text: From Drake's *Scorpion* blasting from one side of the clubhouse competes against country music from an unknown country artist coming from Cory's locker. A race war, although this one has no casualties, only good natured shit talk amongst teammates being hurled from one corner to the other, is in full effect. Twenty five teammates, a manager, four coaches, a few kids moonlighting as batboys, and a couple of washed up reporters from the local news station go about their business like they have for every other home game this year. The Richmond Flying Squirrels have a record of 54 wins, 64 losses, and are 11 games out of 1st place. To say the team is playing out the season is an understatement. Right handed pitcher Mateo Rodriguez is the only player on the Giants 40 man roster and other than a few other fringe prospects, the big league team would have to all die in a plane crash for anyone in this clubhouse to get a sniff in the show. Blake leans over to tie his cleats as Mateo walks by with his hammer of cock out and busts Blake's balls for having the whitest name possible. Blake pays him no attention; he has other things on his mind. Besides, what can he say to the 21-yr old kid with a future and a cobra between his legs, that would get under his skin - nothing. "*I know shorty and she doesn't want no slow song had it made last year, life goes on*" bumps from the sound system. Unbeknownst to his wife and all his teammates, this will be the last time Blake laces them up and runs out between the white chalk lines. 29-yrs old with a birthday rapidly approaching, Blake has played over 1,200 minor league games after playing ball at Eastern Tennessee State. After signing with the Braves in the 12th round in '10, he's been traded more times than DMX has been arrested. The moderate signing bonus Blake received is long gone. Some of it spent on PEDs which helped him get called up to AA two years ago, some if it spent on drinks for floozies in visiting towns, and the vast majority of it went to child support for a child he hasn't seen since birth. His baby mama got pregnant on purpose, thinking Blake would be her ticket out of bumfuck Tennessee. She should have spent more time watching him play than lying about being birth control and she'd realize Blake had no shot at making a big league squad. General Managers aren't looking for a left fielder with 30 career homers in nearly 8 seasons of lower level play. 6:30 and first pitch is 37 minutes away. Willie Larkin, the Flying Squirrels manager, is in his office finishing up his interview with the local reporter. Same shit different day. Neither want to do the interview, but then again, neither he nor the reporter are talented enough to get beyond this point. Willie is giving one word answers. The sooner this asshole leaves him alone, the sooner he can take a swig of the Jim Beam in his bottom desk drawer. In the clubhouse, players are taping their own wrists & ankles up. Others are on their phones texting their significant others and DMing the ladies they're planning to cheat on their significant others with on the road next weekend in Hartford, CT. Mateo pitched a gem last night, 7 shutout inning and 12 Ks, and has made his way to the field to scout talent in the stands. Rolling a basket around the clubhouse, the batboy picks up towels and rolls of medical tape and warm-ups from the guys lockers. The smell of foot sweat and unfulfilled dreams permeate the cramped room. A flickering light above the center of the clubhouse is symbolic of just about every ballplayer presently putting on their uniforms. Blake takes it all in. Eight years in pro ball, another 15 before that, he's seen all baseball has to throw at you, except for the spin on a 95mph slider. He's addicted to painkillers; he chews enough tobacco to kill a bull; he doesn't earn enough to pay for his herpes medication; he's a dream that's run out of gas on the freeway. Too many successful folks get interviewed he thinks to himself. Makes you think everyone will be. On the one flat screen TV mounted on the wall across from him is the pre-game of the Giants game scheduled to start at the same time as the Flying Squirrels game. The thing that will eat at Blake's soul for the rest of his living days is not falling two exits short of the show, but rather, seeing former teammates of his through the years make it to the cathedrals that are MLB stadiums. Jealousy is a deadly sin and Blake knows that jealousy will be the cause of his death more so than tobacco & illicit drugs ever will be. Willie stammers out of his office with a five o'clock shadow going on midnight and tells the boys first pitch is less than a half hour away and to turn the music off. A standoff between those listening to the country music and those listening to Drake ensue. Neither side wants to be the first to turn their music off. Same shit different day. Eye black applied a few minutes earlier, Blake picks up his Louisville Slugger in his callus covered hands and grips it with more passion than he did his baby the day she was born. Baseball is his true love and he's been lusting after it ever since his dad brought him to Camden Yards as a 6-yr old. That day Blake told his dad he'd play there when he grew up. Problem is love is a two-way street and baseball doesn't have time for washed up players that are going to be on the wrong side of 30 soon. The clamors of cleats clicking on the cement pavement rumble as the teammates make their way out of the clubhouse. Blake waits behind and sneaks into his manager's office for a quick swig of Willie's Jim Beam. He's not in the lineup tonight, so why the hell not. In a few hours he'll be an ex-ballplayer. That thought soaks into his pores more than the cheap liquor. With one more glance at the deserted clubhouse, Blake turns and makes his way to the hundreds, not thousands, of fans that have come to the game for $1 beer night. None of them know his name.