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THE CAMPUS NEWSLETTER
Gravitational Collapse: Our Baseball Stars May Be Drifting Apart
By Purpled
January 19th, 2022
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Last year, the Ocelots managed to bring home the unprecedented title of State Champions . Running on countless hours of practice and under the guidance of Awesamdude, team captain and center fielder extraordinaire, El Rapids’ beloved baseball team stunned as they stormed through the collegiate league lineup, establishing themselves as a powerhouse to look out for and snatching the win.
With the team’s morale at an all-time high, sports enthusiasts and predictionists wasted no time to write them in as strong contenders for Nationals. It’s well known that the Ocelots count on a strong team foundation, the group of regulars tight-knit and made up of mostly seniors and juniors, with the occasional sophomore. And, unlike a lot of other college league teams, the ERU’s team doesn’t change its roster often. The first-string team is reliable and sturdy enough to take the pressure. It has never been a problem before and even before winning State, the Ocelots had shown a perfectly good track record. But this also means the current team formation is the only roster they have had for the past couple years. ERU alumni may remember differently, but it’s hard to find a current student who has witnessed anything but the Ocelot’s usual combination of players.
For those reasons, it comes as even more of a shock to learn that the lineup of regulars has been changed permanently. As of last week, an official note has been sent to the University’s division of Athletics and Recreation to notify the board of Wilbur Soot’s withdrawal from the team. Following a knee injury sustained directly after the big win at State, the general expectation had been of merely three or four weeks of well-deserved rest. Instead, it seems the Ocelot’s Catcher has decided to remove himself from the field indelibly. With an entire school year still ahead of him, Soot leaves behind an empty spot at the ERU’s home plate and a whole lot of questions.
Just a few months prior, Soot had received great praise for his decision-making skills and his ability to coordinate some of the team’s most intricate plays, organizing in-field and out-field alike. Most outstandingly, he is known as one half of a perfect battery — as commentators call it, — alongside the team’s main Pitcher, Quackity. The remarkable duo has earned more than a few mentions on official, big-name sports publications, all of which commend their synergy and unmatched linkage.
All of it only makes Wilbur Soot’s choice to depart from the team he has devoted the last three years of his life to harder to understand. Whether it’s due to internal conflict, personal issues or something else entirely, the sudden absence of such an integral pillar to the team’s structure will surely leave an impression. Not much is known about the second-string players of the baseball team, and names have yet to come forward as possible Catcher understudies.
No team members or staff would concede personal statements, which leaves the rest of us with only speculation. Can the Ocelots get back on their feet in time for the upcoming spring tournaments? At this time, and with no further information, it is unclear.
—
“So?” George’s voice comes a little strangled from Quackity’s phone, on speaker. “Who do you think snitched?”
Quackity grunts, fingers sliding quickly on his keyboard. There’s a couple leftover break projects to get done, and the last few weeks haven’t been the most productive. Quackity can only hope his anger-fueled essays are coherent enough to get passing grades. “No idea.” he shakes his head, “The newsletter people have eyes everywhere. Like fucking biblical angels, but evil,”
“Well,” George starts, surely about to delve into his opinions on the matter of all things biblical, before Quackity promptly cuts him off: “Shut up. I can’t believe they mentioned we wouldn’t give statements. What the fuck? It’s none of their business,”
George hums something vague and Quackity turns back to his work, the resigned silence stretching until a thought occurs to him. It’s fleeting and unreasonable but the building frustration seems to disable his brain-to-mouth filter. He says: “How do we know Wilbur himself didn’t contact them?”, to which George huffs: “What? Do you seriously think he would?”
Quackity shrugs, even though George can’t see it. No, he doesn’t think Wilbur would, but one improbable theory is better than none at all. “Well— I don’t know. I didn’t think he’d fucking quit without telling anyone , that’s for sure,”
George goes silent for a bit and Quackity glances down to check if the call is still going.
“I mean—” he starts after a while but his voice gets swallowed by static.
“What? You cut off,”
There’s a pause, then Quackity hears shuffling from the other end like George is moving around. “Yeah, I forgot the signal here goes to shit if I’m too far from the windows. I said, if there’s anyone who can figure out what actually happened, it’s you.”
