Twenty-one years ago...

The sky was dark, the sun having set an hour previously. High up in the atmosphere stars burned brightly. From the stadium they were dimmed as the bright lights that lit up the field spread for blocks around the field. Fans cheered and ran into each other equal parts rowdy and excited. Some scuffed at their fellow fan trying to walk briskly towards the parking garages ignoring the cheers and bellows of victory from the opposing team's fans. The night was cool with a slightly cold breeze blowing through the rapidly emptying stadium. Even as the stadium emptied the atmosphere of the city stayed high as fireworks exploded from the capital building and people ran through the streets of San Francisco screaming, jumping and cheering. Parts of the streets had already been closed down by police as thousands upon thousands of partially drunk people took to the street in celebration.

And they should be celebrating. For the first time ever the Kelvin Baseball Association had won the American League Championship against Romulus. They were going to the World Series and George Kirk, rookie pitcher and just announced Rookie of the Year, was going to lead them to the World Championships.

George was one of the best pitchers to play in the Major Leagues and the irony was that he was only put in as a backup for Richard Robau who had torn his shoulder half way through their regular season. George was the breakout star that had turned from a nobody pitcher to a household name in a matter of months as he got the chance to show San Francisco and the world the things he could do with a baseball.

George Kirk was a good baseball player and given time he would've been a great player. However, as life sometimes goes, he would never get the chance.

A three year old little boy with big bright blue eyes and blond hair ran on tiny chubby legs through the bowls of the stadium. He weaved through the clubhouse hallways breathing loudly and running as fast as his little legs could take him trying to get to the clubhouse's locker room where he knew his daddy would be waiting for him. He always wanted to see him after a game. He would pick him up and throw him around and everyone else would laugh and the little boy would squeal loudly with joy.

"Jimmy!" The little boy stopped as he reached the door to the locker room and waited as his mom walked up to him. Jimmy bounced on his toes as he waited for the door to open. After all, it wasn't like he was big enough to reach the door handle.

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy," Jimmy sang as his mom opened the door and he ran in knowing exactly where his Daddy sat. He always sat in the same place.

Jimmy saw his daddy and pumped his arms faster before plowing into him at full speed.

"Hey Jimmy!" George laughed while Jimmy giggled in his arms. Winona came over to her two boys with a smile on her face. The other players continued on with their own celebrations already used to seeing the beautiful woman and cute little boy in their clubhouse.

"Daddy! Sticky!" Jimmy laughed touching his father's face. The floor was also sticky with the champaign the players had already sprayed at each other. George blew a raspberry into Jimmy's cheek making him squeak and forget about his sticky daddy. George bent over pressing a sweet kiss into Winona's smiling cheek.

"Congratulations Rookie of the Year," Winona's eyes danced with mirth while George shook his head and rolled his eyes at her.

"Daddy? Wha-what is a Wookie?"

"Rookie, baby," Winona gently corrected still standing beside her husband who held Jimmy close even though he smelled of sweat and dirt. "With an R."

Jimmy tried to get his small mouth around the letter. "R... R... wook... wrook..."

"That's okay big guy," George soothed as Jimmy's brow furrowed in frustration. His bottom lip started to tremble as he failed to get the R to work. George blew another raspberry into Jimmy's cheek. "Hey, buddy don't cry! Guess what? I've got something for you."

Jimmy's face lit up, "Pwesent?"

"Yeah," George smiled setting his son on his chair. As if out of nowhere George flashed a baseball in front of his little boy whose eyes lit up and mouth shaped itself into a happy baby-toothed smile.

"Ball!"

"You're right." George began becoming serious. Jimmy sensed his daddy's change and leaned in to listen to him as intently as an excited three year old could. George held the ball up in front of Jimmy's eyes settling himself down on one knee. "This is the game ball, the one I used to end the inning for the win and I want you to have it. Do you want it?"

"Yesssss!" Jimmy cheered making grabby hands at the ball.

"Okay, okay, okay," George laughed making sure his son didnt fall from the chair. "I want you to promise me you'll take care of this ball though, okay? It means a lot to me." George got closer to his son. "It was lucky for me and if you treat it well then it could be lucky for you too."

George handed the scuffed up ball over to his son who stared at it in wonder whispering, "lucky ball." Jimmy held the ball in his chubby hands gingerly for a minute before looking back up at his smiling father. "Name," he demanded holding the ball back. George laughed.

"You want me to sign it?"

