#this ump needs to think twice about his career

[stephstars08]

If you thought NFL referees are bad MLB umpires are the fucking same. The O’s just had to deal with a so called ump that is fucking blind! Half of the strikeouts the other team had were on balls! And then ninth inning he’s going to throw out one of our players and then our manger because we finally had enough of his shit! YOU ALREADY LOSS THE GAME FOR US YOU STUPID SHIT!

I JUST HAD TO GET THIS OFF MY CHEST BECAUSE MY BIGGEDT PET PEEVE NOT JUST AS A PERSON WHO WATCHES BASEBALL BUT PLAYED SOFTBALL SEEING UMPIRES LIKE THIS PISSES ME OFF!!

[writinanon]

Search and Rescue

A small weird AU with Pokémon companions (hinted that there are teams but later on in life you tend to retire your team and only keep one or two with you at work)

Thanks to @yanderedad and @wafflii for both Ben and Dakota but also for Lysander and Spark!

And a special thanks to @azm0n for August and Emma!

  The station was a hub of activity, it was always this way when welcoming members into the fold. Ben felt Lysander nudge up against him and he smiled back at his Lucario. His companion helped him keep a level head and helped him sort through the profiles and applications with Whitehorse. This was the first time that he actually helped with the process and he was a little nervous. He hoped that his suggestions were listened to, that those he pushed forward and were hired based on his assessment they would be good fits for the county. Augustine Gutierrez and Dakota Rook were front and center for the small group, their companions easily following them. Gutierrez’s Flygon, Emma, and Rook’s Arcanine, Spark, were calmly following behind, enjoying the attention and looking at their future work partners as well. There was a small chuckle from beside him and Ben turned to see Mercy, cigarette between her lips and her Sylveon seated primly by her feet. Persephone gave a cheery greeting to Lysander and he returned it. The pair had seemingly bonded over being blue while their companions worked together being the oddballs of the sheriff’s department. As the lead search and rescue medical technician Mercy was in a strange place of working both for the hospital and for the sheriff. Ben likewise was a criminal psychiatrist who worked for the county as a criminalist and a psychiatrist deeming the few criminals of the county sane or insane as well as lending his profiling skills to the officers.

 “Not too sure about this new batch of yours. Half of ‘em have dragons and you hang out with the cutest dragon slayer of them all.” Percy purred softly and rubbed against Mercy’s leg. Ben ran a hand through his hair and took the offered cigarette when she knocked the carton toward him.

 “Eh true but we need a little variety around.” The county was made mostly of companions that were canine or ursine, with the rare feline in the mix. Which was fine but it meant that there were many people with similar views and temperaments. Change was good for the county. Mercy hummed thoughtfully and looked back over the group.

 “Any word on that freaky cult?” She asked softly, spotting John Seed, lawyer extraordinaire, and Joseph Seed, creepy religious leader, and their companions coming to greet the new deputies. John’s shiny Ninetales, Dinah, was sitting disdainfully off to the side with Joseph’s Mareep, Shiloh, was settled into its side like a fluffy burr.

 “They aren’t doing anything strange as of yet and Jacob Seed has finally actually entered into the Veteran’s Center instead of just hanging around.”

 “That Mightyena of his, Ezekiel, showing up with him?” She glanced over at the Seed’s companions and finally spotted Faith’s ball of pink Skitty next to the Mareep. Flora was a quiet Skitty, which was weird and it tended to look like it was seeing things when there was nothing around a person.

 “One or twice.” Ben confirmed settling something unnerved in Mercy’s gut. There was something not right about the way that the Mightyena would prowl around, seemingly always attempting to make itself bigger than those around him. She had seen him sizing Persephone up more than once, and while she wasn’t worried for her little gut in the slightest having one of the most powerful Pokémon in the County gave her that luxury, and never once did Jacob Seed attempt to reign his companion in. Both left her feeling threatened and she didn’t appreciate it.

 “You gonna head down and give profiles for the Center soon? Make sure they’ve all had their mental health checkup?”

 “You that worried?”

 “Mm we’re having more and more rescues in the mountains. The staff boost couldn’t have come at a better time, I’m stealing half of your deputies.”

 “You think they’re the ones behind it?”

