Fic: Home Field Advantage (Highlander)
Oct. 31st, 2023 03:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
argentum_lsWritten for senmut, as part of the Fic or Treat event.
Characters: Methos & Joe
Word Count: 1218
Rating: G
Summary: Joe drags Methos to a baseball game and introduces him to an important local tradition.
Link to Ao3: Home Field Advantage
"I have taken in a ballgame a time or two, you know." Methos lobbed his protest, in full awareness of the response it would get.
"I'm sure you have, my friend. I'm sure you have. But—" Joe stopped walking and rested some weight on his cane while he gazed around at the rapidly-filling stadium seats in front of them. Nearly thirty-thousand people would be crammed in before the first pitch and the energy and excitement from each of them combined to transform the spectators. "—you have never been to this ballgame. Crosstown Classic." He breathed out a long breath born of both decades of nostalgia and nascent anticipation before turning and cutting a path back against the swell of the crowd.
Knots of arriving fans converged into lines at the various food stands and stalls in clothing in blues and reds that marked which person rooted for which team.
Methos sighed.
Somehow, Joe had talked Methos into using the "extra" ticket, and then into donning items from each team: a jersey belonging to one of the players on the team called the Cubs, and a hat proclaiming his allegiance to the team called the Sox. Joe had also foisted on him a giant foam finger that was supposed to encourage Methos to feel the energy.
Methos was doing his best to hide it the same way he would a sword — and with much less success.
"There's no rivalry like the hometown rivalry," Joe explained. "I was born on the Northside, you know. Didn't move to the Southside until junior high. It was my first experience with culture shock." He shook his head and twisted his hands on the handle of the cane. He also wore a jersey, though his had the faded and thread-worn look that hinted at many attended games.
"It does have a tendency to happen in ways you don't expect," Methos commented, trying to commiserate. He didn't really understand how moving from one side of a city to another could be that significant, but then he also didn't remember being eleven.
"Suppose you'd know all about that. Here—" Joe gestured at one of the knots of people, then maneuvered until he established that it was a line and they were standing in it. "Better get our food now before the first pitch."
Only a few sports events stood out in his memory as worth mentioning. Methos shoved a hand in the pocket of his jeans and hunched his shoulders, in lieu of having a convenient ledge or wall to lean against. "I rooted for a team once. The Blues, it was called. In translation."
Joe grunted, which Methos took as encouragement to continue.
"You think it's all just some friendly bets and a few rounds of drinks. The next thing you know, the city is burning and you're being hauled off for public execution." It was the execution that put Methos off from rooting for teams, he decided. The slow, tortuous death really threw a dampener on the experience.
Joe grunted again, and Methos recognized that he wasn't listening to him at all. For perhaps the first time since Joe became aware of who Methos was, Joe wasn't taking the bait of the historical hook.
Instead, crinkles deepened and smoothed at the corners of Joe's eyes as he blinked back mistiness. "My dad used to take me to the games as often as he could when I was a kid. Sometimes Cubs games, sometimes White Sox. He said it didn't matter the color of the uniform as long as the batter could connect. Good life advice, if you think about it."
Methos sighed and shifted the foam finger. He'd come here only because Joe had asked him, but baseball had never appealed to him. He could, in fact, count the number of live games he'd attended on one hand. Two if he borrowed another piece of foam.
Joe continued to share snippets of memories of games past as the line inched forward, and Methos studied the menu board. It had the same items on it that every sporting event in America advertised.
"Two dogs," Joe announced. "Footlong."
"How you want 'em?" the cashier inquired, as he pushed the relevant buttons on his screen.
"Drag 'em through the garden."
"Sorry, what?" Methos asked, his attention being yanked back. He had to have heard Joe wrong.
The corner of Joe's mouth quirked and his chin tipped up. "Drag 'em through the garden," he repeated, eyes cutting toward Methos.
Methos frowned, churning through his memory for the meaning. Was this a phrase Joe had used before? A slang expression that Methos hadn't needed to pay attention to until now? Some kind of advertising slogan, maybe? It couldn't be literal. Any garden that had ever been on this land had been buried under concrete long ago.
