The Field of Dreams Where I Died
By David Stoddard-Hunt
dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com
CATS/KEYS: S, H, MSR, UST
SUMMARY: What's in a nickname?
EPISODES: Dreamland 1 & 2, TFWID (theft of title only)
ADVISORY: Mild, oblique physical references
DISCLAIMER: I'm just hitting fungoes with 'em.
FEEDBACK: dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com
WEBSITE: "Matters of Belief" now discussed at:
http://www.iwtbxf.com/paige/david
NOTES:
This was a challenge fic, originally posted to IWTB in 2003,
obviously pre-dating the 2004 Miracle at Fenway Park. The
point was to work in the use of a well-known author's
favored Mulder term-of-endearment for Scully. The challenge for
me was that I can't fathom Mulder *ever* using it, except,
perhaps, by accident!
I can't recall why this is but, apparently, I never posted it
anywhere but IWTB. Thanks to Becky Carpenter for letting me
know people were looking for it, and thanks to Samiam and
Foxmom for asking for it.
Oh, one more thing: Ronnie Spector's 1963 hit single "Be My
Baby" can be found, I swear, on Philes Records # 116. That's
45 r.p.m. vinyl, kids. Fire up the Close 'n' Play!
***************
***************
North Warehouse Lot, Camden Yards
Baltimore, Maryland
4:40 p.m., September 1999
***************
"I don't get it. Why are we here?"
A maddening grin was the only answer she got.
"Geez. Ask an existential question..." Scully said, amiably
enough. Though, truth be told? She hated when he did that.
"It's a meaningless game, with no playoff implications
whatsoever."
There. That didn't quite wipe the grin off his face, but it did get
his attention.
"Why, Scully. I thought you said you didn't follow baseball."
She stopped walking and glanced at him, the ballpark and the
ground, in turn.
"What I said, Mulder," she replied evenly, "was that I'm not a
big fan of the game. But, just because I'm not fanatical about it,
poring over box scores and stats like some Stratomatic geek,
doesn't mean that I have no interest in baseball."
Mulder winced, mouthing the word "ow."
"Besides," Scully started forward, hiding her burgeoning smile
in plain sight, one step ahead of him, "there was an article to
that effect just this morning, in The Post."
His recovery from a wounded pride was nearly instantaneous,
evident in the bounce in his step and the rapid-fire cadence of
his reply.
"Does there have to be a reason for us to do something fun for a
change? Not everything has an explanation, Scully. You know
that. In six years, how many things have we seen that can't be
programmed, classified or easily referenced? That phrase has
probably been burned onto your laptop screen."
He snorted at his own small joke. Observing him, her smile
broadened by minute increment for an entirely different reason,
which she had no intention of sharing, yet. She had her own
corollary to his theory: not everything needed an explanation.
"It's just an Orioles game, Mulder."
He shook his head. "It's Baseball, Scully!"
"Right. Baseball: one of the most programmed, classified and
overreferenced things in existence."
"Scully!" he whined, "it's the American pastime. Each game
that's played becomes a part of the folklore of this country, a
thread in the fabric of our democratic..."
Scully wasn't buying any of it. Mulder knew the look.
"You're not buying any of this, are you? But, see, I do, Scully."
He tapped his chest for emphasis. "Baseball is a living link with
our past, as much a part of the cultural mythos as 'the rude
bridge,' the cotton gin or Alan Shepherd."
"Very Whitmanesque of you, Mulder. For what it's worth, I
believe that, too." She paused, allowing his spiel time to sink in.
"I also believe that's the first time I've ever heard 'cotton gin'
and 'Alan Shepherd' used in the same sentence." Her bone-dry
delivery made the cocked eyebrow superfluous.
"My question, Mulder, which you've not come within a..." she
searched for an appropriate baseball metaphor, "a tape-
measure home run of answering, is why here? Why now?"
The third and more important question she left unwhispered on
the breeze: why me? Scully adopted an inquisitor's
imperiousness, leavened by a bit of a twinkle in her voice.
"You're not now nor have you ever been an Orioles' fan, Agent
Mulder, and the Yankees, your *adopted* team, aren't in town,
so what gives?"
Mulder ignored the "adopted" barb but relented, if just a little.
"Baltimore is a sacred place to Yankees fans, Scully. It's the
birthplace, the crib, if you will, of Murderers' Row. Well, the
sine-qua-non for it, anyway."
In two strides, he was ahead of her again, using a little skip
maneuver to turn and walk backward as fast and nearly as
nimbly as she could walk forward. One more thing that would
have annoyed her if his boyish enthusiasm hadn't been quite so
charming.
"Murderers' Row," she echoed.
"The essence of it, yeah."
"I'm assuming that we're talking about something related to
baseball, and not to work?"
"Baseball, Scully. Comma, Golden Age of..."
At least, she thought, he had the good grace to be short of
breath as he backpedaled and talked at the same time.
"...Combs, Dugan, Koenig, Tony Lazzeri."
Scully's expression remained clouded with just a hint of raised
brow in the forecast.
"The 1927 Yankees," Mulder continued. "Arguably the greatest
team ever assembled. Until the Yankees of the mid-Fifties, that
is. A 23 year old first baseman hit 47 homers for that team. You
must have heard of Lou Gehrig, Scully? From your medical
training, if nothing else."