 “Who else could it be? And don’t say Team Rocket. You and I both know a ten-year-old can beat them.” Back, long before they became adults, the pair had met on the fields of the Unova region. Both neck and neck to become the next Pokémon champion. The pair had squared off and it came to a tie. After parting ways, Mercy heading to Cinnabar Island for some relaxation and to be home for a bit, Ben had ended up going to school and becoming a psychologist. And then he decided to apply his learned skills to the police and protective departments. Mercy found her way to Hope shortly after Ben settled in, becoming a medic and rescue searcher with her beloved Persephone at her side once she had settled on a career path after becoming a Champion.

 “Maybe we’re umping the gun. The Sheriff doesn’t think anything is up and they technically haven’t done anything illegal. I mean preaching and having a following isn’t against the laws. Otherwise all those organizations would be arrested long before they have to face off against a competent ten-year-old.” They chuckled and nodded before they noticed that one of the new Deputies was heading their way. It was Deputy Rook, her Arcanine practically bouncing at the sight of Percy and Lysander. Mercy raised an eyebrow at the fire breed.

 “Hello! I’m Dakota Diane Rook!” She cheered and held out her hand. “You’re Dr. Lee, I don’t know if you remember but you interviewed me for this position.” Ben grinned and took her hand.

 “I remember.” He nodded and then motioned her to Mercy. “This is Medic Mercy she’s basically the head of search and rescue around here. If you’re ever in trouble you want her and Persephone to be looking for you.”

 “Oh wow.” Everyone was surprised when they saw Persephone’s coat, and always assumed he was a she.

 “He’s shiny but is he really that useful for search and rescue? He can’t fly.” A new voice asked and there was Deputy Gutierrez with her Flygon settled on her shoulders. Dragon and Fairy Pokémon looked at each other in acknowledgement.

 “Oh, my Percy is very good as finding things. He never misses a mark.” There was a tense moment before both women tossed their heads back and laughed.

 “This is Emma, my special guy. I’m August Gutierrez.” They shook hands.

 “Mercy Stein, search and rescue plus medical aid.”

 “I thought you were going to go introduce yourself to the other Deputies, the older ones in the department August?” Rook blinked and Gutierrez blushed glancing over at where Hudson and Pratt were talking to some of the new hired as well, introducing their companions and getting a feel for their new coworkers. “Your face got really red are you okay? Are you feeling sick?”

 “I’m fine it’s just a little hot out yeah?” She murmured looking a little panicked. Mercy watched as Percy carefully wrapped his ribbons around her wrist and sent calming feelings to her. She looked down and blinked before laughing nervously. “I’m um…”

 “Hudson can be a little intimidating on first glance but she’s really nice once you get to know her.” Ben smiled and patted Gutierrez lightly on the back. “So, what do you think of Hope County so far? Pretty different from the City, right?”

  August was sent to work in the Southern Sheriff’s department, but made sure to keep in contact with the others. Mercy had more and more disappearances on her hands, only finding a few of them normal. She remarked that the rest looked drugged but their blood didn’t come back with any known drugs or toxins. Ben helped Dakota settled in to the Central Sheriff’s department and the pair go to work trying to investigate who/what was drugging hikers heading through the southern mountain trails. His looming interview with the Veterans at the Center pushed to the back burning in the wake of all these strange events.

[megaphonemonday]

Can I pretty please request a follow-up to your tattoo-ficlet because wow would I like to see that premise actually run its course to when Mike finds out exactly what Ginny is hiding!

woof. I may have let this one sit for too long. I couldn’t figure out how to drop back into the rhythm of this series. So if it feels a little belabored, that is why.

wake up to reality | ao3

Thinking back, much of Mike’s adult life had been spent waiting. Waiting to get called up. Waiting for Rachel to call him back. Waiting for her to want kids Waiting to be made captain. Waiting to make it to the playoffs, the World Series.

Some of them had never come and some might never, but Mike had gotten used to it, had even accepted it.

One wait, though, was inevitable. 

Waiting out the end of his contract. 

Which felt like a terrible way to put it. A terrible way to spend his last few years as a ballplayer. Because it wasn’t that he didn’t love the game anymore or didn’t wish that he could keep playing. No, it was just that Mike had finally accepted that his knees and back weren’t getting any younger. Trying to force them to was only going to end in heartache. 

And even if it was a terrible way to put it, that didn’t make it any less true. Once this contract ran out, that was it. 

Mike Lawson was out of baseball for good. 

But for once in his life, that didn’t send Mike into a spiral of existential dread. Finally, he could see beyond the end of his baseball career, and it was all because there was finally someone waiting for him. 

