Fastball by V. K. Sykes Page B

Jake lightly in the shoulder.
“Screw that. I’m telling you we’re going out and getting you
loosened up. You’re going to get shit-faced and tell your old pal
all about what’s going on. Besides, I could use the company,
too.”
    Ah, now the truth was coming out. Well, if
his friend needed to talk, they’d talk. “What the hell,” Jake said.
“But I’m driving. No way am I going to trust you behind the wheel.
Not after that little incident last year.”
    Robbie winced at the reminder of the night
he’d rolled his SUV on the way back from a party outside the city.
He’d always been a party guy—a man who lived hard and probably
would die that way too, Jake feared.
    Robbie jumped to his feet. “Whatever, man.
Let’s just get out of here.”
    After a debate about the merits of the
various south Philly drinking establishments, they ended up at
O’Rourke’s, a decent neighborhood pub where the patrons were used
to ballplayers dropping in and left them alone. The bartender gave
them a welcoming nod as they settled into a quiet booth in the
corner, sending a waitress right over with the first round of Sam
Adams.
    It was starting to feel like a good decision
to get a little R & R. Robbie had always been able to make Jake
laugh, and he needed a good laugh right about now. Small talk about
the games on the west coast trip took them through their first
beers, and when the second round arrived, Robbie took a long pull
of his and said, “So, my man, it looks to me like the way you’re
hitting that management’s probably going to want to negotiate an
extension to your contract any day now.”
    Jake shook his head. “I doubt it. Hell, I
just got called up a week ago. It’s too early to be thinking about
the contract.”
    “You’re wrong. Now is exactly when Dembinski
will want to tie you up. They’ll try to sign you on the cheap
before you start putting up really big numbers. Right now, nobody
knows for sure if you can keep up this pace, much less get back to
what you once were.”
    Jake didn’t miss the note of cynicism in his
friend’s voice. “You make me sound like I’ve got one foot in the
grave,” he said dryly.
    All traces of humor disappeared from Robbie’s
boyish features. “To those bastards in the front office, you’re
only as good as what you’ve done for them today. Trust me, I
know.”
    Jake couldn’t blame Robbie for feeling
bitter. The team had forced him to take a big salary cut in the
last contract, and had pretty much dared him to try his luck with
another team.
    “I hear you loud and clear,” he said. “But I
thought you were reconciled to a utility role. As I recall, you
said you were pretty happy just to get a contract at all after the
last one ran out.”
    “I might have said back then that I was happy
enough, but I’m sure as hell not happy now. Okay, I admit I didn’t
have many teams come knocking on my door at the time. A few offers,
but not for even as much as the shit contract the Pats stuffed down
my throat.” Robbie scowled at his beer bottle, twisting it
restlessly between his hands. “What really pisses me off is that
Ault and Dembinski both told me before I re-signed that if I could
hit decently, the starting shortstop position would be mine and
stay mine for the season.” He snorted. “Yeah, well, that lasted
about two weeks, even though I didn’t hit all that bad. Ever since,
I’ve been shuffled all over the infield, backing up whatever guy is
hurt or needs a day off.”
    Robbie was gilding the lily about his hitting
at the beginning of the year. Jake had watched a lot of the games
on TV while in Allentown, and had checked the box scores every day.
Rob’s average had barely reached .200, and Jake couldn’t blame
management for giving the younger guys the starting middle infield
roles and relegating Robbie to back-up.
    “I didn’t sign on to be a damn utility man,”
Robbie raged on, looking more pissed off by the minute. “So, sure
I’m bitter. Can you