"I know who Gehrig is, Mulder, without resort to either the ALS
reference or the several times you've forced me to sit through
"Pride of the Yankees," thank you very much. I'm still not
seeing what any of this has to do with Camden Yards or the
Orioles. They weren't even a major league franchise until the
mid-Fifties."
"Oooo, Dana Scully - dishing some diamond dirt! Do you know
what that does to me?"
"No, I don't. And I'm fairly certain that I don't want to know,
either."
Mulder's grin was undimmed by her mordant wit. Far from it, he
beamed with an almost preternatural luminocity. For a moment,
Scully was seized with the morbid fantasy that it would
consume him, leaving only that grin hanging in the afternoon
haze, smiling at her.
Something was different about Mulder, she realized. Not amiss,
just different. It took her several steps to each of his before it
hit her: he was relaxed and having fun. Real, honest to goodness
fun. It galumphed from his stride, crackled in the corners of his
mouth and bubbled out in a laugh untainted by irony or self-
loathing. He seemed taller, straighter, as if the care of years
had been lifted from his shoulders. Younger, a long ago
Mulder she'd been unaware of missing. She so enjoyed the
phenomenon that Scully began to find it difficult to refuse him
anything. That, she knew, could be dangerous. Very dangerous,
indeed.
"Leaving aside the question of whether the Orioles are, at
present, a major league team," Mulder looked over his shoulder
occasionally to make sure he wasn't about to back into
anybody, "the reason that Baltimore is such a shrine for
Yankees fans is that it's the birthplace of the greatest Yankee
of them all. Coincidentally," a shit-eating grin belied the matter-
of-fact tone, "it's also the cradle of doom for the Boston Red
Sox."
"Now you have lost me, Mulder. Boston? I thought you hated
the Red Sox. And, Mulder, that brings up something I've been
meaning to ask you for a long time, now. You're from New
England. Connecticut, Rhode Island, Martha's Vineyard. How is
it that you became a Yankees fan? Isn't that heretical up there?
Don't Yankees fans get burned at the stake or, at the very least,
branded with a scarlet 'Y'?"
He grinned, holding up two fingers spread in front of his forehead
in what she supposed would pass for a "y" if it wasn't already
the "peace" sign, or Churchill's "V for Victory."
Mulder's backward stride lengthened precariously into a lope.
Scully wondered how, while walking backwards, he still
managed to outdistance her. She sped up as best as she was
able. At least, for once, she was wearing flats. He'd tried to
get her into sneakers, but she'd refused to wear her good running
shoes just for walking around.
"The Babe."
Not for the first time in their acquaintance, Mulder sidestepped
the question of hometown loyalties.
"Huh?"
"George Herman Ruth, Scully. Greatest Yankee ever, greatest
*player* ever. Also the greatest former 'Red Sock' ever,
emphasis on "former."
After a moment's consideration, Scully nodded. "The Curse of
the Bambino."
"You! You knew!" Mulder chided.
This time, Scully made no effort to hide a smirk.
"Wooooo," he whistled tunelessly. "So, the Enigmatic Doctor
Scully makes a dramatic reappearance." He gave her a once-
over glance, as if reappraising the worthiness of an adversary.
There was, however, more to it than that.
"C'mon." Not waiting for a response, Mulder turned her around
and, steering from the small of her back, led them toward a
destination as yet unrevealed.
"Mulder, wait."
He continued unchecked.
"Mulder, stop! Halt! Freeze!"
He slowed but did not stop, turning only to find out whether
she'd actually assumed a three-point stance and drawn a bead
on him.
"The game starts in twenty minutes, and the stadium," Scully
continued reasonably, "is behind us."
He noted that she stood hands on hips, one leg akimbo. Mulder
wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. "Two blocks,
Scully. That's all. Just two blocks."
She rolled her eyes heavenward, shaking her head. "I'm going to
regret asking this, I just know it," she whispered. "And what will
we find there, Mulder? Burnt offerings from Yankee fans?"
"Something like that. 216 Emory Street. The home of The
Curse. The natal domicile of George Herman Ruth, himself."
Scully appeared unmoved.
"The birthplace of The Babe, Scully."
"May I remind you, Mr. Cooperstown, that you've promised to
treat me, and I quote, 'to a sumptuous feast of classic baseball
fare,' *before* we take our seats? And, Mulder, as shocking as
this is going to sound, I'm jonesing for a hotdog, a *real* hotdog,
with everything."
It could well have been shocking, Mulder thought, if her voice
didn't sound so much like a purr.
As they slowed to a halt a block from either destination, Scully
rounded on him, arms crossed. Mulder, standing loose limbed
and still, watched his goal recede into the distance.
"But, it's the Babe, Scully!" he whined. "Babe? Scully?"
One cinnamon eyebrow shot skyward.
"Babe Ruth, Scully. The..."
Scully looked at her watch, then up at him.
"Yeah, yeah," he sighed. "There's no time! I know, I know."
Leading, as always, with her head, Scully nodded toward the
ballpark and started off, a suddenly morose partner lagging
behind, casting backward glances at the block of nondescript
brick row houses with their neat, marble stoops.