Still, he did his best to enjoy his last two seasons.

And his best, if he did say so himself, was pretty damn good.

Good enough to have led the Padres to the World Series for the first time in club history. 

Honestly, it felt like some sort of fairy tale. That was the only explanation. 

They’d won the Wild Card as the five seed and then managed to knock out the number one Cubs and then the Nationals after them, catapulting them onto baseball’s greatest stage.

And now he was playing in Game 7 of the World Series in front of a sold out home crowd. There were thousands of people in the stands, a huge number of whom were wearing his number to watch him play the last game of his professional career. 

Heartening as that was, the only person that he really cared about witnessing the occasion was camped out on the top step of the dugout, like she was ready to take the field at any moment. Not that that would be happening. She didn’t have any chance of coming into the game after making her mark in Game 4.

And if she happened to be the one person whose jersey sales outnumbered his, season after season, Mike had come to terms with that, too.

(After all, she’d had the good taste to have his number permanently branded on her body.

Yeah, he knew all about that.)

Crouched behind the plate as Ginny threw her warm up pitches, Mike’s eyes had narrowed as her hand made yet another pass over her uniform before retrieving the ball from her glove. She’d done it in the bullpen, too. She wasn’t wiping off dirt or sweat that might interfere with her grip: she did that on her thigh. It almost seemed like she had an itch, right around where the band of her sports bra would sit. For a while, Mike had thought she was just nervous—after all, she was the first woman to pitch in a World Series game, it was a lot to shoulder—and she’d settle after an inning or two.

But from the very first pitch, she hadn’t faltered, shutting down Red Sox batters like they were still in Little League. 

Still, that tic didn’t go away. It didn’t happen every time, though Mike did notice she’d scratch more if she’d shaken him off a few times already. 

Finally, in the bottom of the fourth, he’d trudged out to the mound. Just to get answers. She’d also just given up a triple and a run, but Mike had faith she’d get her head on straight with or without him.

He was less confident that she wouldn’t scratch a bloody hole in her side with the way this strange little habit was going. 

“Do you have a bug bite or something?” 

“What?” she demanded, glove over her mouth. Over the top of the leather, though, her eyes were squinted, incredulous. Clearly, she hadn’t expected that particular question.

Mike gestured at his own ribs, where Ginny’d been scratching all game. Though her glove covered most of her face, he’d spent the better past of the past three years learning all about reading Ginny Baker. She was shocked, cagy, and more than a little embarrassed. 

“A bug bite. Yeah,” she finally squeaked. 

Squeaked! If they weren’t on the mound being watched in real time by millions of people, he would’ve broken into the sappiest grin. God, she was adorable. 

As it was, he narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously.

“Yeah?”

She nodded and held out her glove for the ball. 

One last squint, which Ginny pointedly ignored, and Mike nodded back, working his wad of gum. He handed the ball over and backed down the mound, only turning away when the umpire shouted at him to get his ass behind the plate. 

Of course, that wasn’t the end of it. 

An inning and a half later, Mike sidled up to Ginny in the dugout. He tapped his hip against hers and she took her eyes off the field for a brief moment to flick a look in his direction. 

Guiltily, her hand fell back to her side. 

“So, a bug bite, huh?”

“That’s what I said,” she bit out, looking edgier about this than the fact that they were smack dab in the middle of the World Series. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her jaw set, just daring him to push it.

Well, Mike did love to disappoint. 

Sucking on his teeth, gazing out at the field, he nodded. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go with that.”

He smirked at the exasperated look on her face and moved off before the cameras could catch them and the sports casters could start speculating. There was enough speculation going on in his own head, he didn’t need external input. Not with so much on the line.

Which was why it was probably a bad idea to go back out to the mound in the bottom of the seventh. Ginny was on a roll and really didn’t need a distraction. At the same time, she was nearing her pitch limit, and something told Mike that he wanted to know what was up with the rib scratching before she was out of the game. 

So, he waited until Ginny shook him off twice in a row—she’d never quite grown out of the need to make him work for his calls, and now Mike hoped she never would—and her hand dropped to her side before he signaled to the ump and making his way to the woman on the mound. 

She watched him come, hip cocked to the side and more than a little exasperated.

Before he could open his mouth to say… something (he’d figure it out as he went), Ginny sighed and cast her eyes up, not quite an eye roll, but suspiciously close. 

“Fine, it’s not a bug bite.”

