Kate Angell

**my apologies that the paragraphs do not run together perfectly. I tried to align Word with the website, came out a bit disjointed. ***


“What the hell were you thinking?” Guy Powers, owner of the Richmond Rogues, addressed the Bat Pack, the top power hitters in Major League Baseball. His gaze shifted among the players seated across his desk. Right fielder Cody ‘Psycho’ McMillan, third baseman Jesse ‘Romeo’ Bellisaro, and catcher Chase ‘Chaser’ Tallan, all slouched in tan club chairs, arrogance and pride personified. Not one of the men showed an ounce of remorse.

Powers slammed The Virginia Banner atop a growing
stack of newspapers. Headlines glared back at him. Big and bold and block-lettered.

PSYCHO WASTES NO TIME GETTING IN SWING OF THINGS.

RICHMOND BRAWLERS TAKE TO THE FIELD.

Powers shoved forward on his brown leather chair. He
rested his elbows on a massive claw-footed oak desk. Pursed his lips. His tone pure disgust. “Media Day. Photographers, journalists, television and radio. A chance to hype the season ahead and instead you fought, showed your asses.”

He shuffled the newspapers, snagged one from the bottom. Ruffled the pages. Read, "Sports writer Emerson Kent's column Press Box claims player egos have grown larger than the National Pastime." He creased the newspaper, returned it to the stack. "I tend to agree with her."

“Kent’s column is a joke.” Psycho snorted. “She
should return to the Society Section. Lady writes as much about the players’ haircuts, tight butts, and the
restaurants we frequent as she does about runs batted in and who stole second.”

Powers nostrils flared. “Emerson draws women readers. Women who fill one-third of the seats at James River Stadium.”

“Emerson went out of her way to make us look like
jerks,” again from Psycho.

“She didn’t have to go far today.” Powers gaze now as hard as his reputation in the National League East. “You screwed up.”

All around Powers, the room bristled with hostility.
Hostility from team management. Standing in an arc behind his desk, publicist Catherine Ambrose, team manager Tim Rhodes, pitching coach Danny Young, and team captain Risk Kincaid all glared at Psycho as if he’d committed the crime of the century.

In Powers’ eyes, Psycho had. An hour into interviews
and photo ops, and the right fielder had taken batting
practice, showing off for the press. Powers’ latest
acquisition to bolster the bullpen had been on the mound.

Left-hander Chris Collier had thrown some major heat. Heat that gunned down Psycho. The fastball clocked at one hundred miles per hour caught the right fielder on the hip. Spun him around and drove him to his knees.

The press and executives had cringed.

Trash talk erupted between the two men. Loud and
profane. Collier had claimed it a wild pitch. An accident.

Psycho swore the pitcher had thrown to maim. Animosity shot between home plate and the mound. Soon spreading among the other team members as well. The ballplayers spat and glared. Clenched their fists. The atmosphere darkened, primed for a fight.

The head trainer ordered Psycho off the field.
Instructed him to ice his hip. Psycho had blown him off.

His ego on the line, he’d taken a stiff practice swing, once again facing down Collier.

The press stood on the sidelines, wide-eyed and taking notes as quickly as each could write or relay play in a television or radio broadcast.

Collier was smoking. Pleasing the crowd with his
changeups, followed by a slider.

Psycho whiffed. Couldn’t buy a hit. Dark determination glazed the power hitter’s eyes as he dug in, edging home plate.

Collier fired a sinker. The ball spun, dropping
suddenly as it reached the plate. Psycho couldn’t jump back fast enough. A guttural hiss escaped as the ball slammed his instep.

Media sympathy surrounded him until Psycho threw down his bat, tore off his batting helmet, and charged the pitcher's mound. Bent on retaliation.

Chris Collier dropped his mitt, stood his ground. Psycho threw the first punch, and all hell broke loose. Romeo and Chaser came off the bench and the bullpen emptied. Players took sides, and fists flew.

A fight captured by the media. A publicist's nightmare. Catherine Ambrose would be hounded by the press the entire season. Powers made a mental note to send her a bottle of Tylenol. Extra-strength.

Catherine did an exceptional job in public relations.
No one thought faster on her feet or spoke with more
authority, continually bending over backward to downplay the team’s behind-the-scene disputes and nasty divorces. She stood between the players and the press to keep the Rogues’ name as polished as their World Series Trophy.

Unfortunately for all concerned, today’s on-field
fiasco could not be buried with the obituaries.

Powers ran his hands down his face, focused fully on
Psycho. “You broke Chris Collier’s nose. His vision’s
distorted. He won’t start the season opener.”

"Start Cooper Smith or Roan Ginachio. Both have more talent than Wimbledon," Psycho stated as he crossed his ankle over his knee and rubbed his bandaged and deeply bruised instep. Had the ball caught him an inch higher, it would have shattered his ankle.

