The First Out

Chapter 11 -Brawling Brad Hawley

Western Massachussetts was in the first day of a stretch of temperatures in the upper 90s with humidity thick enough to the point where you could drink the air. Thunderstorms were also expected. The Wolves and Falcons would be able to get the series finale in before any storms rolled in. But in the Wolves locker room, things were about to heat up and get stormy -- in a hurry.

Things were calm, though Sully and Jason Lowell were setting up a practical joke at Brad's locker. Steven Chase was in a corner near the locker room door, handing a small wad of cash to the 17 year-old clubhouse attendant. "Steak dinners," Steven instructed, "Twenty-five. Get one for yourself."

"Sure!" The attendant responded, trying to contain his excitement. The kid relied almost exclusively on tips from the players for running errands and doing favors. To get a steak dinner, and from a famous ballplayer like Steven Chase was a perk of the job.

It wasn't written in stone, but a Major League player on a rehab assignment would treat the minor leaguers to a catered dinner as a small gesture for coming in to their locker room and being a part of their team. It reminded them of the poor pay, long bus rides, lousy motels, shitty per diems that resulted in gas station sushi, and post-game meals of hamburgers and hot dogs. Some big leaguers didn't give a fuck about these players -- forgetting where they came from. Not Steven Chase. He'd been in Triple-A when a couple of Breakers came down for rehab. One player acted like his shit didn't stink. Another treated the boys to Red Lobster. He chose to be the latter.

Steven strolled to his locker when Sully caught up to him. "Chase, last night with the team, eh?"

"Yep. I go back to Bristol tomorrow morning, grab my car, then head to Atlantic City." The Atlantic City Breakers was New Orleans' Double-A affiliate.

"What's the grub?"

"Outback."

"Do they serve kosher?" Zack Goldman wondered.

"Who gives a fuck, a real steak!" Lowell exclaimed. As with Brad buying rounds at J. Tim's in Plainville, Lowell's issues with Steven disappeared at the thought of the First Baseman picking up the tab for a juicy steak.

Brad entered the locker room in his practice uniform. He arrived at the park early for extra batting practice. He was drenched from the heat and humidity. He wiped his brow as he crossed the room to his locker, to the sounds of snickers and giggles. Waiting for him was a pink basket filled with sex toys, gay porn magazines and lubricants. He casually flipped through the magazine to more giggles. "Well, one of you either has the balls to go into a store and buy these, or there is something you might want to tell us."

He put the magazine back in the basket. He made light of it. He'd be damned if he was going to let his teammates get to him. "I don't need any of this stuff, but thanks for thinking of me."

He began to undress. Jason Lowell tried to stop him. "Uh-uh!" Lowell shook his head. "Training room!"

Dick Graber and Derek Griffin popped out of the coach's room to see what the commotion was about. It became a habit that wore thin. Brad stopped for a moment, then defiantly took off his shirt. Lowell grabbed him by the arm. "I said the training room!"

Brad shoved Lowell, who shoved him back. They wrestled each other to the ground, Brad getting the upper hand. Teammates separated them. They had to hold them back. "You've had a hard on for me since you got here! You lost! It's not my fault Mancuso is a hot head! Get over it!"

"Shut up, faggot!" That's all Lowell had left. Brad was right -- Lowell was taking it out on the wrong person, but wasn't willing to move on. Brad being outed gave him another reason to hate him. They could be friends -- eventually -- but Jason could hold grudges with the best of them.