He rocked back on his heels, eyebrows inching up his forehead. Not at the revelation, but at the fact Ginny’d admitted it at all. 

“I am shocked, Baker,” he drawled, barely remembering to get his mitt up, “that you would lie to your captain like that.” Her only response was a slow blink, utterly unimpressed. Mike would’ve worried about the optics of it all if it weren’t for the reluctant grin tucked into the corner of her mouth. “Well, are you gonna give me the truth, then?”

“It’s the tattoo, okay?”

Mike blinked. 

Honestly, he hadn’t really come up with any kind of explanation for Ginny’s sudden bout of itchiness, but her tattoo was the last thing he would have thought of. Because he did his level best not to think of her tattoo, or the way she’d offered up, “I think you’ll like it,” so tentative and uncertain.

He hadn’t even thought about where it was. On her body. 

Mostly because while he couldn’t help but picture Ginny’s body from time to time over the past two seasons, he knew that reality was going to be way better than anything his brain could cook up. And he knew that, unless he really screwed up, that reality would be all his. If he could be patient.

If he could wait.

He cleared his throat. “Is it infected or something?”

She’d looked at him like he was an idiot, which he undoubtedly was, but it wasn’t as if he knew much about tattoos. “No. It’s—” she broke off, eyeing him intently over the fingers of her glove. “Look, don’t let this go to your head, okay? We still have a game to finish, not to mention the rest of the series—”

“Ginny, just tell me.”

It was her name that did it, Mike still thought. Two years and he could count on two hands the number of times he’d called her that to her face. 

Swallowing, she’d nodded, looking only a little hesitant. Then, her shoulders settled in a straight, strong line, and her chin, behind her glove, tipped up. 

“It’s your number. Thirty-six. Right there. It just keeps hitting me. That this might be the last pitch I ever throw to you and I guess, I just kept checking in on the piece of you I’ve got with me. You’re my rock, Mike. Even when I doubt myself, I don’t doubt you.”

Somehow, Mike had managed to listen to that speech with a straight face, without bursting into a bout of tears. Somehow, he managed not to close the distance between him and Ginny and sweep her into his arms. Somehow, he managed not to kiss her senseless. 

Somehow, he’d managed not to do any of that in the four days since, either. 

No, he’d buckled down and concentrated on leading his team to the ultimate victory in baseball.

And here they were in Game 7, down two to four in the bottom of the ninth. He was just settling into the batter’s box, eyeing Blip trying to lengthen his lead off first while Salvi played it safer on second. There was only one out, but Mike would never forgive himself if he didn’t at least earn an RBI in what could very well be his last major league at bat. 

Those thoughts died away as the umpire called, “Play ball!” and the Red Sox pitcher leaned in for the call. 

For a long, interminable moment, it seemed like the pitch would never come. His hands tightened on his bat, restless. He bounced a little on his back leg, keeping his weight loaded, ready to explode forward, telling himself to send it out of the park. 

Which was why, when the ball finally sailed over the plate, and Mike swung (at the first pitch like a rookie), he nearly spun around with the force of his follow through. He was way too early, sending the drive deep into foul territory. 

He shook it off and settled back into his stance, reaching for the years of plate discipline he’d instilled in himself. That control kept him from swinging three times. Three balls. 

In spite of the count, Mike refused to be walked in his last at bat. He refused to strike out. He refused to do anything other than exactly what he was capable of. 

He chanced a look away from the pitcher, back towards the dugout, and his eyes caught on the only person who really, truly mattered. 

Ginny hadn’t moved from her post at the top of the dugout stairs and her eyes were trained on him. Unflinchingly, she met his gaze. Like she knew exactly what he was thinking, what he needed out of this plate appearance, she nodded, showing her approval. 

Then, deliberate and sure, she pressed her fingers to her lips and then to that space on her side that he now knew was home forever to his number.

A jolt of certainty shuddered through him. 

They were going to win. All he needed to do was connect bat to ball, and how many times in his life had he done that? 

Just once more. 

Later, Mike would never have a satisfactory answer for what it felt like to hit the game winning home run of Game 7 of the World Series. Memory would come in flashes: his focus zeroing in on the ball as it streaked towards him, the muscles in his back and arms and legs tensing and releasing as he slammed the bat down and away, watching that ball go sailing out, out, out into the San Diego night. 