"Sign!" Jimmy demands again very seriously. Or as seriously as his cherub cheeks could allow. George laughed shaking his head and standing back up to grab a pen from the top of his cubby. He signs his name with Jimmy's eyes staring at him the whole time then hands it back to his waiting little boy.

"There you go, love."

"Love you daddy," Jim opened his arms for a hug that George complies with quickly engulfing him in a bear hug so tight the Jimmy squirms in delight.

After a few more minutes Jimmy starts to yawn and George kisses Winona's cheek telling her to head on out to the front of the stadium and he would be out soon. Winona nods taking Jimmy from George and hiking him up on her hip. Jimmy's eyes start to droop as he leans into his mom clutching his ball close.

"Nighty night Jimmy. I'll see you soon." George whispers kissing his forehead lightly. "How about some of your famous chicken parm for dinner, Win?" George smirks at her. Winona rolled her eyes in exaggeration.

"The champ gets what the champ wants, I suppose."

"Love you Winnie."

"Love you too," they give eachother a quick kiss as Jimmy opens his eyes.

"Bye Daddy," He yawns already falling asleep. Together Winona with her son clutched tight in her arms walk out of the clubhouse and into the open air.

Within the next twenty minutes many things would happen.

George Kirk, bag hiked over his shoulder, freshly showered and small grin across his face would leave the clubhouse and take five steps into the open air before three gunshots would pop off. One would glide into his forehead killing him instantly while the other whizzed into his chest and the third ricocheted off just to the left of him. He would fall, dead before he hit the ground.

Winona, hearing the gun shots would think nothing of them as she waited with her slumbering son in her shoulder. The other wives spoke amongst themselves laughing and feeling the elation of the entire city. It wouldn't be until eight minutes after the gunshots that people would start screaming. Winona's phone would ring loudly in her pocket.

In the weeks that followed the entire city mourned feeling the loss as one. The Kevin Baseball Association went to the World Series and lost in the fourth game. The players had tried to rally behind the tragedy but they would not be able to pull off a single win.

The murder investigation lasted months with many believing it to be a Romulan fan who pulled the trigger but there was never any evidence and eventually everything was closed as the evidence ran cold.

The Kelvin team might've been a great one with George Kirk at the helm but without him there was just no spark. The next season saw the team not being able to make it to the playoffs and after that players started demanding their contracts changed to allow them to be transferred. The following year they finished dead last. In the middle of the third season that turned into a flop people started claiming the stadium was haunted. Fans stopped coming, players refused to accept offers to play for the team, everything was going wrong. The Kelvin Board of Directors decided to move the team out of San Francisco, change the name, shut down the stadium, and pretend that this disastrous baseball team never happened. Cochran Stadium was to be bulldozed and moved to someplace without so many dark memories. Without blood stains still splattered on the clubhouse doors that some still swore they could still see.

It wouldn't be until years later that the new stadium would be built and a new owner would buy the team and bring them back to the foggy city.

More years would go buy before the team would be officially named Enterprise and a new, relatively unknown young man who used to be a doctor would buy the team and rename the stadium Joanna's Field.

One season later James T. Kirk would be brought up from the minors with a chip on his shoulder and a lot to prove.

And that is where the story begins…

Present Day...

"Hey batter batter batter!"

"Hey batter?" Jim questioned standing up from beside the plate. "Really, Pav?"

"What?" The Russian man questioned also standing up from his pitching position and placing his hands on his hips, ball held loose in his right hand. "Eet ees what I saw on the television. Eweryone says eet!"

A warm summer breeze blew Jim's short hair to the side and billowed out his t-shirt comfortably. The bright stadium lights above his head shined down making the field look crisp, as if this was the middle of the day. No bugs annoyed near his face or bit at his tanned skin like earlier in the day. The sweat that had slicked his body from the stuffy locker room was now cool making him shiver. It was a good shiver as another gust of wind kicked up loose dirt. The manicured field was wet after the grounds keepers misted it to keep the one and a quarter inch grass up to official standards. Everything looked so bright and new even though the stadium was sputtering into its tenth year and some of the lights that towered above their heads had been blown out since last season. If Jim concentrated hard enough he could smell the salty tang of popcorn and hotdogs that had been made for the game earlier. Some cleaners and workers still stalked among the rows of seats with their trash collectors in either hand collecting anything that hadn't been cleaned during their first sweep. Jim wasn't even sure he and Pavel were allowed to be out on the field but he mentally shrugged, it would be his field soon enough.

