Coach Roenicke had been despondent since Sunday, so Plush invited him canoeing on Lake Michigan.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
We rowed hard into the churn. Coach said nothing, save for mighty grunts with each oar-stroke. Rivulets of sweat traversed his face.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
After two hours, Coach finally spoke. “Enough,” he said. Then Coach stopped. Plush did too. Coach leaned back with the oar across his lap.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
“Truth be told,” Coach said, “I’m hardly getting over it, hardly getting used to getting by.” Coach’s hands were peppered with blisters.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
“Think of the wonder,” Plush said. “Triple plays, pitcher grand slams, catcher cycles. Ninety-six wins, Yuni hitting .310 in the playoffs.”
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
Coach leaned back. “It doesn’t feel real,” Coach said. “More like impressionistic whorls splattered on my memory. Colors, sounds, moments.”
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
“It all happened,” Plush said. “I suppose,” Coach said, sighing. Then he giggled. “What?” Plush asked.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
“A playoff team with Yuni at SS. I mean, come on.” Plush and Coach laughed long and hard until a lightning bolt arced across the sky.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
“The Mustache hears all,” Plush said. “Yes,” Coach said. “By the way, where the hell are we?" Plush knew they had floated miles from shore.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
The sea churned. “Did you bring a compass?” Plush said. “Food?” Coach opened his cooler—empty, save for a gallon of Secret Stadium Sauce.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
“I’ve been living off this stuff for the past week,” Coach said. “Only thing that calms the ulcers. It's magic.” Plush shook his head.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
Just then a low horn sounded in the distance. Soon, a flawless white yacht poked through the soup. The sloop’s name: “High Life.”
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
Plush and Coach looked up. A gray hoodie emerged from the cabin. “Ahoy,” Owner Attanasio said. He threw out two life preservers.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
“We feared we would never get back,” Plush said. Owner Attanasio rolled his eyes. “I’m rich as shit, guys. We’ll get back.”
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
“Can you fill the Prince hole?” Coach said. “Improve the infield D?” “I meant home, but yeah, let’s do all that stuff,” Owner A. said.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
“Still, there are limits to what I personally can do,” Owner Attanasio said. Then he glanced skyward. Plush and Coach followed his lead.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
A gale kicked up, pushing the fog to the middle of the lake. “The Mustache,” Plush whispered. “We’ll be fine,” Coach said.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
Coach and Plush boarded the yacht. Owner Attanasio turned the High Life toward Milwaukee as the engine roared.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
Plush snuck a glance back and saw The Great Mustache ascending. Maybe it was only the wind, but Plush swore he heard a voice.
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
That was a good one, the voice said. No, a great one. See you in 2012. #Plushdamentals
— Not Tony Plush (@Not_Tony_Plush) October 21, 2011
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