“Hey guys, have you seen Joe?”
Michael Cuddyer, Justin Morneau, and Joe Mauer all looked up from their brown-bag lunches at Kevin Slowey, who was standing before them, looking rather perplexed.
“He’s right here,” Cuddy said slowly, giving Kevin a strange look.
Joe Mauer raised an eyebrow as well—
surely Kevin could detect his studliness from such close range.
“No, the
other Joe.”
“Oh,” Justin said, “Yeah I saw him and Matt Guerrier leaving to get lunch…yesterday.”
A series of rather un-easy and confused looks were thrown ‘round the quartet.
“Where the heck did they
go?” Joe wondered aloud.
“Beats me,” Kevin said with a sigh.
Meanwhile, somewhere between Texas and Mexico…“Joe, I
really don’t think this is the best idea…” Matt Guerrier muttered as they sped down a long stretch of empty highway.
Joe Nathan looked at Matt and raised an eyebrow. “Why not? He needs to get to Spring Training!”
Matt winced. “Well, obviously, but he’s got to do it
legally!”
Joe scoffed. “Says who?”
“The
law.”
As far as Joe Nathan was concerned, he
was the law. He was Joe Nathan, Closer Extraordinaire. Really, he thought, he should have business cards that said that.
“People sneak across the border all the time,” he reasoned as he turned the wheel slightly, the large pick-up truck he’d commandeered hugging the road.
“That doesn’t make it a good idea,” Matt told him. “He needs his visa, and a passport.”
Joe grinned. “I’ve got you covered.”
The twitchiest of pitchers tossed a manila envelope into his companion's lap from the confines of his warm up jacket.
Matt picked it up hesitantly, giving Joe a worried look before opening it and letting it’s contents slide out into his hand.
“Passport,” Joe stated with a grin, obviously pleased with himself. “Dennys is
covered.”
Matt raised an eyebrow then flipped the passport over. “Joe,” he blanched, “this is a
Canadian passport!” He opened it. “This is
Justin’s Canadian passport!”
“I know—it’s foolproof.
Nobody hates Canada, they’re neutral!”
“I’m pretty sure that’s Switzerland.”
Joe shrugged his massive shoulders. “Same difference, nobody cares about them either.”
Matt blinked, and then shook his head fiercely. “Joe. You
cannot sneak Dennys into the US with Justin’s passport. Dennys is most definitely not a—” he opened Justin’s passport and read the first page, “—six-foot-four, 225 pound, white male.”
Joe waved a hand. “They don’t check that stuff anyways.”
Matt resisted the urge to slap himself. “
Yes. Yes they do. It’s the border patrol. It's their
job.”
“Here,” Joe said, pulling something else out of his windbreaker. “Put that on over Justin’s picture.”
Joe had handed Matt a thumb-sized sticker—Dennys Reyes’ team photo.
“It’ll work—
trust me,” Joe said firmly at Matt’s worried and confused look.
Matt stared at his closing pitcher. The man, despite his twitchiness and scary stare, was amazing, but also, he was apparently nuts. Matt wondered if maybe the pressure of signing and all was getting to him. He had been twitchier of late.
Matt sighed, and then removed the paper backing and placed the photo-sticker of Dennys Reyes on top of Justin Morneau’s photo.
“Good boy,” Joe said.
The pair drove in silence until the border of Mexico came into view.
“Joe?” Matt asked.
“Yeah?”
“Why’d you have to bring me?”
Joe blinked and looked at him as he slowed the car to a halt. “Who else’d I bring?”
“Pat?” Matt listed.
Joe shook his head. “No way,” he said, “Pat’s music gives me the creeps.” He shuddered in the drivers seat.
Matt couldn’t help but to agree.
Still, he really didn’t think this was the best of plans, and he was starting to feel as twitchy as Joe in the 9th inning after walking the first two batters. Hopefully, the two of them would be able to pull of a miraculous save.
…Or retrieval of Dennys Reyes.