What he remembered most clearly was rounding third and heading into the home stretch. The roar of the crowd came in pulses, between the thundering beat of his heart. His teammates had already flooded off the bench, and stood surrounding the plate in a riotous, fevered huddle, ready to sweep him onto their shoulders as soon as his cleat touched the plate. And there, in the middle, Blip’s arm stretched across her shoulder and wearing a smile brighter than the stadium lights, was Ginny. 

He ran home to her.

He didn’t scoop her into his arms, but it was a near thing. He hit her and Blip almost equally instead, to remind himself that he couldn’t lay her down on the grass and kiss her, one for every time he thought about doing it. Not only would the media mob be unbearable, it would take far too long. 

Instead, he settled for wrapping one arm around her while the team collapsed in on them. 

As proud as he was of that final homer, honestly? It took more mental fortitude and self-control not to glue himself to Ginny’s side until she gave in and showed off her ink, regardless of whether or not they had an audience. 

After an endless round of media obligations and awards ceremonies and a trophy Mike had dreamed of receiving, but never expected, after the traditional celebrations and group hugs and more than a few tears, Mike finally pointed himself towards the one person he’d wanted to be with all night. 

Most of the guys had already showered and dressed and headed out for any one of the parties the city of San Diego would host in their honor tonight. They’d all clamored for him to get moving, get his ass in gear and come along.

But Mike had to see about a girl.

She hadn’t even bothered to close her door. 

Maybe because she was waiting for him, too.

“You need a hand with that?”

She looked up, champagne dripping from her hair and nose. Her fingers stuttered to a stop on the buttons of her uniform. 

“No,” she replied once she’d recovered from her surprise. Before Mike could laugh in disbelief, a grin bloomed across her face. “Maybe I want one anyway, though.”

He stepped into the room, listening to the door latch shut behind him. He walked towards her, drawn forward by some magnetic pull. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. 

And he really didn’t try. 

Finally, he was close enough to touch her. Gingerly, his fingers worked the buttons of her uniform from their holes. Why did they seem so much smaller, more delicate, on her jersey than they did on his? Ginny watched him through her thick, dark lashes as each undone button revealed more of her dark undershirt. Her lips parted and Mike was suddenly aware of the fact that he had yet to kiss her. 

“C’mere,” he murmured, one hand cupping her cheek and the other settling against her ribs in a spot that he’d become very familiar with over the past four days.

As natural as breathing, their lips came together.

Mike didn’t think he was overselling it when he thought that this, holding Ginny Baker in his arms as her tongue moved against his, was better than any home run he’d ever hit. Up to and including that last one. 

He could have stayed like that forever. 

Ginny, though, had other plans. 

She tugged her jersey and undershirt out of the waistband of her pants and shrugged the outer layer off, letting it fall to the ground in a damp slap. The undershirt was a little more work since the tight lycra clung wetly to her torso, only reluctantly rolling up her stomach. Mike only got the picture when Ginny tugged insistently on the fabric caught under his hand. Gamely, he helped divest her of the clingy top.

When it was off, he was treated to the sight of Ginny Baker’s smooth, golden skin. 

He was right. Reality was so much better than his imagination.

For a long moment, all he could do was stare, transfixed by the softness of her curves and the solid muscle he knew lay beneath. It wasn’t until Ginny took his hand, which had fallen to his side, and laid it against her flat stomach that he was back in action. In a blink, he eagerly reeled her in, mouth seeking hers again as his hands roamed all the exposed skin he was finally allowed to touch.

She laughed against his lips, sweet and not at all surprised. His tongue swept in and the only sounds for a while were breathy sighs of contentment. 

Much as Mike’s hands roamed, though, across her sides, up and down her arms, around her back, and even over her perfect ass, his right always came back to one spot. One spot that’d kept him intrigued even as he was sure he knew everything there was to know about the woman in his arms. 

“You want to see it?” she breathed. 

Maybe she really could read his mind. Or, maybe, the circling of his fingers over her ribs had given him away.

Wordlessly, he nodded.

“Maybe you should sit down for this, old man,” she teased, though she did press on his shoulder to encourage him into the chair before her cubby. He went down willingly enough, though his fingers did hook into the front of her belt to draw her closer. 

Giggling, she stepped between his knees, angling a bit to the side to give him the best view possible. 

She shifted the band of her sports bra, peeling up the elastic and revealing little navy and yellow numbers to him. A perfect replica of the ones even now on his back.