Quackity’s hand freezes on the trackpad. He pursues his lips with a sigh. “Cut it out,” he huffs, “I told you. He doesn’t wanna talk to me,”
“Did you call?”
“Yes!” Quackity throws his hands in the air. “Of fucking course! I called him and texted him, like, a billion times. He won’t pick up or reply.”
George makes a noise that sounds like a scoff. “Go to his dorm, then, I don’t know,”
“I can’t,” Quackity urges. George doesn’t seem to understand that contacting Wilbur is practically impossible at the moment. Quackity has already started to reason with himself that if Wilbur wanted to tell him anything, he would have. He’s (mostly) done chasing after him. “He went away for the break. Visiting his dad,”
“Oh,”
“Yeah,” Quackity breathes, sharing the sentiment.
There’s another pause, then George clicks his tongue loudly: “Well, screw all of this, then,”
“Huh?”
“Screw this, fuck Wilbur. Just chill out,” he says very quickly while Quackity frowns. “We have other Catchers on the bench, and we don’t even need him. I’ll be playmaker, I don’t care. He’s like— the fucking, the Judas, in all of this.,”
Quackity sputters, startled. “Are— are you implying I’m Jesus?”
“Of course not. That’s heresy,” George counters, like it’s obvious. “I’m just saying, relax. First practice’s in two days. And if you’re this worked up, it’s gonna be bad for morale. Chill. Out.”
Quackity shakes his head, widening his eyes to order his thoughts. “Fine,” he concedes, “Fine. You’re right,”
“Yeah, I am,” George rallies then adopts a silly high pitched tone for the next sentence. “And finish your essays. Can’t be on the team if your grades drop,”
Quackity blinks, making a face at his phone screen. “Okay. Now, why’d you say that? Now I don’t wanna fucking do it anymore,”
“Fine!” George muses, “Don’t, then. Just quit! Then you and Wilbur can match,”
There’s a silence, and it stretches filled only by the slightly crackling of the call. Quackity smacks his own forehead with a closed fist.
George snorts, “Too soon? Sorry, I—”
Quackity rolls his eyes, and hangs up.
—
the eru whisper @ERUconfessions_ 4m
“so wilbur from the baseball team is having a life crisis or something but the real question is: is he single?”
dumpster fire @sonic072503 29s
reply to @ERUconfessions_
tell me youre a freshman without telling me youre a freshman
—
Tubbo is really not trying to be subtle as he analyzes Quackity’s demeanor from the other side of their table at the University diner. It’s been a while since he last blinked, his freakishly bright hazel eyes intent on staring his teammate down and Quackity tries his best to shrug it off, taking a sip from his vanilla milkshake.
It’s a little past eight and they’re elbow deep in cheesy fries, dismissed unusually early from practice. After a couple days of pairing up out on the field, Quackity thought it’d be nice to treat his junior to a meal and get to know him better. So here they are. He’d known of Tubbo before, of course, but nothing past the occasional practice drill and major team bonding events. There wasn’t really much reason for him to practice with other catchers when he was already so well adjusted to his own.
And then Wilbur quit. Suddenly. With no prior warning. So now he’s learning to read Tubbo’s signals and tweaking his fastballs according to his mitt’s height so they don’t bounce. Tubbo is only a second-year, and he’s not yet used to catching Quackity’s screwballs so he throws less of those and sets a slower pace in practice, so as to not overwhelm the other. It’s all fine, really. Quackity doesn’t expect perfection from the get-go, and it’s just a matter of them getting used to each other. What still gets to him is the abruptness of it all. The severing of something precious. The utter lack of explanation.
Like clockwork, Tubbo tuts: “I’m sorry about your battery, by the way. I don’t think I’ve told you that,”
Quackity raises his eyes on a whim, a little startled. “Uh, yeah,”
“I understand it’s like, super tough. You two were amazing together,” he continues, wiping his greasy fingers on a napkin, “I’ll do my best to keep up, though,”
“Don’t worry about it,” Quackity half-laughs, “You’re good. It’s fine, I’m fine. I’m over it,”
Tubbo raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?” And that pulls a real laugh from the Pitcher. “Don’t believe me?” he muses, amused at his disbelief.
