What?
"She’s the one who can get you a new headshot," TM continues.
Oh, okay.
"Yeah," says [Infielder], "I need a new one. That one you have is bad. Just use the one from last year or something." [Infielder] does not really look at me. TM, however, IS looking at me.
"It’s all your fault," he says, not seriously.
"How is it my fault – I didn’t take the picture," I say.

"No, but you arranged it," he says. Which I can’t argue with.

 

I ask [Infielder] the question I need to ask him, which is if he will call an annoying member of the media. He says he will (but he won’t, as it happens) and I give him the number, which is written on my Astros notepad. "Astros?" [Infielder] asks, slightly scornfully (but I think in a somewhat amused way). I explain that I used to work there, as he speeds away, and then I think TM wonders what he is talking about, and [Infielder] explains it to him. [Infielder] still has not looked at me, which is truly a pity, because he has the eyes. The eyes! TM is walking beside me as I head down the tunnel toward the clubhouse. His blue eyes, which are very nice, are still not really doing much for me (yet), which is good, because I do not need to get involved with this.

I ask TM what he’s been saying to S, because he’s got her all flustered. He seems a little amused, or maybe pleased that he has such an effect. "I’m just being nice," he says. By now he’s reached the door to the clubhouse, and I’ve turned to go up the hall and back upstairs. But he gets halfway inside the door and, holding it open, keeps talking to me.

TM: I guess I don’t have that same effect on you, though, huh?

M: Well, you never know.

TM: If I do, you hide it well.

M: I can’t reveal all my secrets. And, you know, I’ve got to keep it professional.

[LHP] comes in from the dugout, overhears me say that and mutters, "Yeah, [Nickname], you gotta keep it professional." And I laugh.

TM: Keep it professional...hmm.

He closes the door. I take three or four steps and see S coming toward me. I tell her she’s too late; there’s nobody left out on the field. And then I grin (because I am evil) and tell her I told TM she gets all flustered when she’s around him. Her eyes widen; she looks slightly alarmed. We start to walk down the hall, and she says, "You have to tell me everything." So I start to, and then we turn the corner, and there’s TM, sitting by the batting cages with his cell phone. S and I stop to talk to him, since he is not actually ON his cell phone.

TM: Did you come down here to get a first pitch?

S: Yeah…

TM: Who’d you get?

S: Well, nobody, yet.

TM: You know, I’ve never been asked.

M: That’s because you get her all flustered.

S: Hey! That’s not…it’s just…I…are you…

M: See?

S: Are you playing tonight? I don’t even know. Do you want to catch it?

TM: Not really.

S: Well, see, that’s why…

TM: But I could, I guess. Will you be down there?

S: Yeah, I’ll be down there, taking pictures.

M: Of you.

S: Hey! Stop that! You’re in trouble. You are in so much trouble right now.

M: (smiles innocently)

TM: (grins)

S: So you’ll do it?

TM: I’ll do it.

S: Okay. 

TM: When do I need to be out there?

S: Um, I don’t know…what time does the game start? Seven? It’s 6:45, I think, well, yeah, it’s 6:45.

TM: Okay. I’ll see you later.

We leave. S pretends to be mad at me but really isn’t. "He knew we were talking about him, too, when we walked up there," she says. Later, she comes up to the pressbox and shows me the picture, which is a fairly good shot of TM, who does not typically photograph all that well (but better than [Infielder]). After the game, I deliver boxscores to the clubhouse, and there, again, is TM. He gives me a fist bump. This makes me think of NSG. (You knew that was coming. I loved those fist bumps.)

 

The Redbirds have lost five in a row.