announcement.

“Greetings!’ Echoes her voice across the stadium. “I’m Nagomi Seraph, and this is my Minor Canadian Blaseball League, or CMLB for short.” There is a polite applause from the spectators.

“For further introductions, this is Parker.” She gestures to Parker, who waves at the crowd. “He serves as my co-commissioner. Now that introductions are aside, this is our first game of the season, featuring the Saskatchewan Skates vs. the Eekburg Billiards!” More applause.

A different announcer lists off all the starting rosters for the teams. The Skates have Shirai Jaylee pitching today, while the Billiards have Julio Glass on the mound. 

Haruta sits next to Riley in the dugout, looking curiously out at the game. After a few outs, Riley speaks.

“We should have put me in first.” He states, his arms crossed. “Glass is their best pitcher, I would have had the best chance.” 

“Uh, have you been… studying the other teams?” Haruta asks. “Of course I have.” Riley sniffs disdainfully. “We’ll never get anywhere without some sort of strategy.” 

Haruta stares at him for a few seconds before the sound of a bat cracking can be heard from the field. The Skates fans in the stadium boo as the Billiards batter hits a home run, scoring two. 

Riley rolls his eyes as the player showboats around the bases.

“That's Chad James.” He says. “He’s played minor leagues before. The only reason he hasn’t made it up to the major leagues is because of his bad attitude. Let’s just hope that an early home run makes him cocky and he doesn’t hit any other balls.”

Evidently, Riley knew what he was talking about. The rest of the game is pretty much small ball. Some good base hits and only runners scoring, no fancy home runs. 

As the game went on, Haruta noticed Riley getting increasingly more irritated with Shirai’s pitching ability. He never said anything to Shirai herself between the innings, but Haruta saw how much he was keeping it in.

It all comes to a head in the ninth inning. Ryuji Krueger hits a nice triple to score Chad James, tying the score at 5-5. Riley jumps out of his seat, walking briskly over to Eli.

“Put me in.” He says, arms crossed. “Let me close out the inning so they don’t get up on us.” 

Eli looks… Unconcerned, with Riley’s posturing. “Nah, it's fine. It's literally the first game, no need to be so serious about it.” 

“We could win this game. Put me in so they don’t score any more. We have enough batting power to outscore them.” 

“Riley, it’s fine.” Eli rests a hand on his shoulder. Riley aggressively shakes the hand off and stalks off to the dressing room. 

Eli tilts his head as Haruta walks over to him. “What’s his deal? Something to prove?”

It isn’t until he says that, that Haruta realizes. “Oh.. Probably? He seemed really invested in the game.” Eli clicks his tongue. “He better get that under check. I don’t want him causing a fuss, especially cuz he’s one of the newbies. ‘Gomi’ll have his ass if he causes shit.”

That’s another thing. “I’ll talk to him?” Haruta suggests, but Eli shakes his head. “Let him steam til the game is over. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

They end up winning the game with a nice home run from King, starting off a rally in the ninth by Wyatt Morse, Tyler Marijuana, and Oli Mueller.

Final Score, 5-8 Skates.

When the rest of the team walk into the dressing room, Riley stands up immediately. He walks over to stand in front of Eli, still tense. Everyone is wary, he’s putting off a lot of aggressive energy for being on the winning team.

“I have invested interest in this team winning.” Riley starts. “I have figured out strategies that will beat out all other teams. I will be strategizing and I expect that we will use some of them.” 

Eli clicks his tongue. “And why would I listen to the newbie posturing over his team captain?” Eli’s posture is relaxed, nonchalant. Haruta has no idea how he can act that way in this kind of situation. “You know we won right? We won our first game of the season. This isn’t the time to be worried about strategy.”

“Unlike the rest of you, I have things riding on my success.” Riley sniffs. He turns away from Eli.

Something about that really sticks in Haruta’s brain, and before she realizes it, she blurts out a retort.

“What? Because you’re a stats nerd you think none of us are capable?” It's not a very Haruta statement, Eli and some of the rest of the Skates look at her in surprise. Riley looks over at her in surprise too, obviously not expecting that kind of response, but he is immediately back on the offensive. “I hold myself to a higher standard than most people, yes. If the rest of the season continues on like this first game? There's no hope here.”