The sight of them hit Mike square in the chest. Even though he’d known of their existence for the past four days, it wasn’t until he was confronted with concrete proof that it really sank in. Tentatively, he raised just one finger to trace along the familiar figures. 

Over his head, Ginny dragged in a shuddering breath. He dared a look up at her and she was already staring back, her wide brown eyes overtaken by blown out pupils. 

“This is your piece of me, huh?” he smirked, enjoying the goosebumps that broke over her skin. 

“Just while I couldn’t have the rest of you.” 

And what could he say to that? 

He pulled her down into his lap and it didn’t matter that they were both soaked through with sweat and champagne and Gatorade in Mike’s case. All that mattered was that Ginny’s thighs bracketed his and she was smiling at him, flushed with victory and anticipation. 

And she wasn’t wearing a shirt. 

Mike’s hand didn’t move from her ribs, that 36 pressed right against his palm. 

“The guys are probably waiting,” she murmured, right against his mouth. 

“Let ‘em,” he laughed, tightening his hold on her. There was no way either of them were going anywhere for a good, long while. “I’ve been waiting way longer.”

[junker-town]

Cubs’ John Lackey and Willson Contreras got ejected in the middle of a play

It all started with a questionable strike call.

John Lackey has been ejected before in his career, him arguing balls and strikes or getting hotheaded at an umpire is not new around these parts.

John Lackey getting ejected in the middle of a play though? That’s hilarious, and a perfectly Lackey move. He’s just elevating his argument game. Everybody else needs to catch up. In this instance, both Lackey and catcher Willson Contreras were ejected for arguing about the same pitch.

The pitch in question, helpfully tweeted and commentated by Lackey’s wife.

Good call Ump! http://pic.twitter.com/cKMUNaEubZ

— Kristina Lackey (@klackey33) September 15, 2017

Anybody can agree that the call on the 5th pitch there isn’t great. Could have been better. Especially in the middle of a tie game between two playoff-hopefuls.

Granted, Wilson Contreras didn’t frame it perfectly but it’s also so clearly in the strike zone that proper framing shouldn’t have been necessary to call that as a strike.

Lackey argued the call when it happened, and he even had the convincing evidence of Carlos Martinez walking away as if he had struck out on his side. But Contreras calmed him down, he got back on the mound, and threw another pitch to Martinez with a full count...which Martinez hit to center field and brought the go-ahead run home.

If you were wondering, yes, this is where Lackey got VERY MAD.

As he went to back up home plate for a throw home, he continued arguing balls and strikes and umpire Jordan Baker lackadaisically ejected him without thinking twice.

Here’s the entire sequence, in its complete HULK LACKEY glory.

Lackey/Contreras Ejection Sequence. http://pic.twitter.com/UciyjrOVBv

— Rob Friedman (@PitchingNinja) September 15, 2017

Even more important than Lackey’s ejection, Contreras was also tossed. When he got thrown out he slammed his mask on the ground, which then hit Baker in the leg.

Because it made contact with an umpire there’s a chance that Contreras could also be suspended, but thankfully Javy Baez came over to pull the catcher away from the argument before things got even worse.

The Cubs would go up 8-2 later in the game and lock in a win, but in a game tied 1-1 against a division team during a tight postseason race, that’s not what anyone wants to see. Especially as Contreras just returned from an injury absence.

It was another classic Lackey moment for the books though, and gave us this facial expression frozen in time.

John Lackey's Hall of Fame plaque http://pic.twitter.com/CKCmucELYn

— Jeff Sullivan (@based_ball) September 15, 2017

[junker-town]

The Adrian Beltre Encyclopedia

This is everything you need to know about the wonderful Adrian Beltre, the newest member of MLB’s 3,000 hit club.

Adrian Beltre is about to reach 3,000 hits in the major leagues (has just reached, etc.), and in celebration of his varied, humorous, and never boring career, it’s time to celebrate all the amazing things that have cemented him as one of the most entertaining people in the league at any given moment.

Whether it’s his phobia of people touching his head (he’s serious guys, stop it!), his defensive prowess on the hot corner year after year, or the spontaneous moments in games and in the dugout that give you insight into his personality, Belter is a non-stop barrel of laughs. Even when he doesn’t mean to be.

To try and get those laughable, unique moments all in one place, this is the Adrian Beltre Encyclopedia.

Anti-Head Touching

This might be one of the most memorable pieces of Beltre’s entire career, and it doesn’t even have anything to do with his on-field achievements. He truly, sincerely, does not like people touching his head.