"Just please don't say that in a game," Jim laughed swinging his bat from one hand to the other lazily. His practiced hands deftly caught the bat before throwing it back in the air again. Pavel looked shocked holding his hand to his chest and gripping the ball with the other.

"Vat do you mean I cannot mock za other team? It eez the reason I am so good! In Russian we are allowed to curse za other players. Ve put hexes on zem. Wery useful if they are a good team."

"You are not!" Jim yelled, laughter bubbling up his chest. According to Pavel everything was either better or invented in Russia. Jim wasn't even sure they played baseball in the Mother Country but he wasn't about to question the younger man, they'd been friends far too long for Jim not to have learned the first five times that a question about Russia turned into a sermon.

"You cannot hear me but I whisper to za batter when he lines up," Pavel giggled, eyes crinkling and his cheeks creating dimples. "You are not as good a pitcher as you sink, Jim. I distract za batters and zat is why you get so many strikes. You're velcome."

Another gust of wind blew into Jim's face and he closed his eyes feeling it and hearing Pavel's laugh. The wind smelled of summer and popcorn and while it didn't smell as clean as the Iowan air it still felt nice. San Francisco didn't smell as good as Iowa but was a lot better than New York or Chicago, all the places Jim had played before. Jim looked down at the white plate between his black Chucks and smiled. Tomorrow he'd be practicing here and in a few weeks even playing. It was a far cry from where he'd started on his little league t-ball team that he had to beg his mother to sign the permission slip for.

"Jim!" Was his only warning as the ball Pavel had been holding came for his head. Jim looked up at the last moment snatching it from the air hearing a slap and feeling a slight sting that was almost as normal for him as buttoning his jeans. Pavel, looking not an ounce guilty, walked over to him feeling and listening to the grass crunch under his tennis shoes. "I know. I am excited also."

"We did it, Pav." Jim threw his head up swinging his arms out feeling elated joy free up his chest to take in a lungful of air. He wanted to whoop and holler just as he'd done when he'd gotten the call that he was being brought up to the majors but there were still a smattering of people about. He liked being the center of attention but at the moment he just wanted to box up this happiness to store later for a rainy day. "Want to take a lap?"

Pavel's eyes brightened, "Da, that ees good idea!" Jim hopped throwing his bat into the vicinity of the dugout as he and Pavel took off smiling to each other feeding off the energy that had been building since they'd relieved their calls and had been magnified when they'd entered the stadium.

"Hey!" A gruff voice yelled when they rounded third and heading for home plate. Jim looked up seeing a good looking man in nice casual clothing standing beside the away team dugout. He slowed his jog, Pavel mirroring him. "What are ya doin'?"

Jim's heart started beating faster in his chest but he bit back any panic and plastered an easy grin on his face.

"Hi there," Pavel started. "We're-"

"No one's allowed on the field after a game," Gruff-Man cut him off. Wind blew his hair making the strands stand up on end. "Only players allowed."

The knot that had formed in Jim's chest loosened a bit. "We are players."

"I ain't seen ya before," the man sounded more annoyed than angry though his face gave nothing away. The twang in his voice told Jim he wasn't from San Francisco, or had been in the south for a while before coming here.

Pavel spoke up, his accent thick like it got when he was nervous. "Ve are za new players. I am Pavel Chekov and dis ees Jim Kirk. Ve vere traded from Iowa."

The man who Jim noticed wasn't actually that old looked over at him seeming to asses him up and down before speaking.

"You're Jim Kirk?" He questioned almost in disbelief. Rude, Jim thought already not liking him very much.

"That's what they tell me," Jim placed his hands on his hips cocking his head to the side. He knew it made him look cocky.

Gruff-Man smirked at Jim. "You're the asshole that got into that fight in Iowa City. The one they say thinks he's too big for the minors so he throws at batters. You're a cheater."

A block fell in Jim's stomach. He couldn't get away from his reputation no matter how hard or how far he ran. He wanted to correct the strangely handsome, completely rude man but it wouldn't be worth it. He'd stopped defending himself a long time ago. His words meant nothing when people were already set in their opinions. Instead of saying what he really wanted to he just shrugged, "Depends."

"On what?"

"On if you're stupid enough to listen to the papers."

"Ve are practicing tomorrow. Ve came to see za game tonight. Eet vas good. Good win." Pavel interrupted putting his hand on Jim's shoulder squeezing the way he knew would calm the blonde haired man.

The older man crossed his arms looking around the large field and thousands of seats that surround it. "Yeah well, Enterprise usually does well."

