THE WEST WING:
METS VERSUS YANKEES

by RJB

DISCLAIMER: The West Wing belongs to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, and/or NBC. It certainly does not belong to me. This is non-profit fan fiction; no money is involved and no infringement is intended.

TIMELINE: This story takes place early in Bartlet's second term, during Season Four of the show.

--

The pitcher glared out from under his New York Yankees baseball cap with steely eyes, lips compressed into a thin line over his beard. He was trying not to look overconfident; he'd set this guy up perfectly with a couple of pitches low and away. Now to close the deal with high, hard stuff.

If only the batter would shut up long enough for him to throw the damn ball.

"Ziegler, hesitating on the mound, maybe rethinking his pitch selection. He must know he's in a world of hurt today. Lyman's three for his last five at the plate, including a deep... really, an epic shot to left field. A drive worthy of being immortalized in poetry and song--"

"Hey, Mel Allen!" Toby Ziegler called, stepping off the rubber, "you might want to reconsider sounding cocky in a one-run game, with your opponent about to hurl a solid orb at your head!"

"Ooh, scary," said Josh Lyman, stepping out of the batter's box. "Threatening me with a little chin music?"

"I'm threatening you with chin music, with strangulation, with international sanctions-- whatever it's gonna take to get you to shut up and play ball!"

Ignoring him, Josh reclaimed his position, knocked dirt off his cleats, and adjusted his own New York Mets cap. "The stadium, predictably, exploded when Lyman broke into his home-run trot in the fifth inning. The crowd at Shea Stadium adores this guy..."

"Speaking as the crowd," said Charlie Young, who squatted behind home plate with a catcher's mask obscuring his face, "maybe not so much anymore."

Josh Lyman turned and winked at the younger man, but didn't miss a beat. "The reigning MVP is just one hit from pulling away in this contest. With runners on second and third--"

That was too much for Toby, who charged off the mound, slamming the ball into his glove. "Second and third? What are you talking about? You've got runners on first and second!"

Josh stepped out of the batter's box. "Oh, come on! That last one was a clean drive to the gap! My guys would have gone to second and third!"

"I guess that depends whether we're dealing with any application of real-world physics, or with your crazy fantasy world in which you're apparently the second coming of Joe DiMaggio!"

"Hey, I'm willing to marry a starlet, but I draw the line at pitching for Mr. Coffee." Josh turned back to the catcher. "Charlie? What d'you think?"

"I think you making a commercial of any kind is a bad idea. I was there the last time you filled in at a press briefing."

"About the baserunners!" snapped Toby, who turned his most baleful glare on Charlie-- and nobody could look more baleful than Toby Ziegler. Toby had invented 'baleful,' as well as making huge strides in the area of glowering and perfecting three completely new kinds of scowls.

Charlie looked from one of his friends to the other. "To be perfectly honest with you guys, I don't see any baserunners..."

Which was true, of course. Josh went way back with the athletic director of a local college, and sometimes when the field wasn't being used, he could squeeze his friends from the West Wing in for a quick workout. Or a lengthy re-imagining of the Subway Series, whichever time permitted.

"See, you have to envision--" Toby began.

"--the ball soaring into the gap!" finished Josh.

"It wasn't in the gap! My center fielder cut that off!"

"Your center fielder is a cocker spaniel who wandered onto the field two innings ago! I don't think he's got great lateral range!"

Taking in the dusty basepaths and now-empty outfield, Charlie sighed heavily. "When do I come to bat, again?"

"Get promoted to Senior Counselor and we'll talk," said Toby.

"I don't think you want to take that tone. I can make your life plenty hard and the President will let me do it because he likes me better than you."

"That's true, he does," said Josh. "Maybe we should let him pitch."

"We'd never get another hit. Look, I'm pitching! You can have your baserunners, just get back in the box! But you're goin' down, Bucko. You're goin' down, and I want you to know that in advance. And while you're pondering your defeat, Sparky--"

"See, you can't call me Bucko and Sparky in the same insult. It makes you sound like a thirties gangster movie. And also, it's one nickname to a customer."

"There's a one-nickname rule?" Charlie crouched behind the plate as he spoke. "I hope this means my uncle will finally have to decide between 'champ,' 'chief,' and 'sport.'"

"Which do you like?" Josh asked.

"I like Charlie. So did my mother. He disagrees."

"'Least he doesn't call you 'Chuckster.'"

"He's been known to."

"You should kick his ass."

"I should kick somebody's..."

"Come on!" snarled Toby, and the players resumed their positions. "This is a 3-2 pitch. Full count."

Josh blinked. "You sure?"

"What, you're gonna try to tell me it's 3-1 now?"

"I thought it was 2-2."