The cashier shouted the order over his shoulder to a stout, severe looking woman at a prep counter behind him. On one side stood the rack where the hot dogs kept warm on rollers. On the other stood a large glass case with soft pretzels rotating inside. The back wall held the other machines that provided the nachos, popcorn, and slushies that the menu advertised.
"Copy that, chief," she shouted back. She plopped a couple serving boats onto the counter and set to her task.
No one in the exchange seemed at all baffled at the request. There was no request for clarification or any checking if Joe wanted those dogs to be high mulch, low water, half-caff, or some other similar nonsense. In fact, Methos got the impression that Joe had somehow issued the correct answer to a secret challenge.
The cashier's gaze flicked toward Methos, then back to Joe. He seemed like he was trying to hold back a laugh. "Great jersey! Don't see a lot of classics like that anymore. You want anything else?"
Joe finished the order, paid, then reached out to accept the boats as the woman handed them over, along with two large plastic cups of beer, a bag of popcorn, and another compliment about his jersey.
"Chicago style hot dogs." Joe handed the boats over to Methos, who stared down at the tomatoes, peppers, pickle, mustard, and relish that smothered the hot dog itself.
He had few reservations about what constituted acceptable food, and a broad palate, cultivated through millennia of enduring local fads in taste, accessibility, and texture. But, while he had no objection to any of the individual items before him, somehow he'd never heard of anyone grand slamming them all into one bun.
Joe waved one of the cups under Methos's nose, and Methos glanced up, his attention duly gotten. "What?"
"Gonna need you to do the heavy lifting here, Mr. Cynical," Joe said. "I don't wanna end up wearing this beer before I have a chance to drink it. We still gotta find our seats."
Methos contemplated the logistics of carrying all the items, and the sudden realization that he was eager to try this hot dog concoction. In fact, with Joe as his native guide, he was eager to try the Crosstown Classic experience.
Most of it, anyway.
He handed the foam finger to the little girl standing in line behind him, balanced the concessions, and let his friend lead the way into the stadium.
senmut, as part of the Fic or Treat event.Characters: Methos & Joe
Word Count: 1218
Rating: G
Summary: Joe drags Methos to a baseball game and introduces him to an important local tradition.
Link to Ao3: Home Field Advantage
"I have taken in a ballgame a time or two, you know." Methos lobbed his protest, in full awareness of the response it would get.
"I'm sure you have, my friend. I'm sure you have. But—" Joe stopped walking and rested some weight on his cane while he gazed around at the rapidly-filling stadium seats in front of them. Nearly thirty-thousand people would be crammed in before the first pitch and the energy and excitement from each of them combined to transform the spectators. "—you have never been to this ballgame. Crosstown Classic." He breathed out a long breath born of both decades of nostalgia and nascent anticipation before turning and cutting a path back against the swell of the crowd.
Knots of arriving fans converged into lines at the various food stands and stalls in clothing in blues and reds that marked which person rooted for which team.
Methos sighed.
Somehow, Joe had talked Methos into using the "extra" ticket, and then into donning items from each team: a jersey belonging to one of the players on the team called the Cubs, and a hat proclaiming his allegiance to the team called the Sox. Joe had also foisted on him a giant foam finger that was supposed to encourage Methos to feel the energy.
Methos was doing his best to hide it the same way he would a sword — and with much less success.
"There's no rivalry like the hometown rivalry," Joe explained. "I was born on the Northside, you know. Didn't move to the Southside until junior high. It was my first experience with culture shock." He shook his head and twisted his hands on the handle of the cane. He also wore a jersey, though his had the faded and thread-worn look that hinted at many attended games.
"It does have a tendency to happen in ways you don't expect," Methos commented, trying to commiserate. He didn't really understand how moving from one side of a city to another could be that significant, but then he also didn't remember being eleven.
"Suppose you'd know all about that. Here—" Joe gestured at one of the knots of people, then maneuvered until he established that it was a line and they were standing in it. "Better get our food now before the first pitch."