"Who are you?" It was a little rude and full of bad taste but if this guy was stupid enough to listen to the rumors about him then Jim was going to give them some false credit. The man's eyebrows made their way up his forehead like he was surprised they hadn't recognized him or something.

"Leonard McCoy." That name sounded familiar but Jim couldn't put his tongue on why and honestly didn't really care. The man gave a slight pause then continued. "I own the stadium and the team here."

Shit.

"Shit," Jim whispered the same time as Pavel cursed in Russian. This guy owned the fucking team they were going to play for and Jim hadn't made the best of first impressions.

"Eet is good to meet you, sir," Pavel squeaked. Jim wanted to roll his eyes. Leonard's lip twitched

"What positions?"

"Pitcher," He answered the same time Pavel said, "Catcher." Jim figured Leonard already knew their positions, he was the owner for fuckssake. Leonardo looked at the two with disdain. "You don't look much like a catcher. Little scrawny, don't ya think?"

"We're professionals." Pavel implored.

Leonard pursed his lips tilting his head, "You're wearing tennis shoes and Chucks."

Biting his lip Jim looked down at his dusty shoes then back up, "Semi-professionals?"

This time the man actually did give a slight chuckle. It was only a second before he was back to a neutral face but it was there and it had sounded... not cute, not like bells but something very close. They were all quiet for a moment as Leonard regarded Jim once more. A tingle in Jim's chest made him look away sniffing and swiping at his nose just for something to do.

"Well," Leonard began clearing his throat. Above them a bracket of lights went off darkening half the stadium. "Practice starts early tomorrow, you should get on home. The field is supposed to be closed." He was still gruff but not as much as before. Leonard turned on his heal and was gone up the steps and disappearing around the corner.

"What a weird guy," Jim said just to say something as they gathered their things.

"I like him!" Pavel had a big grin on his face as he reached down grabbing a handful of dirt and stuffing it in his pocket.

"A Russian tradition," he claimed.

Leonard was right, morning practice did come quickly. Jim hustled into the clubhouse locker room with only five minutes before their official roll call. He'd wanted to be earlier but hadn't planned on traffic being so heavy at such an early hour. The fog was thick in the lower regions of San Fran making traffic even slower and the air stuffy where it had been pleasant only last night.

"Jim Kirk," he told the security guard at the gate flashing his ID card. The elderly man waved him through and Jim hiked his bag up on his shoulder as he passed. The walk down the small hallway and into the locker room made butterfly's flutter in his stomach. He took a breath pushing open the door and forcing his mouth to take on a cocky smile. The door swung open easily and the sound of chattering men filled his ears. They kept talking as Jim entered not paying much mind.

The locker room was nothing like his high school smelly show box and even better than the one he'd shared in the minors. It was large and clean with everyone's uniforms, cleats and other essentials collected in their individual open cubbies with their names written in neat script. Everything was so white and blue and pristine. So bright with the Enterprises logo printed on everything that Jim had to hold back his toothy smile. Players sat or stood about some playing on their phones while others watched tv from the flat screens above or played video games from the televisions on the other side. To Jim's right five or so players already dressed in their dry-fit practice uniforms were playing a game of cards. It was laid back, Jim even saw someone picking at a guitar off to the side. Each man had their own devices to keep them busy before practice time so it didn't get too boring. Jim knew the whole hurry up and wait routine that happened before games and practices. When he was in the minors he had been known to bring along his guitar and strum a few bars for his teammate's enjoyment. The music that played through the speakers wasn't anything too peppy or head banging, just right to be nice to listen to. Some catchy song that he bet he would be humming to when they'd send him out to the field to shag balls after the pitchers stretch no doubt.

"James Kirk?" A calm neutral voice startled Jim from his thoughts. He turned his head seeing a tall man with shiny, bowl cut shaped hair and upswept eyebrows. Spock, Jim recognized him from not only the roster but from watching him on TV.

"Jim," Jim clarified holding out his hand. Spock stared at it doing nothing and Jim slowly retracted the offered hand when it wasn't taken after a few seconds. "Okay..."

"My apologies, I do not enjoy touching others. I am Spock, team captain. I also play first base and at times outfield. Follow me." He turned and was gone before Jim could say another word. He scurried after him aware of some the looks he was garnering.

