Oz was juggling calls, but he piped up as he put someone on hold.
“We’ve already got some votes for our tarnished hometown hero, too.” Oz laid in a track of the chant used at the stadium when New York’s big hitter came to the plate. “Lance Montero seems to be making the list, but I have to warn our listeners that I don’t think being popular with the ladies is the same as being a thug.”
Brian tried not to roll his eyes. He was only too glad to put the New York Scrapers’ veteran shortstop on the list of sports stars with too much fame and money at their fingertips.
“Montero is practically an institution in the Big Apple, from the South Street Seaport restaurant that bears his name to the guest spots on late-night TV. But Mr. New York could be alienating his fans as he steps out with one famous face after another.”
“Although he’s hardly the first ballplayer to date a movie star, you know?” Oz chimed in, taking a predictable long view of the situation.
Brian made a mental note to talk to the guy after today’s show. Damn it, they needed to pump up the news with flair and personality, not dull it down to stats and strategy.
“While the public doesn’t begrudge a star his entourage,” Brian continued, pleased to see every line in the studio was already blinking with a call. “Mr. Montero might be pushing the envelope with the long string of women when he’s developing a charitable foundation to benefit kids. For all we know, he’s setting up a trust fund of sorts for offspring he hasn’t publicly acknowledged. Don’t these guys know that perks like the All-Star Game and the Gold Glove are popularity contests as much as talent?”
“And it looks like there are a couple of calls for Javier Velasquez—”
“Don’t get me started!” Brian couldn’t believe the talent this kid was pissing away. “The guy has the slugging stats and third-base prowess to be a superstar if he didn’t spend his free time riding a motorcycle without a helmet and cliff diving around the globe. We all heard there was talk of negotiating a clause into his contract to ensure he stayed healthy, but Velasquez’s agent made that disappear. If this guy doesn’t rein in his habits, he’s another one who’ll end up seeing his contract bought out next spring.”
“So we’ve got the fighter, the player, the thrill seeker…at least you’ve got something besides the steroid scandal to rail about, right, Brian?” Oz chuckled to himself, but Brian was not amused.
They’d nearly come to blows on more than one morning show when he was in the thick of a good tirade about irresponsibility among the players, and Oz trotted out some crap about the major league cashing in on the new wealth of power hitters and—by turning a blind eye to drug use for years—implying a sort of consent to steroids. Who cared about that? Listeners wanted to talk about the players, not front office people. That stuff was one giant snooze fest.
“How about Mr. Bottom Line, the Atlanta Rebels’ Rick Warren?”
“This guy could not play any harder,” Oz pointed out, pressing a button that filled the airwaves with the sound of a bat cracking against a ball. “The most overlooked utility player in baseball is up for free agency at the end of the year and I’ve gotta say I’m rooting for him to land with a team who can make a run at the playoffs.”
Surprise, surprise. If baseball had cheerleaders, Oz would be the first one on board.
“This guy’s moved around the MLB so often his baseball card collection reads like a travelogue. But after years of showing up ready to play no matter who held his contract, Warren’s getting vocal about wanting to be with a club that could give him a shot at the World Series, one of the few destinations he’s missed in a long career. He’s not winning popularity points by bouncing around so much, is he, Oz?”
Oz mouthed a few choice words, but kept his public commentary to a minimum. “Okay, we’re ready for our first caller. Joe, from Queens.”
Oz forwarded the caller straight to the air. As he turned off his mic, he muttered something about baseball being a sport and not a gossip column. But so what? If he had a problem, he’d signed on the wrong show. Brian would be thrilled to see Oz get the boot for his downbeat commentary. For now, however, they settled into their morning routine and continued debating if the boys of summer would hold it together long enough to make the most out of their careers.
FIRED UP
1
Three weeks later
“HAVE YOU BEEN WATCHING the news?”
Feeling like a suspect caught in the act, Naomi Benoit clutched the telephone tighter in one hand as she muted the volume on the television with the other.
“Not since the six o’clock update,” she lied to her best friend, forcing her restless feet into her cottage’s small kitchen to make a cup of tea. A wicked rainstorm battered the northeast tonight, seemingly centered on Naomi’s coastal New Hampshire hometown. Some tea would help ward off the storm’s chill and—maybe—help chase off the stupid, misplaced worries tonight’s news had stirred up. “And actually, I’ve got a ton of papers to grade before school tomorrow—”
“Do you believe Brody told the ump to, ah, screw off?”
Shayla had been her best bud since Naomi punched Mugsy Simpson on the playground for lifting Shayla’s skirt on a dare. Surely they’d been friends long enough for Shayla to know better than to bring up him?
The only ex-boyfriend to ever drag a piece of Naomi’s heart along with him when he left. The controversial baseball star Brody Davis.
“Of course he told the ump to go scratch himself.” Naomi pulled a shiny red teapot from the cupboard and switched on the burner under her kettle. “Did you see that pitch he called strike three?”
Not that it was any of her concern. How pathetic was it that she would defend a guy who’d ended their relationship via phone while he’d been on the road for a game? He’d never apologized. Never explained. He’d just gotten swept up into baseball and the majors and endorsements for Nike. All of which apparently ranked higher than his hometown girlfriend on his personal radar.
Still, her gaze strayed to ESPN’s replay of today’s home plate shouting match in spite of herself.
“It looked low to me.” Shayla sighed on the other end of the phone. “But why can’t he ever walk away? Doesn’t he realize they’ll never renew his contract, let alone consider him for the Gold Glove he deserves? I keep thinking Brody will get past the big outbursts one of these days, but—”
“Did I mention I had papers to grade?” Naomi’s heart shouldn’t twist over a conversation about an afternoon Boston Aces game at the home field just two hours south of them. She and Shay had been fans of the team since the sixth grade when Boston traded some upstart pitching prospect for Lyle Daringer, the hottest slugger on the planet at that time. But with Brody a fixture on the Aces’roster this year, Naomi found she couldn’t dish about the games quite as much as in the old days.
Although, in her defense, she’d dated with a vengeance after the breakup to oust Brody from her heart. She thought she’d done a damn good job of it, too, until her most recent ex-boyfriend suggested she was only interested in baseball because she carried a torch for her first love.
As if.
“Can you hear the subtle nuances of my cold silence on this end of the phone?” Shayla asked, remaining quiet for all of two seconds to illustrate her point. “Who am I going to talk baseball with if you find something else to do every time Brody’s name comes up?”