Page 146 of Renegade Ruin

“I know,” he growls with a hint of defeat.

A commotion at the other end of the dugout grabs our attention, and Graham bursts from his spot on the top step, charging at the plate like Brent is a bullfighter holding a red cape.

Shit. The hits just keep on coming.

Carson and I jump up and hit the railing of the dugout for a better view.

“Are you going to keep fucking us?” Graham yells, the vein above his eye bulging in a way I’ve never seen before.

He’s usually the calm and collected voice of reason, but it appears even he has a breaking point.

Brent rolls his eyes and gets set for the next play. “Get back in the dugout, Graham.”

“No.” Graham steps up, his chest brushing the umps chest pads. “That pitch was outside.”

“It was on the plate,” Brent growls.

“The fuck it was. It was outside.”

“I made a fair call.”

“Bullshit. Do you need your prescription checked? It was outside and you keep fucking us.”

“Get back in the dugout, Graham,” Brent warns.

Graham steps to the side and draws a line exactly where the pitch crossed on the far side of the batter's box. “Does that look over the plate to you?”

Oh fuck. I’ve seen a lot of things in my tenure in the major leagues, but I’ve never seen a manager draw a diagram for an umpire like he’s a damn toddler.

“That’s it.” Brent throws his hand up and cocks his elbow, yelling. “You’re out of here!”

Graham’s eyes widen as he turns back to Brent. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

I’m not sure what Graham expected to happen after making Brent look like a fool in front of thousands of people, but I applaud him for doing it. Even if it’s only going to make our lives a living hell for the next three innings.

There’s a satisfied glint in the umpire’s gaze as he nods. “You’re out. Get off my field.”

“Fuck!” Graham yells, and the crowd boos in response. Though it’s hard to tell if they’re booing because they agree or disagree, either way it’s not a good look for the Renegades.

Graham tugs his hat from his head and storms off the field, disappearing into the clubhouse without a word to the team.

The guys are looking around at the other managers and bench coaches, but all of them are shaking their heads and don’t have anything to offer.

I nudge Carson and tilt my head, but he shrugs me off, still lost in his head.

Alright, guess it’s just me.

Clapping my hands, I call the attention of the team. “Alright guys, we’re on our own now. Let’s keep our heads in the game. I know we’re up against bullshit calls, but we’re still leading the scoreboard. We’re better than them. Let’s prove it.”

The team nods, but the dejected murmurings reverberate loudly in the dugout. The damage has been done.

After that display, the rest of the inning goes as expected—three at bat, three strikeouts, all questionable pitch calls.

I grab my gear and head out to get set behind the plate, stretching out my muscles as I do. Carson and I toss a few warm-up pitches. He hits the glove every time, but his head isn’t in the game. Usually, he’s got a running monologue after every pitch that is both entertaining and annoying as shit for batters. At the moment, he’s nothing more than a brick wall—looming and silent.

There’s no way we’re going to squeak out our first spring training win if he doesn’t get his head in the game.

I slide behind the plate and get set for the first batter to take the box.

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