"It's a full count," said Charlie. "You're forgetting the one he flung over the backstop."

"I remembered, actually. I just wanted somebody to bring that up again."

"You're going down," Toby repeated.

Josh fixed him with a flinty glare, but Toby's steely eyes were sadly unaffected. "We should have something, you know, riding on this..."

"Besides your honor and the honor of all Met fans? Bragging rights to the greatest city in the world? That's not enough for you?"

"Ten bucks," said Josh.

"You're on!" said Toby. "Though I feel bad about taking money you could use to buy yourself a cap from a real baseball team."

"Like the Yankees? Thanks, but I'm gonna hold onto my soul a while longer."

Charlie snorted. "You're a professional politician. Don't you have to check those at the door?"

The Deputy Chief of Staff mock-glared at his friend. "Whatever happened to quirky catchers who dispensed worldly-wise advice? Guys like Yogi Berra?"

"Yogi Berra got to bat once in a while."

"You know what else Yogi Berra was?" Toby called from the mound. "A Yankee! A member of the greatest professional sports organization on the face of the planet! That's right!"

Josh turned on him. "Why are you a Yankee fan anyway? You're from Brooklyn! It's... unnatural!"

"Let me tell you something, my friend. I come from a long line of Yankee fans, You know what my grandfather would do to a member of his family who showed up with a Mets cap? He'd beat you across the head with your own baseball bat! Even when he was 93 and didn't remember his name, he knew he loved the Yankees!"

"Yeah, but... the Yankees!" Josh sighed. "They're everything that's wrong with the Universe! They've got too much money, they slant the playing field against everybody else and make it so the working poor can't afford to go to a game! The Yankees are the Republicans of baseball! You're a lifelong Democrat!"

"I come from a line of Yankee fans!" Toby protested.

"And Democrats! You should act like one and, you know, make your peace with losing!"

"You're talking to me about losing? I once ran a guy for Congress, the youngest of eight children. He had seven brothers and he got six votes! Apparently his extended family didn't like his health-care plan, which was a shame, by the way, 'cause it was visionary!"

Josh stepped out of the box again. "Does that story have a point, or is it just kind of you-- standing on a mound-- saying things?"

"My point is, you've got nothing to teach me about losing. I've lost elections, wives, friends, pets, my vestigial sense of humor, and on one memorable occasion I lost the keys to a 1981 Plymouth Reliant in an all-night poker game, but I'm from a line of Yankee fans and we don't lose at baseball! Especially not to whiny-ass Met fans from Connecticut!"

"Met fans aren't whiny! We coined the phrase 'You gotta believe!'"

"Good one. I'm thinking of coining the phrase 'Get back in the damn batter's box and prepare to lose ten bucks!'"

Behind home plate, Charlie was looking from Josh to Toby and shaking his head. "Guys, I'm supposed to be back at the Oval in like fifteen minutes..."

"You see that? You're delaying the whole United States government! Get in the box!"

Josh moved to oblige, but stopped short when the cell phone in his back pocket let loose a shrill blast of ringtone. Toby tossed up his hands and walked a circle around the mound, muttering to himself. Charlie glared at Josh, who smiled an apology and reached for the phone.

"Josh Lyman. Yeah, Donna, I can't really... No, move Shannon to 3:30. Better yet, cancel him! I hate dealing with... what? I dunno, it's about 90 degrees... yeah, could be 88... have I not given you enough work to do? Why do you have time to watch the Weather Channel?

"Oh, the Internet. That's a much better use of our tax dollars... what? Yes, I'm drinking fluids! No, I'm not lying! You should really think less about sunstroke and more about unemployment... what? I'm winning, of course. It's because of my mad skills and studly physique. Stop... hey, stop laughing!

"It's... okay, which do you want me to answer, the insults or the nagging? No, I'm not lying and yes, I'm drinking fluids! What? It's... listen, you should have seen this homer I hit, it was worthy of... hello? Donna? Hello?"

Josh snapped the cell phone closed and made a face, but it was gone by the time he faced his friends. "She's gonna... you know, get started on some poetry to commemorate my mighty blow."

Toby rolled his eyes. "How did you describe your physique? I can't remember the exact wording with which to mock you-- Charlie, did he describe it as 'sturdy' or 'mighty?'"

"Neither, but please don't make me say it out loud." Charlie pulled off his catcher's mask and wiped his brow. Then, to Josh, "You might want to keep the words 'mad' and 'skills' far apart in your vocabulary."

Josh knelt down and started digging in the gym bag he'd left several feet away from home plate. "That's good. No, really, that's high comedy. Only you're gonna be eating your words when I get another hack at Toby's fastball."