****************
Nicknames. Neither agent had ever been very big on them.
Unless, of course, one counted surnames. "One" might, but
Mulder and Scully did not. The thing of it was, you see, as each
would admit privately, their partnership was changing, and with
glacial rapidity.
Scully's professional diagnosis determined that relationships
are a process and, given the delicate employment situation in
which they found themselves, this slow pace was not only
reasonable, but advisable. Mulder came to much the same
conclusion, if couched a bit trenchantly. "Slouching toward
intimacy," he whined to his fish, but not to her.
One might surmise from all of this that, inexorably, terms of
endearment would arise between them. One would now be oh-
for-two.
Hell, Mulder thought, the field of possible nicknames was wide
open. All but a handful of times since the moment they'd met,
they'd referred to each other by last name only. Left a lot of
wiggle room, right? Even their given names could qualify as
nicknames. But he was quite certain that, if he ever made
"Dana" his pet name for her, "Fox" was sure to become her pet
name for him. And that? Well, that just wasn't going to happen.
Besides, the stark recollection of Scully's expression any time
Diana had called him "Fox" made Mulder wince. Nope. That
name was as black oil to both of them, now.
Normally, these things simply accrued in the natural evolution of
a relationship. He knew this rationally, understood it. Pet
names accreted to the skin like a patina of affection.
Mulder didn't doubt that such affection existed between them; it
was those tricky terms "normal" and "natural" that were the
problem. How normal a life could they really claim to have led?
And then there was that virtual minefield of a word: relationship.
Nuh-uh. N/A. Not in the widely understood definition of the term,
anyway.
So, fine. Nicknames weren't just going to accrue or accrete.
They'd have to plan, to strategize, to im-ple-ment them. Pet
names were something he and Scully would have to
accomplish.
There was, he knew, one particular term of endearment for her
that, from time to time, leapt to his lips and threw itself in front
of his breath, begging to be whispered. But, since Groom Lake,
he'd gotten the strangest of vibes about it from her. Something
had happened to both of them out in Nevada. A lot of
something, he was certain, although what that might be,
exactly, was still an open question. She knew all of this too but,
naturally, said nothing about it. Whatever had happened, its
effects reverberated nonetheless, even now.
He'd arrived home from that abortive desert escapade to find his
apartment had been redecorated against his will. He had a
bedroom now, complete with a brand-new bed. A waterbed!
With a mirrored canopy, for Christ's sake. He had absolutely no
explanation for this remarkable, disturbing occurrence. There
was no way he would even try explaining it to her. The mere
idea of Scully on a waterbed, mirrored canopy overhead, both
excited and horrified him. And there was no reconciling the two
feelings.
Something strange had most certainly happened to her out in
the desert, although, like him, she seemed to have no
recollection as to where or in what context the evidence for this
might have come. Lost time, he'd considered. But if so, then for
what purpose? "Trading Spaces" with the Reticulans next door?
How else to explain the undulating extravaganza by Broyhill in
what used to be a perfectly serviceable, room-sized closet?
Eventually, it had slipped out. Just once. Dinner at her
apartment, candles, linen napkins, Scully cooking. The whole
nine yards. Special. Intimate.
And *it* slipped out. Nearly ruined everything.
"Baby, this is really nice."
Scully reacted immediately, and with unusual virulence.
"Baby me again and you'll be peeing through a catheter."
She was as shocked by her outburst as his own had
embarrassed him. They ended up stepping all over each other in
the effort to apologize first.
"I'm sorry, Mulder. I just don't know where that came from."
"No, Scully. I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have presumed.
I... peeing through a catheter? Jesus."
As apologetic as she was being, she'd said it in deadly earnest,
Mulder knew. He was going to have to be careful, very careful, if
he was ever to use that pet name around her again.
****************
4:55 p.m.
Oriole Park at Camden Yards
Baltimore, Maryland
****************
"I'm impressed. No. No, more than that. Astonished!"
Scully looked up at him without raising her head, licking the
last bit of barbeque sauce off of her fingertips. Mulder dragged
his hand slowly over his face as if, by doing so, he could wash
the image from his memory or, at least, save it for later.
"Scully," he groaned.
"What?" She grinned at his apparent discomfort. "That was
delicious, Mulder. Thank you."
"That's it? 'Delicious, Mulder?' Scully! You just ate not one,
but two of Boog Powell's barbequed pork sandwiches. Wolfed them,
in fact."
"Actually, I'd prefer not to think about the fact that I ate
anything made by a man called "Boog," Mulder. But, I've got to
say, they were really, really good."
As they passed through the arched, brick entryway, the warmth
of the late afternoon sun at their backs, a glowing expanse of
jeweled green appeared before them, primitive in its allure,
striking in its beauty. They paused and inhaled deeply, as if
they could actually smell the new-mown grass in the distance.
Eyes drifting closed for a moment, each indulged the same
daydream, of diving up and out in a graceful arc and floating
down to a cushioned landing on the lush, cool carpet.
The sounds of "pepper" emerged timidly from behind the glow:
the dull crack of fungo bats lofting lazy fly balls, a slap as
the pop-flies came to rest in well-oiled leather, set amid the
easy chatter of members of the pine-tar brigades from both teams
taking the field for the first and last times that afternoon.