Haruta can feel herself getting a bit heated. “This isn’t the ILB! It's supposed to be fun!”

Riley is quiet for a few seconds, before he walks slowly over to Haruta and looks her directly in the eyes. “That’s exactly what Jaylen said back in Season 1. Look where it got her.”

Haruta breaks eye contact, shaking her head. “This isn’t about Jaylen! It’s about you!” She pokes Riley in the chest. “This league is about those people who want to play blaseball for the love of the game! Despite what happened to the ILB.” 

“I can’t forget what happened to her!” He hisses, “She died! They incinerated her!”

“They incinerated Sebastian twice!” Haruta yells. “Since you want to make this a fucking family issue! They alternated him and then he went up in flames twice! Don’t forget the stuff that's gone on with Jess either!” 

Riley at least has the heart to look a bit apologetic, right before they’re both doused with water. 

Haruta shrieks a little, frantically wiping water out of her eyes, Riley doing the same. They both look over to see King standing with a water cooler held over xer shoulder as Parker gives them a glare.

“Are you both done?” Parker says. In the face of authority, Haruta crumbles, nodding her head frantically. Riley nods once, and Parker sighs.

“You’re both lucky I’m not gonna tell Nagomi about this.” He massages the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t expecting this from the two of you, especially Haruta.”

Haruta looks down at her feet, avoiding the gaze of everyone. She feels so embarrassed by her outburst now that the consequences are setting in.

But, Riley steps in to defend her. “It’s my fault, I was the one who started the argument with my bad attitude. I’ll be working on it.” 

“You better.” Parker hands them both a towel. “I’m only mildly sorry about the water. Seems like you both needed to cool off.” 

Riley squints at him. “Was that a pun.” To which Parker grins. 

“Now, who’s to say?” After making sure everyone is alright, Parker leaves the room.

As the rest of the Skates filter out, Riley and Haruta end up being the last two left. Haruta’s fingers had been shaking with anxiety the whole time she was packing up.  

She’s crouching next to her bag on the floor when Riley comes down to crouch next to her. He makes sure that she realizes he is there before he speaks.

“I’m sorry, Haruta.” 

She looks at him questioningly, a little wary. “I’ve been on edge today, and I believe I ended up taking it out on you. I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this.” 

Haruta breathes out a sigh, some of her anxiety lessening when she realizes that Riley is still willing to talk to her. She stands up, shouldering her bag, and Riley rises next to her.

“I’ll forgive you, on one condition.” She says, and Riley tilts his head.

“Name your condition.”

Haruta extends her arms in a hugging motion. “Bring it in. It's hug time.” 

“I.. what?” Riley looks at her, baffled. 

“You upset me, and I like hugs so you’re gonna hug me so I feel better.” She explains wiggling her fingers a bit.

“That is a weird condition, but alright?” Riley steps into her embrace. 

In Haruta’s opinion, Riley is the perfect hugging height. She can comfortably rest her head on his shoulder as they hug, and the longer she doesn’t make a move to let go, the more he relaxes into her hold.

“If you feel bad in the future, I can hug you.” Haruta offers. “I used to have to hug someone a lot whenever things happened to Jess or Seb.” 

Riley sighs shakily. “Maybe that’s why you seem like you’ve adjusted. Better than I have, at least.”

Haruta lets him muse on that instead of making a comment, squeezing him a bit tighter.

They eventually stop hugging. “It wasn’t weird that we hugged for so long, was it?” Haruta says nervously as they start walking towards the exit for the stadium. “I’m used to long hugs.” 

Riley hums. “It's been a long time since I’ve been hugged. It’s fine, it was nice.”

They reach the entrance. The drivers are waiting for the both of them. Haruta waves goodbye to Riley and steps out into the parking lot, until she hears Riley shout her name.

She looks back questioningly, as Riley does a light jog to catch up to her.