Only a few sports events stood out in his memory as worth mentioning. Methos shoved a hand in the pocket of his jeans and hunched his shoulders, in lieu of having a convenient ledge or wall to lean against. "I rooted for a team once. The Blues, it was called. In translation."
Joe grunted, which Methos took as encouragement to continue.
"You think it's all just some friendly bets and a few rounds of drinks. The next thing you know, the city is burning and you're being hauled off for public execution." It was the execution that put Methos off from rooting for teams, he decided. The slow, tortuous death really threw a dampener on the experience.
Joe grunted again, and Methos recognized that he wasn't listening to him at all. For perhaps the first time since Joe became aware of who Methos was, Joe wasn't taking the bait of the historical hook.
Instead, crinkles deepened and smoothed at the corners of Joe's eyes as he blinked back mistiness. "My dad used to take me to the games as often as he could when I was a kid. Sometimes Cubs games, sometimes White Sox. He said it didn't matter the color of the uniform as long as the batter could connect. Good life advice, if you think about it."
Methos sighed and shifted the foam finger. He'd come here only because Joe had asked him, but baseball had never appealed to him. He could, in fact, count the number of live games he'd attended on one hand. Two if he borrowed another piece of foam.
Joe continued to share snippets of memories of games past as the line inched forward, and Methos studied the menu board. It had the same items on it that every sporting event in America advertised.
"Two dogs," Joe announced. "Footlong."
"How you want 'em?" the cashier inquired, as he pushed the relevant buttons on his screen.
"Drag 'em through the garden."
"Sorry, what?" Methos asked, his attention being yanked back. He had to have heard Joe wrong.
The corner of Joe's mouth quirked and his chin tipped up. "Drag 'em through the garden," he repeated, eyes cutting toward Methos.
Methos frowned, churning through his memory for the meaning. Was this a phrase Joe had used before? A slang expression that Methos hadn't needed to pay attention to until now? Some kind of advertising slogan, maybe? It couldn't be literal. Any garden that had ever been on this land had been buried under concrete long ago.
The cashier shouted the order over his shoulder to a stout, severe looking woman at a prep counter behind him. On one side stood the rack where the hot dogs kept warm on rollers. On the other stood a large glass case with soft pretzels rotating inside. The back wall held the other machines that provided the nachos, popcorn, and slushies that the menu advertised.
"Copy that, chief," she shouted back. She plopped a couple serving boats onto the counter and set to her task.
No one in the exchange seemed at all baffled at the request. There was no request for clarification or any checking if Joe wanted those dogs to be high mulch, low water, half-caff, or some other similar nonsense. In fact, Methos got the impression that Joe had somehow issued the correct answer to a secret challenge.
The cashier's gaze flicked toward Methos, then back to Joe. He seemed like he was trying to hold back a laugh. "Great jersey! Don't see a lot of classics like that anymore. You want anything else?"
Joe finished the order, paid, then reached out to accept the boats as the woman handed them over, along with two large plastic cups of beer, a bag of popcorn, and another compliment about his jersey.
"Chicago style hot dogs." Joe handed the boats over to Methos, who stared down at the tomatoes, peppers, pickle, mustard, and relish that smothered the hot dog itself.
He had few reservations about what constituted acceptable food, and a broad palate, cultivated through millennia of enduring local fads in taste, accessibility, and texture. But, while he had no objection to any of the individual items before him, somehow he'd never heard of anyone grand slamming them all into one bun.
Joe waved one of the cups under Methos's nose, and Methos glanced up, his attention duly gotten. "What?"
"Gonna need you to do the heavy lifting here, Mr. Cynical," Joe said. "I don't wanna end up wearing this beer before I have a chance to drink it. We still gotta find our seats."
Methos contemplated the logistics of carrying all the items, and the sudden realization that he was eager to try this hot dog concoction. In fact, with Joe as his native guide, he was eager to try the Crosstown Classic experience.
Most of it, anyway.
He handed the foam finger to the little girl standing in line behind him, balanced the concessions, and let his friend lead the way into the stadium.
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Date: 2023-10-31 08:22 pm (UTC)