"I thought you said the game started at five, Mulder."
"Well, to be precise, Scully, I said that the baseball
*experience* started at five." She turned to object, but he
tendered a semi-sincere apology before she could speak. "I do
see how you could have misinterpreted it, though."
The public address system cut into their reverie, belting out the
rhythm track to a forty year old song. Boom... bum, bum, bum.
One, [two] and three, four. Boom... bum, bum, bum. A familiar
melody lay comfortably on top of it. As they strolled through the
concourse and into the stands, Mulder picked up the song, mid-
verse.
"Be my little da-ah-arlin'. Oh, oh, oh, oh..."
She smiled then, surprised. Although Scully liked to sing, out of
mercy to those within earshot, she rarely did. Rarer still,
however, were instances of Mulder singing. Mulder singing in
falsetto was downright unusual. Considering the deep rasp of
his voice, one might say it was 'unnatural.' 'One' would now be
one-for-three.
This was a tabloid-worthy event. The headline in the Daily News
would trumpet: "Spooky Sings!" That image alone widened
Scully's grin, and deepened her sense of amazement.
He turned and looked directly into her eyes.
"Be my baby."
She jerked to a stop, beer sloshing over the rims of the plastic
cups she carried. Scully replayed the dialogue in her head just
to be sure she hadn't missed something momentous, foam
fizzing away on her wrists all the while.
"The song, Scully. A single, actually. 'Be My Baby.' The
Ronnettes? Somewhere around 1963."
"Oh."
That one syllable begat a self-derisive, scatological rant in
Mulder's head, the only outward symptom of which was an
awkward silence. They managed to use the time constructively,
wending a path through vendors and fans milling on the
concrete stairs leading down to their seats.
"Hey, hey!" he crowed, brightening. "Here's one advantage to
being eighteen games out of the pennant race in early
September, Scully." He spun this way and that, arms out,
palms up. "Great seats still available!"
Mulder hoped he was fielding a winning smile. He needed a
seeing-eye single or two to get back in the ball game with her,
he realized, and it wasn't even the first inning yet.
"Right down the third base line. Did you bring your glove?" She
looked at him quizzically, but not as if he'd grown three heads.
Perhaps just two. "No? That's okay." He rummaged around the
soft-sided cooler he'd brought in with them, leaning in such a
way as to shield its contents. Turning back around, he
presented her with a brand-new fielder's mitt.
"Mulder!"
"I'm the Doctor of Glove, Baby," he joked, in a passable
imitation of Barry White.
Scully stared at him, then to one side and the other, not
acknowledging the proffered gift. Unnerved, he pushed the glove
into her hands. Anything to distract her from gaffe number two.
"C'mon, take it, Scully. I got it for you. Besides, I don't need
one." He reached back into the cooler and produced another
mitt, battered and flat by comparison. "Got my own."
Mulder reached out and took her left hand gently at the wrist
and slipped the glove over her fingers. Once on, it sat heavily
in her lap, palm up, like the overturned carcass of a horseshoe
crab. A horseshoe crab, that is, which, prior to expiring, had
been autographed by Derek Jeter.
"There." His grin was ear to ear now. Out on the field, the
opposing Cleveland squad was taking batting practice.
"A baseball glove?" She really didn't want to seem ungrateful.
"You should take it back. What on earth am I going to need this
for, Mulder? The Orioles aren't *that* bad."
On cue, there was a solid crack from the direction of home
plate. The ball rode a lazy trajectory up, arced over like an
Olympic diver and came rocketing down in foul territory a dozen
rows in front of them. An older, broad shouldered woman,
in a black satin Orioles jacket with orange trim and matching
cap, leapt out of her seat to take a stab at the foul pop. It
cleared her mitt by a good ten feet, bounced once and landed in
the glove in Scully's lap. Through bottle-thick glasses, the
disappointed fan gave Scully a wistful, crooked smile and a
half-hearted thumbs up.
"See?" Mulder cried. "You've just caught your first foul pop!
You're a natural, Scully! Besides," his volume diminishing
abruptly and his tempo increasing, "I can't return it. I've been
sleeping on it for the past week and a half."
"You've what?"
"Been sleeping on it. Flattens the leather, helps make it more
flexible, like mine." He slipped his mitt on and snapped it open
and closed several times in rapid succession. She looked
bewildered, fast approaching annoyed. "You put a new glove
under your mattress for a while to make it easier to use, Scully.
It's a time honored tradition."
"Mulder, you sleep on your couch. Insofar as anyone knows,
you don't even have a bed with mattress."
He knew that this was no longer wholly true. But, any correction
would raise more questions than he was prepared or able to
answer. At any rate, the waterbed mattress was too heavy to lift
even a fraction, let alone slip a glove under it.
"I did the best I could with what I have, Scully."
He looked expectant. It took her a moment to comprehend just
what it was he was waiting for.
"Uh, thanks, Mulder. I'm sure this," she stared at the still life
in her lap, 'hand and mitt, with ball', "will come in, er, handy."
Scully cringed. "I mean, it already has!" she said, trying to
sound enthusiastic.
Another awkward silence loomed. This seemed to happen between
them whenever they tried to do anything with even the slightest
whiff of "date" attached.