Spock led him to a cubical that had James T. Kirk written above it. Jim couldn't believe it. His name looked back at him as he gazed up. A white jersey was hung with Kirk facing outwards and the number seventeen below in blue writing. Two pairs of white cleats where shined in the bottom of the cubby with another pair of black ones set off to the side. White with blue striped pants and socks were folded over many hangers so that there was no creases. This was his, all his. With his name and everything. He couldn't believe it. Jim set his bag down hearing his lucky ball he always carried rustle around as it hit the wooden bottom of the cubby. A leather chair was sat in front of the space just as there was all around the room for each player. It looked comfortable. Jim practically vibrated with eagerness to get out on the field.

"Christopher Pike will be with your shortly," was all Spock said before he was off walking away, Jim didn't even get the chance to say thank you.

"Don't mind him, he can be an ass." There was a man beside Jim's space sitting in a chair tossing a scuffed ball between his hands. He wore white spandex and his practice jersey with long socks but no pants just yet. He leaned forward holding out his hand even though Jim already recognized him. "Hikaru Sulu but please just call me Sulu. Short Stop."

Their shook hands and Jim took a breath. "He always that..." Jim stiffened appearing like he had a stick up his ass. Sulu laughed sitting back.

"Yeah and today is a good day."

Together they laughed. Jim looked away opening his bag to take out his glove and a few other things he's brought along. They'd said they would provide him with a new glove but he liked his old one. It molded to his hand just right being tight in the good places and loose in the other. He wished he could use his own bat but they were stingy about those things, official equipment regulations and all that useless shit.

"Woah," Sulu stood from his seat. "Is that signed by George Kirk?" He pointed to the ball Jim had in his hands. He smiled holding it out to the Asian man who took it like it was some precious thing. Which it was, to Jim.

"Yeah, " Jim wondered if Sulu didn't recognize him. He decided to play along. "You liked him?"

"He's only the best pitchers of like, all time! I read tons of stuff on him, people said he would've been the next Great. Shit, he never signed anything how the hell do you have this?"

"Connections," Jim winked to cover up his vague answer. Sulu sat down still looking at the ball. "Hey Scotty! Come check this out man."

With his call a man clambered his way towards Jim's little cubby. He knew Montgomery Scott as the Scotsman was the pitching coach for the team. He'd met him a handful of times and had spoken on the phone more times than that. "Jim," he nodded to which Jim smiled back. He put his hand out towards Sulu who handed off Jim's lucky ball. One brow crept up his forehead as he saw the name on the side. "Well I'll be damned. Tha' is no'somethin' ya see everyday." Scotty handed the ball back to Jim who placed it gingery into his cubby.

"By the way," Sulu began, "I didn't catch your name."

"Jim Kirk."

Sulu paused staring at him as his eyes glazed over. Scotty patted him on his shoulder shaking his head. Sulu collected himself, "You gotta be shitting me."

"Sulu ma'boy you're a helluva ball player but ya got some loose stuff in that head o'yers." Scotty rubbed at Sulu's hair. The two started talking loudly as Sulu defended himself and Scotty laughed.

Looking around the clubhouse, Jim read the names above the lockers. He recognized most of them but there were a few new ones he wasn't familiar with, must've been rookies like himself. It was strange looking around the room as flashes of memories from when he was younger filtered through his brain. Where his locker stood used to be Jonathan Archers, one of the best catchers in the major leagues. Across the way was where Anthony McKay hung up his shirt and next to that Ray Volio, who was a home run hitter in his day. Jim let his gaze wander but stopped before it went to the far back corner. He swallowed dryly and brought his attention back to the two in front of him forcing himself not to think of his father's locker, or where it used to be when this place was still called Cochran Stadium.

"Welcome to the team, by the way laddie," Scotty held out his hand for a shake. Jim smiled genuinely nodding his head and shaking his hand. Scotty turned around regarding the large clubhouse. "Ny is around here somewhere, she'll pop up sometime to give you the official tour-"

"Ny?" Jim questioned. Was that even a name or a title? "What's a Ny?"

"Not a what," a female voice startled Jim. He turned seeing a dark skinned woman with her long black hair tied back in a severe ponytail that trailed down her back. She wore nice but workable clothing, not too tight but still good on the eyes. Jim didn't really look that hard at woman lately but this one gave him pause. She was pretty in the intimidating I'll-kick-your-ass way.

"A who. I'm Nyota Uhura, clubhouse manager." She held out her hand for Jim to shake which he did. Her grip was firm, no nonsense. "Please call me Uhura. If you need anything I'll try my best to get it for you. Clean up what you mess up and make sure your equipment bag is zipped and ready to go the night before game day and we'll get along fine."

