Close the Game

The tears of joy mixed with sweat. When the World Series had ended, the winning team walked on triumphant in their abilities.

“We did it. We just knew that we were the superior team. We almost swept them but ironically, we came back and secured the win,” Gustavo Tempe reckoned.

Chanpagne rained in the locker room. The addition of ski goggles remained a fine and fitting touch as the bubbly becerage often stung the eyes. The team jumped around cameramen and sprayed sports reporters.

It became apparent that the melange of emotions had prompted this celebratory atmosphere. Suds soaked the floor of the lockerroom. A chant rose up from the players.

“Finally! Finally! Finally!” Then came the manager who quietted the baseball players. Silence engulfed the room like the smell of cigar smoke. Manager Bimmy McCaroll peered around the room.

“Look at you! Men…celebrating a chanpionship for the first time in this franchise’s history…what do you do from here?”

The cameras continued to roll at McCarroll’s intense face.

“What else is there left to do, coach?” Quindo Alazar asked, his chest still rising and falling in his uniform.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do…we’re going to go back to back!” The room exploded. “Then, we’re going to three peat and then do a three peat repeat! At last we’re going to make it seven heaven!”

The players in the locker room then bathed the manager in champagne. Drenched as he had become, McCarroll danced around. He then shushed his players once more.

“Hey, Simon, play anthemic rock song playlist!”

“Yeah!” They carried him like a golden calf. The players hoisted the fifty-two-year-old man on their shoulders. They marched out of the room like they were about to invade China. To feel their energy, it remained a reward altogether.