"You'd have to be in the batter's box first!" growled Toby. He looked like he wanted to add more; then he stopped and blinked several times. "What... hey, what are you doing?"

Josh took a long gulp from the bottle of sports drink he'd just opened, sighed happily, and looked up. "What?"

"Are you actually... you're drinking fluids."

"What? No, I'm just..."

"You see what he's doing? The man's drinking fluids."

"And selfishly hogging them," said Charlie. "Though I don't imagine that's what you're getting at."

"What? I was thirsty!"

"I'm just gonna stand back for a minute," said Toby, "and have a moment of silence for men everywhere in recognition of the fact that one of our own is incredibly whipped by his assistant."

Josh slapped the cap on his drink and dropped it, looking guilty. "I was thirsty! It's not because Donna... she just reminded me... Charlie, help me out here!"

"Can't talk now," said the younger man. "Moment of silence."

"I am not whipped! And even if I am, Toby's more whipped by his ex-wife!"

"Yes, but there's a valid reason for that," said Toby.

"And that would be...?"

"I'm a little afraid of her."

"Fair point."

"At least I got a few years of unhappy marriage and a set of twins out of the deal. You and Donna aren't...?"

Josh sighed. "Sadly, she can but admire my studly physique from afar."

"I don't think that's quite the way she'd put it," said Charlie.

"Probably not."

"And if you keep saying... you know, about your physique... I'll be forced to smack you around a little bit."

"That's the second time you've threatened me," said Josh. "Keep it up, I'll have the umpire throw you out of the game."

"I am the umpire."

"Yeah, that's a problem..."

Toby howled in frustration. "Get in the box, you obscenely arrogant, whipped-by-his-assistant, Mets-rooting Washington hack!"

"I'm really not whipped!" said Josh. But since he couldn't argue with the rest of it, he stepped into the box and hefted the bat over his shoulder.

Toby stared in, reared back, and-- with a middle-aged speechwriter's best impersonation of an old-school Satchel Paige windup-- thew a big, fat pitch on the outside corner of the plate. Josh's eyes lit up; he could see the stitches on the ball rotating as if it was making its approach in slow motion. All he had to do was keep his eye on it, reach out, and with a Mike Piazza-style flick of the wrists...

Swing right over the damn thing.

"Yes!" growled Toby, with an uncharacteristic fist-pump. He made a show of putting his hand to his ear. "What's that I hear? Oh, that's right, nothing. The crowd at Shea Stadium seems to have gone silent."

"That was a good pitch," said Josh, shaking his head. "You outwitted me with a wily change-up. I'll be ready for that next time."

"Bull. It was a terrible pitch. I served you a meatball. But you missed it and that, my friend, will be ten bucks."

"Yeah, whatever," said Josh. "I'm still winning. And the Yankees still suck."

"I may not be able to cure your delusions, but I've got two innings left to do something about the score." Toby dropped his glove on the mound and trotted in toward the plate...

But Charlie was looking at his watch. "I've got to call this game. I've got ten minutes left, and I still haven't done anything but squat behind the plate."

"One more at-bat," Josh said, jabbing a finger at Toby. "Double or nothing says you strike out."

"You're on!"

"So you're saying I'm not going to do anything?" Charlie mused, to no one in particular.

"Wait a minute," said Josh to Toby, "you agreed to that too fast."

"I've seen your fastball. I like my chances."

"You like them enough to make things more interesting?"

Toby laughed. "Sure, I've got to get two kids through college and our tax deduction keeps getting crowded out of the budget. I welcome as much as you want to contribute."

"Not money." Josh took off his Mets cap. "This."

Toby took it out of his hands and held it up in the sunlight. "Why sure, Josh, I'd love to wager ten bucks against your crappy, scummy hat. While we're at it, have you got any swampland you could sell me at inflated prices?"

"You have to wear the hat," said Josh. "Double or nothing, plus the loser wears the winner's team cap for a month."

"Do I have to take it to meetings, 'cause I think the Cabinet might..."

"Not at the White House. At, you know, informal functions."

"If I have a hot date, can I clean off the mustard stains?"

"Well, that's up to you. What's the matter, scared you'll have to give up your fascist Yankee cap to a non-believer?"

Toby scoffed. "I'm scared you might get lucky for once-- a very small chance, you understand-- and I'll actually have to wear this blue-and-orange monstrosity."

"C'mon, that's a classic retro design!"

"'Classic retro' is redundant. It's blue and orange!"

Josh grinned. "So you're basically admitting that in addition to your ex-wife, you're scared of my fastball, the Met organization, and wagering in general?"

"It's bright orange! Do I look like a guy who wears bright orange to you?"

Charlie scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I think you could make it work."