“Dude. You look, like, like you’re freshly widowed. No offense,”
Quackity’s smile drops instantly, the corner of his mouth pulling sharply instead. “Oh,”
“No offense!” Tubbo repeats himself, wide-eyed.
“Good— good to know, thank you,” Quackity nods, good naturedly. Part of him wants to cackle. He does feel widowed, in a sense. “Guess I need to learn to hide it better,”
Tubbo tries to hide a chuckle and fails, as soon as he senses the mood lightening up again. “I mean— no need to hide it, really. No one expects you to feel great about losing a partner. Specially a good one,”
“Yeah, but it’s not fair to you,” Quackity quips with a sigh, “Don’t wanna shit on your mood, y’know. So I’m gonna keep being a widow — at least for a little while, but quietly. If that’s okay with you,”
Tubbo snorts, eyes crinkling with laughter. “That’s fine with me, yes,”
“Great,” Quackity shakes his head, taking another sip from his drink. “So, how about you? Any life changing events these past few weeks?”
The Catcher taps his chin, pretending to think. “Well, no, not really,” he tilts his head, “Actually, knowing I’d be moving up to first-string on such short notice was really scary,”
Quackity presses his lips together, nodding in acknowledgement. “You’re pulling your weight, kid. You’re doing great,”
“I hope so,” Tubbo raises his eyebrows, half pouting, “Qualifiers are coming up,”
“Yeah,” Quackity trails off, envisioning their home field and imagining the texture of the mound under his feet. Trying not to take note of the fact this will be his very first season playing without the other half of his battery. It’s rightfully terrifying.
Tubbo bangs the end of his fork on the table for a second, willing away the awkwardness and the sound snaps Quackity out of it. “Do you— uhm, do you bat?”
“I mean, I can,” Tubbo reasons, cheeks turning a little pínk, “I don’t think coach is having me fill in for Wilbur anytime soon, if that’s what you’re asking,”
“Lousy hitter?” Quackity asks, solemnly, to which Tubbo nods. “Me too. Lucky I’m still in the lineup at all,”
Tubbo huffs, half smiling. “That’s not true,” he joins his eyebrows together, “I’ve seen you hit triples,”
“Ha!” Quackity’s turn to huff, “Coach calls me inconsistent. She says I only hit good when I feel really good, so. Unfortunately for her, I think it’s doomed. This season, I mean,”
“Say that to her face and she’ll really get you off the lineup,”
Quackity shrugs, in a way that he hopes is dramatic enough to make it clear he’s only joking. He’s not that disheartened, not really. Despite the less than optimal situation and whatever sensationalist bullshit the campus newsletter spews, he trusts his teammates. Despite the heavy frustration that seems to grow inside his lungs, he’s not a quitter.
Tubbo slurps the last of his diet soda loudly, then turns to face Quackity with a suspiciously sheepish look on his face. “Can I ask you something?”
Quackity hums, pondering. “I guess,”
“Like, don’t answer if you really don’t want to, but I’m kind of out of the loop with upperclassmen.”
With that, Quackity feels his eye twitch. He’s almost positive he knows where this is going.
“Is it true Wilbur hasn’t talked to anyone since he left? Like anyone at all?”
Oh, he thinks. That’s a question he can answer.
“Yeah. He just—” Quackity clicks his tongue to illustrate what he means, “Vanished. Hasn’t said a word to me, or to anyone. Not that I know of,”
“Shit,” Tubbo whistles, and Quackity nods, downing the rest of his milkshake in one go. He suppresses the shiver when the frost inevitably hurts his teeth.
Later, on the way back from Tubbo’s house after dropping him off, Quackity can’t help but notice the lights are on when he drives by Wilbur’s dorm building. He isn’t sure it’s his room. He isn’t even sure it’s his specific floor, with how short lived the glance is. Still, he checks his phone at the next red light. There are no new texts.
—
OFFICIAL BATTING ORDER
El Rapids University Baseball
El Rapids Ocelots
DATE: 11/14/2021 COACH: T. M.
Player / Position (1ST) (#)
- Bad - RF (9)
- Boomer - SS (13)
- Wilbur - C (8)
- Sam - CF (4)
- George - 1B (10)