He abruptly sticks out a hand at her. “I think we got off to a bad start so… My name is Riley Hotdogfingers, I really do like playing blaseball, it feels like it's in my blood . Can we be friends?” 

Haruta smiles at him, accepting the handshake. “I’m Haruta Telephone, I’d like to improve my pitching because I love playing this splort as well. I would be honoured to be your friend.” 

For the first time, Haruta sees Riley smile.

[sgtbradfords]

🙏 Please let 2023 be Mike's season 🙏

[yessoupy]

my favorite baseball game (15 april 2007)

below is something i wrote in 2012 to commemorate my favorite baseball game.

This was inspired by a thread on Myspace about how awesome Mariano Rivera is, even though he's kind of old. Whenever the-last-remaining-#42 is mentioned, just one game comes to mind, one glorious game in April.

I wrote this little ditty and posted it in that thread, but decided that here would be a good, permanent home for it.

----

I will tell you about my favorite Mariano Rivera outing. I invite you all to share your own.

Over a year ago in the bright sunlight of the Oakland Coliseum, it’s a day game in April, and the date is Sunday the 15th.

The attendance is 35,077, the same it’s been for the whole series – a sellout crowd (in more ways than one). The Yankees are in town. More than just the famed Mariano Rivera is wearing the number 42.

Rich Harden is pitching.

A two-run first inning had put the A's up early, but their bats were unable to produce the rest of the game.

Goose eggs for both teams until the seventh inning, where after two pitches to Alex Rodriguez (a strike and a ball) Jason Kendall trots out to the mound in all his veteran glory and is joined by home plate umpire Laz Diaz and then the pitching coach, manager, and trainer.

Meanwhile, Rodriguez gets treatment of his own for a bloody nose.

Rich shakes his head at Larry Davis and speaks some in his Canadian tongue, which he slips into in moments of frustration and pain. (Davis, of course, is well-versed in Canadian after spending so much time with the oft-injured pitcher.)

Rich shrugs, nods, and smirks at manager Bob Geren, who is not so familiar with Canadian and steps off the mound to allow Rich to throw some pitches. Rich throws one high and windmills his shoulder. He insists upon staying in the game and Geren, lulled into a false sense of security by the Canadian's charm and gentle smirk, lets him stay in.

Rodriguez, bloody nose taken care of, steps into the box. He works a double off Rich and Geren heads back to the mound and takes the ball from that tricky Canadian. He is done for the day, done for the week, and done for most of the season.

Joe Kennedy (may he rest in peace) enters the game to face Jason Giambi (who is being heartily booed by the Oakland faithful). His first pitch ends up in right field and there are runners on the corners with no outs, Jorge Posada up to the plate. He scorches a double down the left field line on the 9th pitch of the at-bat, scoring Rodriguez and sending Giambi, not exactly fleet of foot, to third. Rich's run has scored and the lead is hanging on by a thread with men on second and third and no outs. The sun beats down on Joe's fair skin and the temperature rises.

Giambi scores on a sacrifice fly by Robinson Cano and it’s a tie ballgame. It’s 2-2 and Rich’s win is gone. Joe has blown the save and with one out and a runner on third he can only hope to get back into the dugout without giving up another run.

Kiko Calero is up in the bullpen.

The Yankees take the lead on a sac fly from Melky Cabrera and Joe keeps sweating. Doug Mientkiewicz strikes out trying to check his swing and the inning is over.

But in the 8th, Joe gives up another run to make it 4-2, Yankees. Kiko comes in to finish of the inning and Jay Marshall pitches a scoreless 9th.

Athletics fans shake their heads when Mariano Rivera steps in, that number 42 on his back making them wince, thinking of their broken starter on this Jackie Robinson Day (not to mention the closer’s impeccable stats and spotless baseball reputation).

Eric Chavez grounds out on the first pitch of his at bat and A’s fans sigh.

Bobby Crosby hits a fly ball to right field, giving the A’s fans a brief rush of “Maybe, could he possibly …?” before it lands in Bobby Abreu’s glove. The A’s fans either sit down to wait out the last out or walk up the aisles to beat the traffic home.

