Chapter Text
They're all watching you.
Of course they are. You didn’t come to put on a show, but here they are anyway, showing up to watch you, because they knew you'd be here. It's not like they haven't seen you pitch before; you've pitched against this team, even, but still they want to watch. How lucky they are, some will say, tinged with jealousy. How fortunate that they get to have PolkaDot Patterson for the season.
It doesn't matter if they watch you or not. You know how to ignore it all. Push it away and just pitch. It's why you're here. You just got here yesterday, but you'll be here for a whole season. This is nothing compared to how many people will be watching once it actually starts.
One.
Two.
Three.
It's not showing off if you'd rather they weren’t watching.
One of the other pitchers is approaching the mound, ball in hand. The team’s former ace, demoted by your arrival. If this bothers them, they haven't shown it yet.
Or maybe you just haven't noticed.
“You know how to throw a spitball?” they ask. “It's our team’s specialty.”
Do you know how to throw a spitball? You've never thrown one, but of course you do. There isn't a pitch in existence that you can’t throw.
You think they might want to give you some advice on how to do it. Would it be rude to say that you don't need it? Of course it would. You're just here to pitch, but that doesn't mean you want to be rude.
You decide to compromise.
“I have seen you throw them before. You're very good.”
“Yup, Good, that's me,” they say, grinning. “I know you're a little new to this whole “moist” thing, so I can give you some pointers if you want. Though I'm sure there's much more you can teach me.”
Can what you do even be taught? You don't think so. You could never have understood any of what you do now, back then.
Of course, you never used to be anywhere near as good as this aptly named pitcher.
You don't need any pointers. You don't particularly want them. But though you're not here to make friends, you don't want to make enemies, either.
So you let them show you what you already know, and then you turn around and throw some beautiful spitballs.
One.
Two.
Three.
What can you do for them in return for this advice you did not need, other than win games? How do you explain this simple understanding you have of such a complex splort? Where would you begin to teach someone --
Wait. Teaching. There's someone you're supposed to teach, isn't there?
This isn't right. This isn't now. This was long ago.
So long ago that they were still here. That you still had this easy rhythm. That you were... someone you haven't really been for a long time, now.
This is a dream, isn't it? A memory? Where are you?
Dot’s not where they're supposed to be, and they know it as soon as they wake. There's -- sand, they're lying on sand, out in the open air, air that feels different, this is wrong, this is --
Okay. It's okay. Just another other world. Focus. You know how to get back, Dot. It gets a little easier every time. The worlds are there, if you know where to look, so just look -- keep looking -- yes, there, move towards it --
and the sand resolves itself into sheets, and the wrongness resolves itself into rightness, and then they’re home in their own bed, the familiar sound of barking echoing off the walls, and then they're being licked by a very anxious dog.
“Beasley!” Dot splutters, pulling him close and trying to calm him down. “Yes, it's okay, I'm here, I'm sorry, I would never leave forever, of course not, I never mean to go, but I'm back, and I'm okay.”
“You were gone a long time.”
Dot glances up to find Workman standing there, still looking a bit worried.
“I was dreaming,” Dot says. “I... maybe I always go places when I dream, now, though of course I would much rather not. I don’t mean to worry you.”
“I know you’ll do everything you can to come back, but it’s just -- every time I turn around and you’re not there, even if it’s just because you’ve left the room…”
“I know. We… we still have to learn to get used to it.” They pause. “There are a lot of things I need to learn, if yesterday is any indication. At least moments like this are a good reminder that there are worse things than pitching problems.”
Not that they’re thinking about yesterday. Not at all. Not about how their hands just -- they just --
Beasley snuggles closer, and Dot runs their fingers through his fur. Their hands are still good for something, at least.
“I’d be bothered by that too, if it were me,” Workman says. “You know I would. I get it. Just because it’s a less serious problem doesn’t mean it’s easy, but we’ll work through it.”
Yes. It will get better. Shirai will come up with something. Don’t think about what might happen otherwise. Don’t think about everything Workman can still do. You’re both here. Think about that. Think about anything.
“I was dreaming about Jenkins,” Dot says. “The first one we knew, I mean. They were always so nice to me, and tried so hard to make me feel like a part of the team. It wasn't their fault that it took me too long. I wish... I wish I had been better to them, before they…”
“They understood,” Workman says. “I didn't know them as long as you, but I know they understood.”
“It doesn't feel right. That I am still here and so many others had to go. I know it's been a long time, and I hope they're okay wherever they are, and I know the Jenkins and Jesús that are here now are happy, but... I am sure they resent me for it, just a little, that I could stay, even if they are glad to still have me here.”
And -- and Dot doesn’t blame them for that, of course; it’s not like Dot doesn’t have their own little bit of resentment that they’re trying so hard to push down.
“Yeah, I'm sure you could’ve eventually learned to be happy in another life in another world like they did, but you shouldn't have to. No one should. Don’t you realize what you’ve done, Dot? You’ve changed everything. You’ve proven there’s another way out, even if it’s not perfect.”
“A way for me, maybe. I doubt anyone else can do this.”
