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But now we’re in the ninth inning, it’s tied, and the clock is ticking down the final seconds. If we end in a tie, we’ll get a one-on-one showdown, but fate has other plans, and with thirty seconds to go, a foul ball sails toward a young guy in the crowd. All eyes are on him. His hand comes up, wide eyes locked on the ball zooming toward him, and when it connects with his glove for the last out of the game before the buzzer sounds, Animal Control cheers and rushes toward the stands. We won.
I cheer and holler along with the crowd as the Funky Monkeys deliver a convincing performance sulking back to the dugout, smirks creeping onto their faces as they kick at the dirt and fold their arms over their chests in defeat.
The pitcher for Animal Control cartwheels forward, rolls, and flips into the middle. The songWe Are The Championsbegins to play over the speakers, and Animal Control delivers another clean choreographed dance routine ending with all of them bunched together, like cheerleaders at the end of a celebration, all of them holding one closed fist up in the air, surrounding the young spectator who won them the game.
I quickly take a photo to use with my next article and spot Ian doing the same, only he’s propped the baseball yellow duck he found the other day on the edge of the barricade to be included in his shot, too.
“Hey, Ian,” I call. “Funky Monkeys aren’t all they’re quacked up to be, huh?” He struggles to not laugh and forces a scowl onhis brow. It’s almost adorable, and I have no idea how to react, so I copy the action.
“Are you two at this again?” Rob asks, nudging my side. “Can’t we all just get along?”
“Apparently not,” Ian says, grabbing the duck from the ledge and heading inside. My team is already making their way in, too, and if I want to get some quotes for my piece, I should follow them. But I also have two ducks in my pocket that I want to hide. There’s a gap in between the benches in the dugout, and I sit on one and pull out my phone. I pretend to type on it for a few seconds, watching the people around me out of the corner of my eye, and when I’m sure no one’s attention is on me, I grab one duck from my pocket and wedge it between the bench seat in the wall in the dugout. Now, where to hide the second one?
“Hey, are you coming?” Harrison calls from where he’s still signing autographs with a few kids by the players’ entry.
I jump up and join him by the fence.
“Great game,” I tell him, and he eyes me suspiciously, like he doesn’t quite know if I’m being serious.
“It was a close one. That’s for sure. So, have we won you over yet?”
“What do you mean, won me over?”
“You didn’t exactly hide how you feel about Banana Ball at that first press conference, but you have to admit you can see it now, see this is arealsport, right?”
“I have a new respect for what you do, that’s for sure,” I tell him, and I’m not lying. Watching how hard the players train both on the fundamentals of the sport, and then going right into choreography, it’s a lot. They definitely work harder than I ever gave them credit for.
“That wasn’t a yes.”
“Okay, yes. I agree it’s a real sport.”
He nods, and I make my way into the dressing room to change. The duck from the corridor and the ones in here are gone, too. The players’ voices sound from the showers, and as creepy as it probably looks, I peek my head around the doorway. Just as I do the rubber duck I placed on the showerhead falls, rolling through the feet of a few players who watch it go before it stops on its side.
“Hey, another one,” Benny says, kicking it across the floor toward one of the other players.
“Do you think Ian left it?” Tim asks in his thick Australian accent before bending to pick it up.
“He’s the one that found the other two in the locker room, so probably not,” Benny reasons and they all start to speculate on who it could be. Some think it’s Dennis, while others are convinced it’s one of the trainers.
My name isn’t mentioned once, and I leave them to shower back in my room, satisfied that my secret is safe.
Chapter ten
Ian
The second I’m inthe corridor, I spot the little yellow duck. If I wasn’t sure before, I’m one hundred percent certain it’s Brendan leaving them now, and when I follow the players into the locker room and spot another one sitting above Phillip’s locker, I don’t even try to hide my delight.
“Hey, guys. Check this out. I found this one in the hallway, too,” I say, holding up the two yellow ducks.
“Where do you think they came from?” Stevie asks. He strips off his cleats and tosses them in the bottom of his locker.
“No idea,” I lie, grabbing my bag and heading back to the hotel to shower and change before the post-game press conference. The hotel is across the road from the stadium, which makes it super easy to get in, get changed, and be back in time. I shoot Brendan a message before heading back over.
IAN: I’ll make sure I’m behind you at the press conference, then when they point to you, I’ll act like I thought they were pointing at me and ask my question before you can get yours out.Then you can roll your eyes or something at me. What do you think?
His reply comes through just as I push open the door to the press room.
BRENDAN: Cutting another writer off would have you clashing with not only me but every writer in here. It stops me from asking my questions and doing my job. Don’t do that. What questions do you have prepared for this thing?