Todd Walker (who else remembered he had a stint with the A’s in 2007?) slaps a basehit to left field and some of those fans walking out slide into a seat, just in case.

Jason Kendall is at bat and as he is swinging through a pitch Todd takes second base on defensive indifference. Jason takes on a 3-1 count and the umpire calls a strike. Geren hollers from the A’s dugout and A’s fans make themselves known. “Are ya crazy, blue? That was a mile high! Who’s payin’ your salary -- Steinbrenner?”

Marco Scutaro is on deck, taking his swings and waiting for the moment he was born for.

Jason fouls off the next pitch and the pitch after that and the one after that goes off his ankle. He’s a hard-nosed gamer not afraid to get dirty, but that’s not what he’s getting paid to do as an Oakland Athletic; he’s getting paid to get on base.

Jason steps back in and waves his bat and takes a pitch high and at his hands. As he takes his base the remaining A’s fans get to their feet – the winning run is at the plate and it’s Marco Scutaro holding the bat!

Posada walks out to the mound and pats Rivera on the back. Maybe he’s saying what to throw next, maybe he’s talking about what Marco’s weaknesses are, and maybe he’s just telling him a joke. Whatever it is, Marco waits patiently, prepared.

Batting ninth in this game Marco has struck out twice and grounded to short, hardly anyone’s best hope in this kind of situation, but all of Oakland remembers his magical doubles and how the stadium shook with their shouts of his name last October, the team clean and crisp and finally finally winning.

Rivera paints the black for a called strike and Marco steps back, appraising the opposing pitcher. He bows his head, adjusts his helmet, and eyes his bat as if to say, “You got a hit in you? Please, jus’ don’ strike out.” He spits in the dirt and steps back in, tapping the ground with his bat and digging in with his cleats. Marco pulls the next pitch foul and the crowd is so full of Yankees fans that hardly a sound goes up in hope. Marco steps out of the box and applies more pine tar to his bat.

It’s the bottom of the ninth. There are two outs. Todd Walker is on second, Jason Kendall is on first, the score is 4-2 favoring the visitors and Marco stands in with an 0-2 count. The crowd gets loud, Yankees fans cheering for a strike and Oakland fans just wanting to get another man on for Bradley. They dare not hope for more. Their tender hearts are already hurting from the loss of their short right-handed power pitcher.

The runners take their leads off their respective bases.

Rivera leans in, gets his sign, then straightens up.

Marco peers out intently from under the brim of his batting helmet and the ball is on its way.

Marco makes contact to left field, it’s high, it’s away, it’s heading towards the foul pole --

“If it’s fair, it’s ------ GONE! THE A’S WIN IT! SCUTARO WINS IT! Celebrate -- Oakland A’s, are you kidding me?”

Marco rounds the bases after Todd and Jason, rushing to meet the clutch of his teammates surrounding home plate, smiles splashed across their faces and the A’s fans, out-cheering the Yankees fans for once, shouting his name --

“MAR-CO! SCU-TA-RO!”

--

Rivera left Oakland that April 15th, still looking for his first save of the 2007 season.

[swaggypsyduck]

… idk abt this footballer but i might also b newly 18 😳

but omg aaaaa!!! hi again!!!!:D ur new layout is so so cool!!

also as ur resident favorite american i feel the need to let you know my baseball team played the toronto blue jays on canada day and won (and during this series our canadian pitcher who’s nickname is “big maple” and who has a maple leaf tattoo tattoo also played djdbs. and yes i did laugh when they mentioned it and i saw the tattoo the first time😭😭)

- american anon :)

AMERICAN ANON!! OMFG I WAS LITERALLY TELLING MY MUTUALS THAT I MISSED HAVING ANON ON FOR YOU!!

omg happy (late) bday!!! i hate everything toronto so im glad ur team won (unless ur from boston)!! good for ur pitcher!! the thing about mlb, mls, and nhl is that i have to see my people winning for americans and it just breaks my heart (not really but u get what i mean).

