𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐲 | 𝐛. 𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐳

𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 - 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 | 𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧

      "LENNON, can I talk to you?" Benny asks, approaching me in the dugout.
      I fix the makeup on my eye, trying to cover the deep violet bruise.
      "Does this have to do with what I said in the Hospital?" I ask, an eyebrow raised.
      He nods, crossing his arms over his chest. He leans against the wall, chewing on his lip. His eyebrows are furrowed and he looks upset.
      "Lennon, we can't avoid this for forever. And eventually, we're going to have to talk about this." He says.
      I stand from my seat in the corner of the dugout and grab the batting roster clipboard.
      "Yes, eventually, we will. But today isn't that day." I say, grabbing a piece of gum from the cubbies. "I'm going to talk to Smalls."
He grabs my hand, an eyebrow raised, watching me closely.
"Please, Lennon, talk to me." He says, desperate. "Please don't shut me out."
I pull my hand out of his, shaking my head. I clench my hand, trying to shake the nerves. There's a million things I could say to him. One million and one things to say, but can't get a word out edge wise.
"I have a roster to write up." I say. "If you'll excuse me."
I walk out of the dugout and unwrap my piece of gum. Who's cubby did I steal this from? Who cares. I pop the piece of gum in my mouth and walk into the stadium building. I walk through the main hall, walking past fans gawking at the hall of fame. I walk to the elevator, stepping inside. It's a muscle memory thing to get in the elevator and go to Smalls' office. The elevator rises and I close my eyes, focusing on my gum. I remember Yeah-Yeah chewed a lot of gum. He always had a huge tub of dubble bubble gum with him, or bazooka. After everything that happened to the boys with the Big Chief Chew, they all swore off Chaw for the rest of their lives and stuck to bubblegum. Benny's mother was strict about substance abuse, just like my parents. They told us the horror stories of people losing parts of their faces because of oral cancer, the stories of having a tube in your throat for the rest of your life, and the stories of a relying on a nasal cannula so you might be able to breathe enough to walk from one end of your kitchen to the other. Benny and I never even dared to touch the stuff. My mother had the nose of a bloodhound. She could smell a drop of alcohol from ten miles away. And when it came to tobacco, she could tell before someone even walked in the door. I never tried either of them, and I was steered away from alcohol most of my life. After Dad died, however, an occasional beer or shot took the sting away from going home to a house where my Dad once was. The elevator doors open and I step out. I walk down the hall to Smalls' office.
      "Smalls, you ready to work on Rosters?" I ask, an eyebrow raised.
      Sitting at the large oak table in Smalls' office is a team of two men in suits.
      "Jeez, Len, you look just about as bad as I did that one summer." Smalls says, referring to the summer his step-father, Bill, nailed him in the eye with a baseball while trying to teach him how to play catch.
      I look at the two representatives and cross my arms over my chest, an eyebrow raised.
      "I assume this must have something to do with Tyler Tate?" I ask, walking into Smalls' office.
      "No, actually, it doesn't. Why would this have something do with Tyler Tate?" One man asks.
      I purse my lips together and look away towards Smalls.
      "Oh, no reason. Just thought it might. What are you men here for?" I ask.
      "We're here in relation to a player trade. We're interested in trading the Dodgers." One man says.
      I raise an eyebrow and sit down now, kicking my feet up on the table. There's plenty of good players on the team, no doubt they'd want to trade with us. Question is, who do they want?
      "What team are you representing?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.
      One man retrieves a folder, pulling it from a thick briefcase on the floor.
      "My name is Andrew Green and this is my Colleague, Will Allen. We represent the New York Yankees." He says, laying his folder on the table.
      The Yankees are in first place in the AL standings. Why do they need someone from the NL?
      "Excuse me if I'm being rude, but aren't the Yankees in first place in AL standings?" I ask.
      "Yes, we are, but we're still interested in a trade with the Dodgers. We believe it may be beneficial for both teams to trade." Andrew says.
      I raise an eyebrow, looking at the red folder labeled 'trades'.
      "What is entailed in this trade? Who are you trading?" I ask.
      Andrew and Will look at one another, eyebrows raised. Will pushes his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. He laces his fingers together and purses his lips together.
      "All-rise," He says, twisting and contorting his face.
      I furrow my brows and my bottom lip drops open. I look back and forth at each man before raising one eyebrow.
      "You're trading Judge?" I ask, in disbelief. "You're really trading Judge?"
      Both men nod. I laugh, scoffing as I do so. I lean back in my chair and stare at the folder again.
      "You know you're trading one of your best batters. You lose him, your chances of getting to the World Series detrimentally decrease. You're kissing your season goodbye." I say.
      Will looks at Andrew and clicks his tongue before crossing his arms over his chest.
      "We understand the repercussions of the trade. We're hoping that the player we trade for makes up for the loss." He says.
      I furrow my brows again and remove my feet from the table. I stand, approaching the window, looking down at the field.
      "You can't make up for the loss of Judge with any one player. Sure, the Dodgers are good, but Aaron Judge is edging at Babe Ruth type talent. You lose him, you lose you shot at winning." Smalls says.
      I spin around, looking back at Will, Andrew, and Smalls. I approach the table and shift my weight into my left hip.
      "You're not trading Judge for Smith, or Marshall. You're trading him for a power player. You're trading him for a pinch runner." I say, exhaling sharply. "You're not trading Judge for any old player, you're trading Judge for Rodriguez."