After a moment spent just staring into space, Scully turned to
him and spoke urgently.
"Mulder, signal an usher."
"Why?"
"I've got to give them their ball back."
He burst out laughing. "Give them the ball? Scully, they've got
dozens, probably hundreds for every game! You don't have to
return a foul pop!"
A riffle of black and orange satin sounded from down in front, as
the O's fan turned to glare at them, grumbling "I'm trying to
watch batting practice, here. Do you mind?" She slid back
around and resumed heckling the opposing players in the cage.
Mulder noticed that the older woman's hair matched the orange
trim of her ensemble.
"It's a perfectly good ball, Mulder. I don't see why they wouldn't
want it back, no matter how many they've got in reserve."
"Just keep it, will you?" Mulder hissed. She wasn't sure whether
he was referring to the ball, the glove or both.
************
Top of the 4th inning
Camden Yards, Baltimore
Indians: 2 - Orioles: 0
************
"What is it with men and nicknames, Mulder?"
"What? Like women don't "do" nicknames?"
"Of course they do. It's my impression, though, that men do so
far more frequently, more readily than women. You men have
nicknames for each other, nicknames for your sports heroes,
your cars, your possessions, your... well, let's just say that
you seem to use nicknames in a "wide variety" of circumstances,
Mulder, where women, on the whole, would not."
"Oh, I see! So, you never had names for..." Mulder nodded
toward her chest. She gaped in response, affronted.
"Mulder! No. I can't believe that..."
"Laverne and Shirley? Fred and Ginger?"
"Fred? As in Astaire?" Her voice rose sharply. The woman
twelve rows down, now holding a pennant in one hand and two,
count 'em, beers in the other, turned to see what the matter
was now. Scully turned down the volume instantly, but left the
intensity on high, leaning in toward him. "Mulder, why in heaven
would I name my breasts in the first place, let alone name one
after a man?"
Mulder continued, reckless and unfazed. "Pinky and the Brain?
Nah. That would have been after your time." He appeared to give
serious consideration to other candidates. Before she could
prevent it, he rambled on. "B.J. and the Bear? Donnie and
Marie?"
Scully colored, eyes wide. She whipped back around in her
seat and stared out at the field.
For an instant, Mulder considered that he might be on to
something with the B.J. and the Bear reference, which, after all,
would have aired during her formative years. Mercifully,
something stopped him from continuing. Maybe the fact that
she looked close to tears.
"Oh, look, I'm sorry, Scully. I was just, I don't know. Having fun?
Teasing? I didn't mean to offend you. Hey, we're at this beautiful
ballpark and we've got great seats. Let's just drop the whole
thing and enjoy the game, okay?"
He almost got away with it.
"Yeah, okay." Scully said, softly. Her gaze fell for a moment,
then rose just in time to catch Mulder's smug little smile.
"Hey!" she yelled, startling her companion so that he nearly
jumped out of his seat. Their private little commotion was
covered by the roar of the crowd as the Orioles' Brady
Anderson, with a Mays-like catch, robbed the lead-off hitter of
a sure triple.
"So, I'm asking, Mulder. Why is that?"
"Why what?"
"Men and nicknames. C'mon. You can't deny it, not here.
Professional athletes, male ones anyway, are predisposed
toward nicknames. It's practically a genetic marker."
"No, you're wrong, there, Scully. Baseball players," he gestured
out to the field with the plastic cup of beer, "just don't have
nicknames like they used to."
As a diamond is the baseball player's field of battle, and a
gridiron the football player's, so argument was to the partners.
Bright sunlight melted into her hair, bestowing her with a
glorious halo as she turned to join Mulder in combat.
"You've got to be kidding me, Mulder. That's ESPN's reason for
being. Without clever nicknames for the players, the
Sportscenter guys are just CNN in sneakers."
He grinned, delighted that she'd taken up the issue. For both of
them, the game faded into agreeable background noise.
"Sportscenter is a world unto itself, Scully. And, yes, it does
need its hook. Now, I don't know whether it's the fact that they
broadcast from Bristol, Connecticut and not New York, but, in
my opinion, they're oddly divorced from the fan-on-the-street."
"And you would have knowledge of such a person how?" she
teased.
"No, I'm serious, Scully." She nodded in mock agreement,
greatly amused. "For instance," Mulder continued, "no real fan
would even think of saying 'booyah.' Not in public, anyway. The
same thing holds true for whatever nickname Chris Berman's
warped mind concocts for a player. As much as they'd like it to
have, this nickname frenzy just hasn't caught on with either the
sports press at large, or with the general public."
"Oh?" From experience, Scully knew sports to be one of the
topics that could get a rise out of Mulder with just the slightest
push. She intended to provide it. "What about 'Slammin'
Sammy' Sosa? That's pretty universal. Even Mom knows about
him."
Just as she'd hoped, Mulder colored, sitting as straight as the
ballpark's slatted seats would allow. "He's the exception that
proves the rule! In fact," his voice began to take on the same
strident tones as his cheeks. "I'll bet that the common use of
nicknames in baseball has diminished in inverse proportion to
the rise in popularity of ESPN."
Scully leaned back in her seat, fingers laced behind her head,
ready to enjoy his latest conspiracy theory.
