Players hanging out in poorly lit corner of the clubhouse, smoking, talking, whispering. You can't make out much and what you do you don't understand. Which one? Which one works? Black Betty? Hawaii five-oh? Best Man? Empty cans of shaving cream hit the floor and roll around and are causally snatched up. You try to make as though you didn't turn around. You twist your neck, hey man just, stretching it out you know. Ah god, my neck is tight.

Doesn't work.  

One of them steps out.

You see something you want to talk about, bud?

No. Nothing. You turn away. You go back to your footsoak and that overcooked steak and Sergio on 18.

Then a game. Jax throws a two-hitter. Fourteen strikeouts. No walks. Jax can't pitch like this, he's never pitched like this. Jax walks off grinning, shaking his head. Nothing is really said beyond the usual congratulations, the whistles, the goddamns, but then a look from one to another, a nod. The curl of a smile. You go to shake Jax's pitching hand but he won't give it. He gives you the glove hand instead. Drinks are on me, he says.

Three nights later more are in the corner. The whispers are Gregorian. The smell something sweet and musky. You get bold. You walk directly to the corner.

No, they tell you. Go back to your cards. Go back to the porno on the house TV. Stay out of the corner Rick. Ain't no chairs left at this table.

You do. You sit. You burn with envy. You desperately hold onto every darting wisp, every flick of the tongue, to the point you go almost numb, but still, you know nothing.

The meeting ends. The corner is empty. Gordon puts his hand on your shoulder.  

Soon he says, his face half in shadow. Soon, his teeth glinting like the flash of a knife.

Soon.  

Four days later Agio is frisked on the mound against the Jays. It's splashed on the front pages in blood. 10 games. That night nobody's in the corner but you still hear whispering. Agio goes AWOL, awash in shame he says. Two weeks later they find him in the East River with his hands cut off and SPF 25 rammed up his ass.

After that Gordon doesn't talk to you, doesn't look at you, and Bendino the clubhouse attendant puts a Budweiser neon in the corner. The pitching goes to shit and the team loses eight of nine.

But still, you saw nothing, heard nothing. Whispers maybe, but that's all, you say to Dan Patrick right after Don Zimmer hocked phlegm for answers during his 10 minute Q & A. You laugh to this day that anyone considers you an expert on this stuff. You're grateful you were never in the pocket. In the wedding party. In the corner. After the interview you pass a bald-headed man  in alligator boots with his left hand hidden in the pocket of his crow-black leather jacket. He looks over, lets his tongue creep out of his mouth like a snake and winks with his right eye.

You shudder, wink with your left and keep going, quickly, gulping the air when you hit the street, gulping as though you've been submerged, gulping as though you've only just escaped.