“Maybe you can help them.”
Could they?
“Maybe,” Dot says slowly. “If I can get better at helping myself first.”
“It's not something you have to do alone. We're all helping each other.”
Yes. Remember that, Dot. You're not being a burden. You're not the only person who's ever needed help.
“Speaking of that,” Workman continues. “Ziwa said they'd be at the arena today, and you're welcome to stop by to talk with them.”
“...Is this some kind of plan to get me to try pitching again?”
“No! You don't have to do that if you don't want to. They just said they’d like to talk, if you're up for it. Doesn't have to be today.”
What else would Dot do today? Lie around and do absolutely nothing? Very tempting, but they know they shouldn't. If they can't pitch, they might as well do something, right?
“Okay,” Dot says finally. “We can go.”
As promised, Ziwa’s hanging out at the Gleek. They're not doing much, just sitting in the front row of the stands, gazing idly up to where the Leviathan is circling in the sky. Thinking.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Have a seat,” Ziwa says casually, and Dot does, right next to them, and can't help thinking of the first time they’d talked like this, under much worse circumstances -- but this is different, of course; Workman and Beasley are here, and --
“Oh, hello, Eugenia,” Dot says to the head that's just poked out of a nearby garbage can.
“Hi!” Eugenia says cheerfully before disappearing back into the pile of trash.
Beasley's already wandering off, sniffing up and down the rows of seats.
“Think someone's left shoes behind, Beas?” Workman asks, starting to follow him. “The season ended a while ago, but we can still hope.”
“I'll let you know if I find any in here!” comes the muffled voice from the garbage can.
Workman looks back at Dot. “You all right if I leave you to it?”
Dot knows this isn't just about shoes; Workman wants to give them a little space to have this conversation, whatever it might be.
“Yes. Go ahead.”
And, of course, Workman deserves a break from the responsibility of making sure Dot hasn't disappeared. Not that there’s much they can do when it does happen, anyway.
“So,” Ziwa says after Beasley and Workman have departed on their Shoe Quest. “I just thought we should talk. About your, uh, future with the team, and what you want that to be. If you want it at all.”
“What future? I can't pitch.” Almost literally, in fact, but Ziwa doesn't need to know that part of it. Not right now, at least.
“Well, yeah, you're not allowed to do that, but that doesn't mean you can't still be involved. You've pretty much been co-captaining for a while, and I think pitching coach would be a good next step.”
“Pitching coach?” Dot echoes, surprised. Helping Alto is one thing, but a whole team of pitchers with regular fingers?
“Only if you want to, of course,” Ziwa amends quickly. “No pressure. But I think it could be good for you, and the team.”
“I... I don't know. I’m used to helping out, sure, but being responsible for giving everyone advice all the time… Greer would hate it, certainly.”
“Greer hates a lot of things, or at least likes to pretend she does. Don't you want to see her reaction when we announce it? Plus, Jenkins would listen to you. Beasley always listens to you. Not sure how Augusto will take it, but he definitely needs some tips, and you're definitely qualified to give him some. Not to mention all the other Shadows pitchers who could use some training in case they get called up, too.”
“I... I never thought about it, really. Just because I am -- was -- a star does not automatically qualify me to give people advice. So much of my pitching ability came from my extra fingers and dimensional awareness, which are not applicable to the average pitcher. I can't tell them “just throw strikes.” That's not very helpful.”
“I'm sure you can come up with something better than that. What kind of things did you tell Heavy FC during the Coffee Cup? You were pitching captain back then.”
“I was on a team with Jaylen and Hiroto. They did not exactly need any coaching from me.”
“What about the cat?”
“Socks never seemed interested in anything I had to say. Fortunately, it has natural pitching instincts.”
Ziwa snorts. “Sounds like Greer.”
“Well, the best pitching advice I could give Greer would be to take this splort more seriously, and she has finally been doing that. Because of the infusion, though, not because of me.”
“But it's good that you knew what kind of advice she needed, even if she wouldn't listen to it!” Eugenia chimes in, poking her head out of the garbage can again. “I think deep down she's afraid of failing, and she doesn't have to fail if the cutout pitches for her, right? So if she didn't take it seriously, she could just laugh off the losses as not even trying. But it's more fun to try your best, even if you fail!”
What is Dot’s best, anymore? Can they ever remember how it felt to have fun no matter where their pitches landed?
“If you need advice on how to give advice, I think Eugenia’s got you covered,” Ziwa says, grinning at her as she oozes out of the can and forms into something more human-shaped.
“Hey, Dot gave me good advice during the Coffee Cup! Even though we weren't on the same team for that.”
“You are a naturally talented pitcher too, Eugenia,” Dot reminds her. “You didn’t need much advice.”
“It wasn't just about the pitching! You helped me believe in myself. You said everyone was used to me being a batter, so they wouldn't be disappointed in me if I couldn't win doing something new, but they'd be pleasantly surprised if I could win! And the Coffee Cup was just for fun and I should just enjoy the experience of pitching, no matter what happened. So I did!”
“And then you won both your games,” Ziwa says with a fond smile.