"In the Seventies, when ESPN started, there were a dozens of
ballplayers with great nicknames: 'Sweet Lou' Piniella, Rich
"Goose" Gossage, and 'Mr. October' himself, "Reg-gie! Reg-
gie!" Mulder made the standard fist-pumping gesture to
accompany the old cheer.
Evidently, Scully shared little of his enthusiasm for the
Outsized slugger from Cheltenham, PA.
"There were even some non-Yankees who had decent nicknames.
Steve "Lefty" Carlton? Mark "Bird" Fidrych, and my personal
favorite, Bill "Spaceman" Lee?"
"What about "Tug" McGraw?" Scully supplied, trying to help.
Mulder made a face like he'd sniffed something a dog walker
had left unscooped. "Yes, even some of the Mets had
nicknames."
"Carlton 'Pudge' Fisk?" she added, helpful as ever. Mulder failed
to grace the Red Sox star with even the slightest
acknowledgement.
"The Eighties had some good nicknames, too: 'Black Jack' Morris,
Von 'Five for One' Hayes, 'The Wizard of Oz'... but not in the
same quantity or quality as before."
"You're proving my point, Mulder." Scully giggled. It was
infectious.
"Noooo, I'm not!" His shoulders began to shake with laughter,
threatening to derail the head of steam he'd built. "I can prove it.
I can. Just look at the last decade. The Nineties started out with
only a couple of players left with good nicknames - a guy
named McGriff who, naturally, got called "The Crime Dog," and
then, of course, there was Mitch Williams. "Wild Thing." I think
he's still persona non grata in Philadelphia for serving up the
World Series losing home run in '93. Since then? Superstars all
over the place - Mark McGwire, Derek Jeter, Paul O'Neill, Curt
Schilling, Alex Rodriguez, and not a nickname among..."
"A-Rod. Isn't that what...?"
"And only a single nickname among them," he said, editing on
the fly. "Look, the point is that there isn't nearly the profusion
of nicknames in baseball as there were just twenty years ago, let
alone back in the day, with the Babe."
Scully seemed willing to allow this point so, heedlessly, he took
it a step further. "By extension, it can be argued that this
applies to men in general."
Scully's jaw dropped, but he took no notice. "We've outgrown
the need for nicknames. We've evolved."
"What?" So stunned was Scully by the audacity of the claim
that she couldn't even blink in astonishment.
"It's true."
Sputtering, she managed to eke out "So. According to you,
men no longer use nicknames for their sports heroes or their
body parts?"
"Correct."
"Randy Johnson."
"What about him?"
"Proves you wrong, on both counts."
"How?"
"The 'Big Unit,' Mulder?"
Any bravado he had left died aborning, but Scully was merciful.
She took a sidelong glance at him, huddled with the quiet
misery of a newly deflated sail, and quipped, "I think I prefer
'Babe'."
"Really?" he tried, rebounding just a bit.
Scully's glare would have withered even a Big Unit. In
comparison, Mulder stood little chance. She wasn't *that*
merciful. Not yet.
"Hey, two here!" Scully yelled to a vendor coming up from the
section below. "One light, one not, easy on the foam," she
clarified as he neared. As the vendor poured, carefully under her
intense scrutiny, Scully jabbed a thumb in her partner's
direction. "He's buying."
The vendor hurried off as quickly as possible, before she could
get a taste of the watery ale.
"Men will always have nicknames for anyone or anything in a
given situation, Mulder." She stared into the pale liquid fizzing
away in the flimsy plastic cup. "All except the emotional ones,
that is." Scully had intended those last few words to be a throw-
away remark.
But, by that time, Mulder was listening so intently that he
hardly needed a perfectly flexed baseball glove to catch her
drift.
**************
Seventh Inning Stretch
Concourse level, Orioles Park
Indians: 3 - Orioles: 2
***************
Rather than endure his prodding to join in the ritual singing of
"Take Me Out to the Ballgame," Scully excused herself to join
the anxious line for the ladies' room.
When she was still two patrons shy of the entrance, let alone a
stall, trying valiantly not to hop from foot to foot, Mulder
appeared at her shoulder.
"Hey."
"Jesus, Mulder. You do not want to startle a woman in my
condition."
She smiled, but there was anxiety in her eyes.
"What? Afraid I'd scare the... Oh. I see your point."
She turned to face the direction of the line, willing it to move
forward.
"Y'know, there's almost never a line in the men's room," he
observed.
"Now is definitely not the time to lord that small advantage of
the male anatomy, Mulder. I kid you not."
"I'm just saying, Scully - someone should invent a urinal for
women. Now, logically, the invention of the 180 degree zipper
would have to come first. But, damn! Can you imagine?
Whoever did that..."
"Would have the undying gratitude of women in public
restrooms everywhere?" she finished.
"Oh, Baby! You've got that right," he exclaimed, surveying the
queue of nervous faces behind her, sparing himself from yet
another heated glare. When he turned back, she'd disappeared
'round the corner.
***************
Bottom of the Ninth
Oriole Park at Camden Yards
Score tied 3-3, 2 out.
****************
The p.a. announcer managed four words before being drowned
out completely by the noise of the crowd. Even Scully was on
her feet, cheering right along side Mulder.