[alternautxyz]

I HAVE MADE THE MILK BAG BUGSNAK

remember that post i made well now it’s real milk bag boy is a thing and i love them

it’s not a bombardier beetle because i didn’t know how to make a beetle and i came up with a better idea which is a hermit crab

for some info i called it pitcherpod because i made the name in the middle of the night and i do not want to change it. it’s based of the pitcher you put the milk bag in and decapod

more info and stuff about it under cut because i decided i wanted to flesh out the meme bug bag more:

so for the non canadians some people put milk in a plastic bag for 

reasons

to get the milk we put the bag in a pitcher that looks like the one here still in the bag

we cut the corner for the milk to come out and we just leave it open mostly with a cap for the pitcher or maybe a clip

pretty sure my family just left it open tho

pitcherpod uses the pitcher as a shell with the two handles added on the side as claws. it uses it to hide if threatened

it has four straw legs and two straw antenna. pretty sure no one usually drinks milk with straws but it gives them legs and idk maybe someone uses straws

hermit crabs squirt water so this one spits at you with milk. it aims on the side since milk bags usually pour it on the corner of the bag

if it was in game it would be in the frosted peaks and live in the one lake hiding

it would be a shy bugsnak that will avoid anyone, you or other bugsnax, at all costs. they either run away, spray you, or hide in it’s shell when you get too close, making it unable to be captured. it usually stays in the lake anyways and wont move unless forced.

it does like chocolate and will come out to have some, and when that happens you can grapple the shell off. if you take off the shell it runs away , but is pretty easy to catch after. of course you could also just get a scoopy banoopy to beat it to death to get the shell off but yeah

i didn’t expect to think this much into the funny milk bag but i just thought about it while i was drawing

honestly i love the little guy, especially when it’s a squishy blob of milk. didn’t take this too seriously but now i want them

i didn’t know how to draw the milk and i didn’t like it as much with it but here it is with milk

so yeah i made this pretty quickly but i hope you liked it 

it’d be cool if we made other bugs with the milk bag idea, like maybe the bombardier beetle wont be scrapped, but yeah that it, maybe i’ll draw more of the fansnak

thats all and remember to drink your calcium 

[scriptflorist]

What sort of very very tiny colourful flowers and arangement can my character use for their garden. There is a pond as well so aquatic plants will work as well, and part of the garden is a steep slope.

This depends somewhat on how much shade or sun the garden is actually getting. It is something your character will have to consider when choosing their plants, especially aquatic plants are prone to sunburns in climates with harsher sunlight.

tiny plants for a pond

azolla or mosquito fern

Canadian pondweed

cardinal flower

creeping Jenny

pitcher plants

sensitive plant

water clover

water hyacinth

water lettuce

water sprite

tiny underwater pond plants

anacharis

cabomba

moneywort

tiny garden flowers

Angelina sedum

baby’s breath

bugleweed

brass buttons

common periwinkle

creeping phlox

Cretan oregano

dwarf lady fern

fairy foxglove

forget-me-not

ice plant

Kenilworth ivy

lobelia

rock cress

snow-in-summer

sweet alyssum

sweet woodruff

thyme

tufted pansy

slope plants

climbing hydrangea

creeping phlox

superstar creeper

verbena

wintercreeper

All of the above plants have tiny leaves and flowers, however some of them require a little maintenance to be actually kept short. There are also some neat foliage plants in here, but more so on the waterside of plants since those are limited to begin with.

Now there is nothing against a garden full of tiny colourful flowers, even short tiny colourful flowers, however the eye enjoys some rest with larger flowers or decorations that aren’t as intricate. When it comes to arrangements they are usually meant to form a complimentary contrast to their surroundings. A very bleak room with simple large shapes will benefit from an arrangement with lots of things going on it, and the other way around.

Furthermore, the arrangement depends on what it is. Is the entire garden the arrangement? Does your character have different containers they want to decorate with plants? Where is the arrangement located in the garden? Arrangements are planned based on available space, their placement, as well as how sun and shade the plants are getting.

– Mod Jana

Disclaimer

This blog is intended as writing advice only. This blog and its mods are not responsible for accidents, injuries or other consequences of using this advice for real world situations or in any way that said advice was not intended.