Then she was gone, her hair flipping behind her and an assistant on her heels. Jim stared wide eyed wondering if the stiff conversation had actually happened in real life or if it was just in his head. "Is she for real?"

"Real and really in charge around here," Sulu laughed clapping him on the shoulder. "But steer clear my friend, that's Spock's and he doesn't share."

Jim held up his hands in defense. "Not my type. Trust me." And left it as that. Sulu swept his hand around the row of lockers that stood in front of.

"This is Rookie Row," he pointed down the set of five or so cubbies, most of which were empty.

"Why are you here then?" Jim inquired to which Sulu pointed upwards to an open vent that blew out cool air on his shoulders. "Best seat in the house."

With a turn Sulu pointed to the other side of the club house. "On the right is where the Pitchers like it, left is the outfielders. They stink so stay to the right. All the way over there," he swept his hand down to the far corner where Jim remembered his dad's old locker being. Sulu didn't notice as Jim didn't look straight at the place. "That's where the oldies put their stuff. If you've been on the team a while or your great like Spock then that's where you go. They get the bigger lockers to themselves and it's less crowded."

Beside where Sulu was pointing a door opened from an office. Pavel walked out nodding his head and jabbering away as he and Christopher Pike exited. They shook hands and Pavel was padding towards Jim excitement practically bubbling. Pike stood for a second before making eye contact with Jim and bringing up his finger to indicated he needed him to follow then he was back in his office.

"Looks like it's my turn." Jim patted Sulu's shoulder who was too busy staring at Pavel as the younger man came closer heading towards his locker that was on the other side of Sulu's, apparently. As Jim passed Pavel the kid whispered, "good luck," and then was gone. Jim shook his head holding back an eye roll.

"Jim," Pike greeted when he entered. "Take a seat, son." He indicated one of the nice leather seats in front of his desk. Jim sat seeing the coach's desk littered with papers with scores and names lining them from top to bottom. Jim mentally shook his head, Manager. Pike was the manager not the coach. It was the same thing but a different title and Jim had to remember that now. The computer was on loaded up to a picture of the Joanna's Field on a bright sunny day with people scattered about with smiles on their faces and a game being played in the background. It was a nice screensaver.

"First of all, welcome to the team it's good to see you here. I know it hasn't been an easy ride but you're here now so that's all that matters." Jim didn't have anything to say back so he sat there awkwardly as Pike looked down at his papers. "We're going to put you at pitcher but you're second after Mitchell. He's got a bad tennis elbow so be prepared to go in at any time. You're at a disadvantage because we're already twenty games into the season but it won't be too bad, you'll get the hang of it in the next few days. We have an okay ride for the most part in the next few weeks so like today you'll have a handful of practices to learn the ins and out of the team. For batting you'll be given a relief so you're not going to see that side of the plate too much, at least for this first season. Standard protocol here in the majors."

Jim nodded. Standard protocol. Right. Fucking sucked, Jim loved batting but Pike was right. Not many pitchers squared up to bat.

"Here we don't juice, no steroids and drugs will get you tossed on your ass so fast your head will spin. My players are tested sometimes every week, sometimes once a month. Just depends on how the commissioner is feeling. Drinking is allowed, I don't care what you do in your free time but if you come to practice drunk you'll be seeing bench for a long time and that's if you're allowed to stay on the team."

"Yes sir."

"Practice today and a light workout tomorrow. Game against the Muskrats on Thursday then double header in Utah on Saturday. We've got a busy schedule but I'm sure you're used to that by now."

"Yes sir."

Pike finally looked up from his papers. He regarded him over his thin rimmed glasses for a second before setting down the pen he had been writing with and taking his glasses from his face to set down on the roster sheet. Jim straightened under his scrutiny.

"They guys will probably give you some shit, they all know your reputation."

Jim jumped in desperate for this man to understand in a way he hadn't felt the need to defend himself in a long time. "Sir, I can explain-"

"No need. I knew your father. We were friends back in the day. I understand son and I'm sorry." Jim looked away swallowing the lump in his throat. "But they don't understand so you have to keep it calm. No fights. No fucking around and please, try to make some friends. This team is like a family and we're damn good because of it. So meet the team, play some ball and maybe we'll just make it to the World Series this year."

Jim snorted sitting back. "No pressure."

Pike smiled sitting back in his chair and letting it lean.

"Alright, suit up kid. Welcome to the Majors."