"Now batting for Baltimore..."
Cleveland's ace reliever, Mike "The Other One" Jackson, had
taken the mound at the start of the home half of the inning, with
the visitors up by a run. Typically inconsistent, displaying both
a baffling slider and a staggering lack of precision, he gave up a
seeing eye single to Bordick leading off, but erased him on a
fielder's choice.
With one on and one out, Albert Belle drove in the tying run
with a shot off the wall in center. A perfect relay to the shortstop
Vizquel caught the lumbering slugger trying to chug into
second. Jackson mopped the sweat beading on his brow, pulled
his cap down low over his forehead and tried to ignore the din as
the next man up neared the plate.
The batter doffed his cap to acknowledge the crowd's
excitement. Late in a storied career, he'd spent long stretches
of the season on the disabled list, returning from the latest stint
only the week before. His grey hair only seemed to inflame their
passion for him.
"Cal Ripken," Scully noted, with just a touch of awe.
Aware of the many times since their arrival he'd expressed
surprise at her knowledge of the game, Mulder struggled
mightily to keep his reaction neutral and simply nodded.
Scully was just successful in hiding her amusement. The crowd
noise, a mix of rhythmic chanting, stamping, random hoots,
foghorn-like blasts from three foot long, 99-cent, red plastic
horns, and a deafening rendition of Queen's "We Will Rock
You," brought the Indians catcher to his feet, signaling for 'time'.
The batter, gracious, a little sheepish at the hullaballoo, let it
continue for a minute or so before waving a plea for quiet to the
crowd. He was only partly successful.
Finally, exchanging a few cordial words with the catcher and
shrugging into the din, Ripken stepped up to the plate. He
touched the tip of his bat to home plate three times before
bringing it to his shoulder. Baseball is but a collection of little
rituals, obsessively observed.
Looking out at the mound, he gestured toward the reliever, palm
up.
"Bring it on," Mulder translated, breathing the words slowly into
Scully's ear.
The crowd had been on its feet since the top half of the ninth,
forcing Scully to stand on the seat of her chair, occasionally
placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. The stunt allowed her
to see the action on the field; it also permitted her the rare
pleasure of leaning down to whisper into Mulder's ear.
"Look at the scoreboard, Mulder. It says he's currently batting
.341. That's incredible!"
Mulder tried vainly to ignore the shivers her whisper gave him,
and shot back "Baseball is the only endeavor where you can fail
sixty-six percent of the time and be considered a smashing
success."
She dismissed the retort, saying "It's also one of the very few
where you have to hit a projectile about 3 inches in diameter
hurled directly at you at a velocity of over ninety..."
"Not *directly* at you, Scully," he carped.
She turned to glare and missed the first pitch, a called strike.
At the massed groan, she whipped her head back to the play,
her hair brushing across his cheek like an auburn mist. The
scent of her shampoo sent his eyelids drifting closed.
The batter's patience, his "eye" for the pitch, was legendary.
The pitcher's patience, however, was not, and the count ran
quickly to two and one. With each wind-up, the roar of the
crowd crested and fell like waves on the shore. A fastball tailed
away low and outside for ball three. The catcher, deciding to cut
losses, called for an intentional walk, with which both the
Orioles fans and the Cleveland reliever heartily disagreed. This
disharmony coagulated in a conference at the mound among
pitcher, catcher and manager, with assorted infielders
wandering in and out.
"So, Scully," Mulder said, "what do you think they're saying to
each other?" He never took his eyes off of the field, though his
concentration never wandered from her.
She convulsed in a little snicker that he wouldn't dare call a
snort, and leaned over to answer.
"Don't fuck up."
Mulder gawped comically at her, which she ignored. A moment
later, both of them burst into laughter, gusts which got swept
away in the gale of the crowd's enthusiasm. As the players
returned to their positions, the catcher sinking into his crouch,
Mulder gasped.
"Shit! They're going to pitch to him." He tried to profile this
aberrant behavior and drew a blank, shaking his head slowly.
"They're going to pitch to him."
Scully wondered whether he was aware just how tightly he'd
gripped her hand. Whether he was aware he'd taken it at all.
The pitcher went into his windup as soon as Ripken reentered
the batter's box, preventing the Oriole star from completing his
good luck ritual.
From the shadow of his cap, Ripken smiled coolly and
smacked a line drive into the gap in right center, the ball falling
fast and rolling to the fence, an easy double. The ball caromed
off the base of the wall, causing the right fielder to overshoot,
slipping as he turned to chase it down. Sensing opportunity, the
O's third base coach waved Ripken around second. The
outfielder's throw came in one long arc, arriving at third in the
same moment as the runner, but high, allowing him to slide
underneath the tag. Safe.
Tie game, man on third, two out.
Ripken edged slowly, cannily toward home until he stood three
long strides down the line. He never once took his eyes off of
the pitcher.
"Suicide squeeze, baby!" Mulder's voice was effervescent.
"Watch him. Watch Ripken, Scully."
She nodded, but out of the corner of her eye, watched Mulder
instead. Gone was the laconic drawl, the sense of his own
omniscience that made him at once smug and fatalistic. In
place was an innocent wonder, an excitement that comes only
from the utter uncertainty of what might happen next.