Wimbledon. . .Powers shook his head. His latest
acquisition had taken a whole lot of ribbing since his
arrival. Collier’s sharp features, white-blonde hair, light hazel eyes and lean frame lent more toward tennis pro than baseball player. Psycho had tagged him Wimbledon, just to be annoying.

For whatever their reasons, Psycho and Collier had
hated each other from the onset of spring training. The
undercurrent cut deep. The fight today was a culmination of taunting, aggression, and bad blood.

Powers listened as pitching coach Danny Young ripped
Psycho a new one. “Media Day targets trades and new
acquisitions. Collier was to throw a series of pitches, show his heat.”

“His heat struck me twice,” Psycho reminded Young.

“It was an accident. Collier was about to apologize
when you stormed the mound.”

“Apologize, my ass. The man has a rifle-arm and
precision timing. One wild pitch, I might believe. Two,” Pyscho shook his head, “the man threw to take me out of the game.”

“You crowded the plate,” Young openly accused.

“Like hell I did.”

“You did,” team captain Risk Kincaid backed up Young. “Roger Clemens in his prime would have nailed you.”

“Clemens I would have excused,” Psycho snarled.
“Wimbledon deserved what he got.”

“No remorse, Psycho?” Powers raised a brow.

His silence said it all.

Romeo and Chaser nodded their agreement.

Behind the Bat Pack, their sports agent, Cal Winger
shook his head. Disgusted by their behavior. Winger had represented the three players from their first appearance in the majors. He’d grown gray trying to keep them in line. And quite bald. Frown lines bracketed his mouth. He looked ten years older than his present forty-five.

Powers still had a full head of dark hair. He’d be
damned if the Bat Pack would drive him to either hair dye or plugs. Or an early grave. They’d already caused him an ulcer.

There would be no fighting in his organization. Not as long as he owned the team. His starting pitcher was out for the count. Which left the bullpen lean.

Powers scooped his rubber stress ball off the desk-
top. Manipulated it in his hand. Squeezing so hard his
fingers pressed his palm. Tension slowly left his body.

He wanted to be calm when he leveled his punishment on the Bat Pack. Clearing his throat, he spoke with the authority of his position. “Psycho, you’re the most fined and suspended player in Major League Baseball, both on and off the field. You disregard rules and fair play. You’re arrogant and self-centered, and a total pain in the ass.”

Psycho’s eyes widened in a who, me? expression.

Keeping his voice even, Powers tallied, “Four black
eyes, five split lips, two dislocated shoulders, and a
bruised kidney resulted from the fight. In the midst of the fray, Romeo slammed into Emerson Kent and knocked her down. Her suit jacket was ripped and her slacks grass stained.” Powers cut his third baseman a look. “She’s new to Sports. I don’t want her harboring ill-will toward the Rogues. A personal apology and the purchase of a new outfit are in order. Understood?”

Romeo slowly nodded.

Powers lowered the final blow. “The Bat Pack will be
suspended one game for each man or woman injured.”

"Sit the bench for thirteen games? Son of a-“ Psycho swore a blue streak. "I'm more at fault than Romeo and Chaser. Suspend me, let them-"

“Walk?” Powers shook his head. “They should have held you back, not joined the fight.”

“Totally sucks, Guy.” Psycho was the only player on
the team to call Powers by his first name.

“It’s about to suck a whole lot more. You’ll be fined for fighting. Take into account the embarrassment to the Rogues, you’ll hit six figures.“

Psycho’s jaw went slack. “You can’t—“

“I can, and I will,” Powers assured him.

“Trade me.”

“Definitely an option.” An option Powers would never
execute. No other player breathed baseball as Psycho did. The right fielder was a feared contact batter and base stealer. He consistently drove in ninety runs from the leadoff position. His leaping catches on defense consistently robbed an opposing player of a home run. He’d slammed into the cement wall so many times, chalk outlines similar to those drawn around a dead body sketched the outfield perimeter. Each one a testament to his dedication to the sport. He had six Golden Gloves. And had been voted onto the 2006 National League All Star team.

Powers pushed back from his desk, stood. He met
Psycho’s gaze squarely. “Keep your animosity off my field.”

Every muscle in Psycho’s body tightened as he shoved
off his chair. “Might want to share that advice with
Wimbledon as well.”

Powers watched the Bat Pack leave his office. All
strut and swagger. Young men flanked by fame and fortune and a lack of repentance.

Once management had departed, Powers sat alone. He'd done what he had to do. He'd taken the Bat Pack off the roster. Richmond fans would not be happy. They wanted another World Series Trophy as much as Powers needed control over his team.

His Rogues lacked unity. He blamed the salary cap and off-season free agency for the dissension. Only six of his original starters remained. The newcomers crashed the park with attitude and their own sense of self-importance. An importance that exceeded the Bat Pack’s cockiness. While Risk Kincaid had gone out of his way to integrate team spirit, the Bat Pack had pulled the welcome mat.

The three power hitters stood alone. They had each
others back. And no one elses.

Powers faced Opening Day with rookies and second
stringers. Not a good way to start a new season.

His heartburn flared like a blow torch.