If you do so, you will set him off with a mini-tantrum of frustration which is truly, sincerely hilarious to everyone involved but him. Baseball is filled with perfectly juvenile behavior whether it be in the clubhouse, on road trips, or on the field. But people touching Beltre’s head might be the best example of this and something that never gets old.

Camera Man Check-In

Back in 2011, Beltre had a three-homer game against the Rays. During his first home run trot around the bases, a TBS cameraman followed him down the third base line to home, carrying his camera to track Beltre’s jog.

And then that cameraman absolutely ate it, breaking parts of his camera in the process. Even though he was mere feet from home, Beltre wasn’t about to let the moment pass without a reaction so he pointed and cracked a smile at the poor bloke laying on the turf. It wasn’t blatantly mean-spirited, which is what makes it a funny moment and not a cruel one.

Defensive Dives

Yes, his one-knee home runs are fun and all, but Beltre’s defense is the other half of what has secured his longevity in the league thus far and sometimes his work at third is more fun to watch than his hits (sometimes). Whether it’s a diving stop in the infield to keep a runner from advancing or a lunge to the foul line followed by a jaw-dropping throw to first, his amazing skills while manning third base are a consistent reminder of how valuable he is on both sides of the ball.

Death Stares

We’ve established (and will continue to establish) that Beltre’s teammates love messing with him, and that he will flip out if you annoy him in various ways. But there are also moments where he doesn’t go nuts if people are messing around, he will simply bore a hole in your very essence with one of the best death stares in the game.

Fun With Felix

Felix Hernandez and Beltre were teammates for five years, and we’re sure that tons of fun was had between the two during that span. But they’ve only become more entertaining from an outsider’s perspective since Beltre left Seattle, and boy have they had some classic moments over the years.

There was the “oh shit!” home run off of Felix that Beltre couldn’t believe.

There was the time when Beltre lined out right into Felix’s glove and Felix tossed it right back to him as he walked back to the dugout.

Sometimes the moments aren’t as blink-and-you’ll-miss-them, like the one game where they spent more or less the entire time jawing at each other jokingly back and forth.

Best Friends Forever!

Elvis Andrus Moments

When Adrian Beltre was traded to the Rangers, he was coming off of a stint in Boston where wide swaths of people seemed to really notice him for the first time. It’s not like he wasn’t a good player during his decade-plus in Los Angeles and Seattle, but it wasn’t the same national Beltre experience as fans know now.

So going to the Rangers, not only were his antics known and recognized, but he found a partner in crime to share his goofs with and we couldn’t be happier this happened.

Elvis Andrus and Beltre have more fun messing with each other on the field than possibly any other combination of players in the league. Even when they look mad at each other, you can tell it’s in a love way like people who have been friends since childhood.

It might happen during a huddle on the mound or a break during an inning, but the best moments between these two are when they goof off while in the process of making plays. I mean, just look at these two and try not to crack a smile.

While there are baseball friendships all across the league, there isn’t one as present on the diamond as this one. Nor one that adds to the entertainment of the game in quite the same way.

First Base Ump Fun

Beltre is a shrewd strategist sometimes, even when he’s being cheeky about things. One major example of this is his frequent referrals to the first base ump when he checks his swing. By jumping into action before the home plate official can say a word, he tries for the more sympathetic call immediately and hopes to turn things in his favor.

Even when it doesn’t work out though, his eagerness to get an answer from the ump and the way he points down the first base line is a sight to see.

Hitting For The Cycle

Beltre has hit for the cycle three times in his career, once for Seattle and twice for the Rangers. However, the cycle he hit while playing for the Mariners actually happened against the Rangers, in Arlington.

Which means he is the only person in the history of the league to hit for the cycle three times in the same ballpark. He’s only one of four people to hit for the cycle three times, period. And the last person to do that before Beltre completed the feat in 1933.

Just a fun tidbit that allows us to marvel at his sometimes unbelievable skills, which can get lost amongst his shenanigans.

Home Runs From His Knees

This might be his signature move, and one that he can’t even explain with any certainty as to why it happens. In 2016, Beltre attempted to explain the phenomenon to MLB.com saying,

I don't like doing it, but it normally happens on breaking balls -- when I'm trying to fight off a breaking ball. Somehow my knee goes down and I just see the ball and swing. I don't like doing it, I wish I could stop doing. I think it hurts me more than it helps me. Sometimes when I go to one knee I think that I could've hit the ball better if I didn't. But it happens and it's just reaction. I've been doing it too long to change now.