"Cal's sizing up the pitcher, trying to determine his intentions
from even the slightest twitch. They might 'pitch out,' throwing
high and outside on purpose so that the catcher is standing in
good position to pick him off base. Even if it's a straight pitch,
the batter has to lay down a perfect bunt or Ripken will be out at
home plate."
Mulder put his left hand on her shoulder, guiding her gently
down to his level, excitedly pointing out all the possibilities with
his right as he explained the situation. After he was finished, his
left hand stayed where it was. She stood straight, letting it slip
naturally to her waist. She wasn't ready to let Mulder get to
second or third, but she might encourage him to take a greater
lead off first.
"He might even be thinking of stealing home."
"What?" Scully turned to him, genuinely startled. There were
moments in her experience where her partner actually deserved
his nickname.
"Yeah," Mulder continued, unaware of her suspicion that he
could read minds. "It's the most daring play in all of baseball,
and if the timing is just right..."
Relieved, she ducked her head and laughed quietly.
"No, no! Seriously, Scully. If he gets a big enough lead, starts
running as soon as the pitcher goes into his windup, and if the
pitch is far enough outside, Cal could steal home and win the
whole shooting match."
"Hey, I admire Cal Ripken as much as anyone. But, just look at
him. He's still winded from the run to third base. Do you really
think he could steal home? Seriously. He's almost forty."
Mulder stiffened. "If a person is in good athletic condition, then
age isn't as great a factor. So, yes, Scully. Yes, I do think a
forty year old could steal home."
"Mulder," she managed, then looked away, blushing.
The first pitch was indeed a pitch-out. By the time the catcher
had his arm cocked ready to throw, the base-runner, Ripken,
was calmly walking back to third base, smirking. He touched
the bag lightly, and turned to begin the duel again.
On the second pitch, low and away, the batter never even
squared around to bunt. Ripken came to a skidding stop
halfway down the base path and made it safely back.
The crowd noise fell to a tense buzz. The batter, the veteran
Will Clark, looked first at the third base coach, then at Ripken.
Without so much as a nod between them, the deal was struck.
The catcher put down one finger, signaling for a fastball. Seeing
this, both the pitcher and the runner nodded with satisfaction.
On the windup, Ripken, head down, legs churning, started
toward home. Clark came around to bunt as the pitch was
delivered and 'dragged' it with him, down the first base line. The
Indians' catcher sprang from his crouch and chased after the
ball, whirling to fire it toward the base he'd just left. However,
his right-handed teammate's pitching motion had carried him toward
first as well, delaying his arrival just enough to let Ripken slide
across the far side of home plate, out of reach of the tag.
There followed a moment of suspended animation, where the
audacious play left even the umpire seemingly too stunned to
move. In the ballpark, standing room only, and silence.
With a decisive cross and fling of the ump's hands, "Safe!", the
stadium erupted in joy. Both Mulder and Scully shouted at the
top of their lungs, arms raised, then turned to each other,
embracing in the excitement of the moment. He lifted her off her
perch, hugging her tightly. It would only occur to him much,
much later, precisely where his head had rested.
Mulder let her down gently, his arms locked firmly around her.
He, in turn, felt wrapped in the radiance of her smile. Under
cloak of the cheers from the O's faithful, they stood motionless,
letting the unalloyed joy of the moment ease the fear and
uncertainty, the loss, the dangers that had beset them in the
past, shades of which would surely rise to meet them again.
In that momentary respite, each rediscovered a source of
profound strength that had been too long hidden, in plain sight,
just across the office. Now, it would just be a simple matter of
keeping that strength present. As if anything in their lives was
ever simple.
The jubilation in the park began to subside, fans gathering their
things, preparing to leave. As several people from their row
sidled past, decorum seemed to wedge between the partners,
reality intruding yet not unaffected.
"What I said earlier, Mulder? I was wrong."
"Oh?" he replied quietly. Normally, he'd have jumped all over
that admission. "When?"
"True, the Orioles aren't any closer to making the playoffs, and
the Indians will still probably go to the World Series." She
paused, eyes sparkling at the gentle jab. "But, Mulder, this
wasn't a meaningless game."
"I know," he said. "I mean, I'm glad. I mean..."
She began to laugh. He so rarely got tongue tied.
"What I mean, bay... I... what I'm trying to say..."
For the first time in her acquaintance with him, Mulder looked
paralyzed with fear. She glanced around for an alternative
cause, a gray, a goatsucker, Phoebe, anything.
She touched his sleeve to reassure him, murmuring "Mulder,
whatever it is you're trying to say, it's okay. I won't bite."
Visions of catheters tangoed with the desire to voice his
affection for her, to give it a name.
"I'm glad we did this, too," he said, hesitating just a heartbeat
before adding, "Scully."
Scully scanned his face intently, grasping his wrist. "Nothing's
wrong, Mulder?"
He looked down, looked at the fans hanging over the home
dugout begging for autographs, looked anywhere but at her.
Finally, he nodded.
"You're sure?"
At last, he looked up and found her smiling encouragingly. He
gave a half-hearted smile in return.
"Yeah."
Scully nodded, slipping around him and heading up the
concourse, a wry grin blooming. "Just checking, Babe."
-end-