“Well, yeah, but that's not the point! I would’ve had fun anyway.” Eugenia turns to Dot. “I think it's less about telling people how to pitch and more about making sure they enjoy pitching at all. Because you know how to enjoy it no matter if you win or lose! Your job would be not just to make sure they pitch their best, but to make sure they have the best time pitching.”
And yes, that is what it's all about, Dot knows. But it's one thing to have fun when you're a rookie working hard, practicing all the time, having something to be proud of when you finally start to improve and win more games; or when you're a star who was made to pitch, and you delight in the rhythm, the one-two-three of the strikeouts, the challenge of duels with other top pitchers regardless of who wins.
It's another thing entirely to have experienced both of those and then had them taken away, leaving behind some strange mix of the two that is also something new and wrong. A fallen star with fingers that remember how easy it was to throw a perfect strike but refuse to go back to doing it. A return to the struggle of the ball never quite landing where you want it to go, but this time, all the practice in the world might not be able to make a difference.
Not that it was practice that made them a star, of course.
“Dot?”
“Oh! Uh. Yes. Of course. Thank you, Eugenia.”
“You don't have to take the offer if you're not feeling up to it,” Ziwa reassures them. “Or if you just don't want to. It doesn't have to be full-time, either, I know you've got other teams to divide your attention. If you'd also like to work with the Mechs, the Steaks, anyone, we’ll understand.”
Would the other teams even want their help, now, if they can’t pitch? Would Ziwa even want it, if they knew just how far Dot has fallen? Or do they know, and this is all out of pity?
“You know what we care about most is that you're here, right, Dot?” Ziwa continues. “You’ve done so much for our team. You’ve stepped up in the times I couldn’t. It stopped being all about the pitching a long time ago. We’re so glad to just still have you in this world, whether you end up coaching or not.”
It did stop being all about the pitching a long time ago, yes. Don’t ever forget that.
“Thank you, Ziwa,” Dot says, trying to keep their voice steady again. “This... this is a very kind offer. I am not sure yet if I can take you up on it. But... I will consider it. Honestly. I just need some time.”
“You've got time. The start of the season’s still a while away, and that's not even a hard deadline or anything, you can come on board anytime.”
“And no matter what you decide, we're here for you,” Eugenia adds. “Always. Nothing's gonna change that. You're here, and we're here, and we’re your team, and we’re your family, no matter if you're pitching or coaching or just being.”
“Yes. Thank you. I... thank you.”
They need to stop worrying about their own pitching, and they're not sure if they can, but -- but they have to try, because of course it's not what matters the most. It matters, always. But not the most.
Dot’s not sure what else to say, so it's fortunate that Workman and Beasley have reappeared and started descending the steps, though they don't seem to have found any shoes.
“How'd it go?” Workman asks.
“Good? I mean, they certainly gave me a lot to think about.”
“Think about it as long as you want,” Ziwa says.
They're probably going to be thinking about it much longer than they want, even. They're thinking about it as they say goodbye to Ziwa and Eugenia. They're thinking about it as they walk out of the stadium. They're thinking about some other things, too.
“You didn't put them up to this, did you?”
“No!” Workman says. “It really was Ziwa’s idea. They asked me if I thought you'd be interested, and I said you probably would. I do think it could be a good fit for you.”
“I don't know why you all think I would be good at this kind of thing. Even if everything wasn't going wrong, I wouldn't know how to explain pitching in a way that people can understand.”
“I think you're underestimating yourself and other people there. You haven't really tried, have you?”
“...Well. Maybe not. I... I appreciate your faith in me, regardless.” Dot pauses. “Oh. Also, I'm sorry you couldn't find any shoes.”
Workman smirks. “Couldn't I?” They're holding up a pair of sneakers.
“...Are those Ziwa’s?”
“Not anymore.”
“Hardly a fair way to repay someone for a job offer.”
“Hey, it's an occupational hazard of being friends with a Thief. They should really know better by now.”
“They probably do, and they just let you get away with it so you won't feel like you've lost your touch.”
“I can't believe you would say something so hurtful to me.”
Dot knows they’re joking too, but…
“Well. I could have been nicer to you, yesterday. I’m sorry. You were only trying to help, and I was being… not the most responsive to that.”
“I appreciate the apology, but I don’t think you were being… particularly un-nice. You were just frustrated, which, really, who wouldn’t be frustrated in a situation like that, and you barely took it out on me at all.”
True, most of the un-niceness was just in their head, but that doesn't mean they don't feel bad about it.
“Still. I will try to do better with that. Maybe… maybe this really will help? If I can focus on someone else’s pitching, and not my own.”
Maybe it’ll make it worse, seeing what everyone else can do and they can’t. But it’s worth a try, right?
“I think it’s worth a try,” Workman says, echoing their thoughts.
“If I do this at all, I won't be able to do it alone,” Dot says. “I mean, I know you and the others will be there to help, but... I need to talk to someone with coaching experience. How would you feel about a little road trip?”
Workman’s grinning knowingly. “Anywhere in particular?”
“Well, I hear Seattle’s lovely this time of year…”