Good thing he can’t really fix that, as it’s incredible to watch every single time he pulls it off.

Trying to figure out how he is able to generate that type of power from one knee, and the quickness with which he pivots to the ground, is remarkable to say the least.

Listed Age

Beltre was the weirdo prospect who was actually younger than his listed age.

Boras eventually got Major League Baseball to review the case and after a lengthy investigation, they determined that the Dodgers in fact had signed Beltre when he was 15. The signing age for international amateurs is 16.

The Dodgers fudged his age in reverse, and they got slapped with a bunch of penalties for it. Only Adrian Beltre can show up to his major league debut and well-actually Scott Boras about his age.

On-Deck Circles

Adrian Beltre likes his on-deck circles where he likes his on-deck circles. When an ump asks him to move from the spot where he is warming up to the designated on-deck area, he decides: “Nah.”

So he slides the on-deck circle to where he’d like it to be instead of just acquiescing, and gets promptly ejected.

Has there ever been a more perfect distillation of who Adrian Beltre is as a baseball player and a person? Maybe. Has there ever been a funnier distillation of who Adrian Beltre is as a baseball player and a person? Not even close.

Popup Fakeouts

This mostly has to do with his Andrus bond, but Beltre has never met an easy popup he couldn’t exploit for his own benefit. It’s usually just distracting enough to be funny but not dangerous, and Beltre enjoys doing it so dang much it’s hard not to appreciate the joke along with him.

Raising His Son Right

This is pretty self explanatory in that his son, Adrian Beltre Jr., is not only adorable but is mimicking his father as he grows up just like many kids do. However it’s better than a normal kid specifically because his dad is Adrian Beltre.

Beltre Jr. has mimicked his dad’s swing pre-game (and hit some bombs while he was at it!), taken part in some pretty intense games of father-son catch where he showed off some serious sidearm toss skills, and just been an all around mini-me to his dad. With Beltre being such a character, we would be remiss if we didn’t hope for that trend to keep going and the world to grant us another baseball Beltre.

Ridiculous Base Path Running

I mean...he’s the best. How can you not enjoy this.

Or this.

What a goof.

Slow Dribblers

He has no patience for them. Who does? Those balls that come rolling through the infield moving slower than molasses, causing nothing but frustration and letting people reach base every time.

So in the face of slow dribblers, Beltre will not stand for their shenanigans and takes things into his own hands. Like when he tried to surreptitiously kick one foul rather than even making a play. It totally could have worked!

Torn Testicle

Once, Adrian Beltre tore a testicle after a ball hit him right in the...well...testicle. He stayed in the game for the duration, and then afterwards checked things out and said that his testicle was the size of a grapefruit. Later he confirmed that it took two whole weeks for it to shrink back to its normal size (he was put on the 15-day disabled list at the time).

Media reports at the time described it as “severely bruised” and surgery was even considered to get things back as they are supposed to be down there, to put it gently.

But staying in the game and talking openly about the severity of his testicle issues wasn’t even the most Beltre part of this, that would be the fact that after the incident he continued to refrain from wearing a protective cup.

At the time he said it was uncomfortable and he doesn’t like it, but a shot to that area would surely change a normal person’s mind after the fact right? A normal person, sure. But Beltre is beautifully not-normal so he wore one while he healed up and then it was back to the cup-less life.

Tossing His Glove

We’ve already noted here that Beltre loves messing with people, but doesn’t always like being messed with. This is a subset of those fun and games that also happens to be something little league parents scold their kids about.

Yet Beltre does it because everyone gets bored sometimes out on the field, it’s just that 99.9% of major leaguers hide it better than he does. Nothing bad happens because he wants to toss his glove above his head as a line drive sails over him, it won’t come close to interfering and to him it’s hilarious.

Tossing His Glove (subset: Angrily)

There have also been times when tossing his glove has stemmed not from joy and goofiness but from annoyance - at a ball or at a team member. There was the time that Elvis Andrus touched his head (again) during a meeting at the mound and Beltre promptly turned around and hucked his glove right at him as Andrus hustled out of there.

Or the time when a ground ball passed him at third and rather than diving for a play that would have been impossible to make even if he could reach the ball, he just threw his glove at it and watched it bounce right by. Who among us?