~ Chapter Four  ~

The Mariners opened the season in Chicago, against the White Sox.  As was usual, the Seattle Times ran a special section, profiling the players and speculating, what if the Mariners had a bullpen this year, and what if the Mariners made the World Series.  They usually singled out one player to profile the most, and this year was no different.  A large picture of Nick Carter in mid-swing graced the front of this one.  Everyone in Seattle was thrilled with the idea that the Yankee's rookie of the year, by some strange chance of fate, had become their right fielder, and their clean-up hitter. 

Right now, Seattle's budding new star was sitting sprawled in front of his locker, listening to manager Buddy Williams.  The truth be told, he wasn't listening that much anymore, Williams had been talking for almost forty-five minutes, and Nick had pretty much tuned him out. 

By the end of spring training, Nick had pretty much given up on hating the world.  He did however, hate golf.  Brian decided he liked playing golf with Nick after one game, when Nick accidentally managed to lose his club as it flew out of his hands like a missile. 

Nick tuned back in.  Buddy was glaring at him.  For a moment, Nick wondered if he had missed something and was supposed to be answering a question.  Then Buddy moved on, orating about the need for teamwork and working together.  Nick slumped back down in his seat.  That was all.  Throughout the games in Arizona, things had grown more and more strained between Nick and Kevin.  Nick would admit that he led Kevin on, though not to Kevin's face.  He got almost as much of a kick out of antagonizing Kevin and watching his fists clench as he muttered under his breath as he had when AJ had doused the coaching staff with a Super Soaker 3000.

The clubhouse was now silent.  Williams was bent over, hands on hips, glaring into the face of AJ.  "McLean?"

"Yes?"  AJ said meekly, folding his hands and putting his knees together primly.

"I was still talking."

"Sorry.  I was just trying to help." 

Nick had missed whatever AJ had said, not that it mattered.  Buddy didn't appreciate interruptions in the middle of his speech.

"Well, shut your trap."

"Will do."

Williams turned back around, folding his arms over his rather ample, t-shirt covered stomach.  "Now, as I was saying... what the hell WAS I saying before Sparky there interrupted me?"  He glowered at AJ once again.

Nick zoned out again.

~*~

"Can I make my speech now?"  AJ wondered. Buddy had finished orating and had vanished back into his office.  He was a good manager, but he wasn't known for getting up close and personal with his players.  Nick kind of liked that.  Townsend, the manager of the Yankees, was exactly the opposite, always involved with his players, always asking about their personal lives.  Nick preferred to keep his private life private.  True, he didn't have much of one, but the little he did was his.

"Speak freely."  Brian waved his hand at AJ, urging him on.

"Okay... it's almost game time, men.  It's time to go cleanse the bullpen."  AJ stood and began a rather uncanny impersonation of Buddy.

"Of what?"  Backup catcher Lenny Krazelton wondered.

"Home runs, balks, wild pitches, doubles off the wall in center and pitches that just miss the plate."  AJ responded promptly, pulling his road cap out of his locker and putting it on over his orange and red mottled hair - backwards of course. 

"So, you've named those ghosts now, huh?"  Brian smirked.  "Is the last one just called ‘miss the plate' for short?"

"He's so funny."  AJ squinted one eye and aimed the ever present squirt bottle at Brian's head.  "Just be quiet.  A mere second baseman like you could never fathom the depths of a pitcher's mind."

"And you can say that again!"  Brian agreed.  Everyone laughed - except AJ.

"C'mon."  AJ started for the dugout and the bullpen, the other pitchers slowly straggling after him.  "First item on the agenda, we perform a ritualistic dance."

"What's it called?"  Steve Graves wondered.

"It doesn't have a name.  It somewhat resembles the macarena, but it isn't.  It's actually something else."  The door banged shut as they left.

"Anyone got a camera?"  Brian asked frantically.  "Tell the press!  Get it on Sportscenter!  This is good stuff!"

~*~

Kevin finished buttoning his gray road jersey - Seattle in blue across the front, Richardson and the number 9 on the back.  Here it was.  The start of another season.  And he wasn't getting any younger.  Six months from now, he probably wouldn't be able to walk, much less run the basepaths.  Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but catching had taken it's toll, especially on his knees.  So far, thankfully, Kevin had managed to play his entire career without a serious injury.  Six years before, while in Kansas City, he had pulled a hamstring.  They had put him on the fifteen day disabled list and by the end of those two weeks, Kevin was stir crazy.  He couldn't stand just sitting on the bench watching.  He had to be out there actually participating.

"Oops.  Sorry."  Nick came dangerously close to stepping on Kevin's foot as he walked past.  He didn't sound sorry in the slightest.

"Up yours."  Kevin returned calmly.

Nick ignored him, which pissed Kevin off even more.  He knew what Buddy had said, and he intended to play by the rules, but one of these days, Nick was going to push him over the edge.

"Well, that was friendly of you."  Brian gave Kevin a big smile.

~*~

"We go to the top of the seventh inning, the Mariners and the Sox tied 2-2 in this season opener."  The voice of the Mariners since they had formed in ‘77, Dave Niehaus, announced on the radio play by play.  "First up for the Mariners, third baseman, Howie Dorough." 

Diehard Mariners fans said the games just wouldn't be the same without Niehaus announcing them.  Everyone else found it grating on the nerves to listen to him for more than an inning at a time.  He was getting older, it was getting harder for him to carefully comb his hair over his bald head, and he was starting to slip up at the microphone.  No longer did he do the play by play alone for five innings while his partner did the TV broadcast.  Now he had someone to trade with at all times, to correct his little slip-ups, to announce the correct batter at the plate.  Charlie Chasez had been hired as the assistant announcer to Dave during all broadcasts halfway through last season. 

Still, Niehaus' trademark home run calls were tradition in Seattle, and he was under contract with the Mariners for the next year.  So he stayed in the announcer booth.

"The pitcher's set... the pitch to Dorough..."  Niehaus' voice climbed to a feverish pitch.  "That one is belted into DEEP left field, Nelson is going back towards the wall..." His voice returned back to normal.  "And it's off the wall, and Dorough is at second with a double.  Up for his third at-bat tonight, right fielder Nick Carter.  Carter's 0-2 on the night with a strikeout."  He turned to his assistant announcer, Charlie Chasez.  "Charlie, he's a good-looking kid, isn't he?"

"He sure is, Dave."  Charlie agreed, since he was the paid yes-man.

"Carter's in the box, slightly open stance, here's the pitch... BIG swing and a miss.  He was pulling for the fences on that one."  Niehaus chuckled quietly.  "He's back up at the plate... and there's a single into right field, past the diving first baseman... Dorough's going to score easily on that play... the Mariners take the lead, 3-2."