"Do we have a bet, or don't we?" asked Josh, glaring a challenge at Toby.

"We have a bet," Toby said. "You know, I think this is gonna be good for you. A stylish Yankee cap can do wonders for a man's image. You might even get some woman to do more than admire that... whatever... physique from afar."

Josh had another salvo ready, but his phone was ringing. He arched an eyebrow that said "Speaking of which..." and stepped away.

"Josh Lyman. Donna! Good, set up a meeting. When I get back we're gonna talk with the staff. Yes, all of them. People need to know who's in charge around here, and it's come to my attention certain people think it's-- what do you mean, no time? I told you to cancel Shannon!

"What could be urgent? The guy is a back-bench congressman whose last major endorsement was from the Flat Earth Society! What can he possibly have to-- National sales tax? Whose idea was it to put that on my-- yours?! Have you lost the few, lonely marbles still kickin' around up-- because it's not practical, that's why! The thing's a scam! It's a complete-- of course people like the theory! Nobody ever lost an election taking potshots at the IRS! That doesn't make it...

"No. No. No! Donna, stop quoting figures! It's not gonna happen! Because. Well, in this case 'because' is a valid reason. Because it is! Look, a national sales tax falls most heavily on the big consumers-- the middle class! It's your cheese-swilling relatives in Nowhere, Wisconsin who are gonna foot the bill for this-- it's not supposed to be fair and equal, we're Democrats!

"Damn right I use that line a lot, because you've never grasped this fundamental aspect of the way things work. Democrats want progressive taxes, Republicans want no taxes, and neither of us wants a national sales tax! It's the purview of populists and wing nuts, not necessarily in that-- no! No, I'm not taking the meeting! And don't-- you know-- set up the meeting and send me into it thinking I'm meeting with somebody else, because one of these days I'll stop falling for that.

"No, I don't want you to look into-- what you do with your lunch break is your own-- Donna, hang up! Hang up now or you're fired! Hello? Thank you!"

Josh closed the cell phone with a snap, took a deep breath, then threw back his head and released a frustrated howl to the sky. When he'd calmed himself and lowered his gaze, Toby and Charlie were staring at him.

"What?"

Toby offered a thin smile. "It's good, I think, how not whipped you are."

Charlie said, "That's the first time I ever heard half of one of those in isolation."

"One of those?"

"A Josh-and-Donna."

Josh blinked. "You have a name for what just happened? We're, like, a category?"

"Well, yeah. Listening to you two go back and forth helped me clarify my thinking on my last Poli Sci paper. But it's not so good without the interplay. Makes you sound a little crazed."

"I am a little crazed! She's shilling for a national sales tax!" Josh took a long breath. "What does your, you know, clarified thinking say about that?"

"I think you're too dismissive. I'd like to study it."

"When you get back to the West Wing, talk to Donna. She's sure to have a slide presentation laid out." He turned to Toby, who was holding the bat over his shoulder. "Are we gonna play?"

"I was waiting for you."

"I have five minutes," said Charlie.

"So let's go."

Josh ran out to the mound, put on Toby's glove, and took the throw from Charlie. Toby cocked the bat and stood ready. If you asked him, the Communications Director would claim he was copying Don Mattingly's stance; Josh thought he looked more like Donny Osmond. He wouldn't be hard to strike out; again, it came down to concentration...

"I know why you're a Mets fan," Toby said off-handedly.

"What? Huh?"

Toby shrugged. "Well, in my family, we're for the Yankees, but a guy from Connecticut, he can choose his team from the Yankees, the Mets, or the Red Sox. And, you know, who in his right mind would pick the Mets? I'm saying I know why you did."

"Uh-uh," said Josh. "You're not getting in my head, Ziegler. When it's game time, nothing gets in here."

"Or at any other time, but I'm serious. You don't want to hear it?"

"I want to throw this one by you." Josh started his windup...

"You like the Mets for the same reason you like Donna."

The baseball slipped out of his hand and thudded into Charlie's mitt at eye level. Ball one.

Toby half-smiled. "If I walk, I win, right?"

"I'm just setting the table, that's all." Josh held out his mitt for the return throw. When he got the ball back, he frowned. "Look, I'm not getting drawn into this, but--"

"Oh, of course not."

"But if I were, I'd say you're crazy! Donna brings order to a Universe of chaos. The Mets, believe me, never do that."

"Okay," said Toby, and he waited for the pitch.

Josh took the sign from Charlie. They only had the one sign, it meant "Throw it in the vicinity of my mitt," but it made Josh feel like a big-league pitcher. He wound up--

"Sure, now she does that."

Josh flinched at the last second and his pitch skipped in the dirt. Charlie scrambled to block it, looking not the slightest bit amused. His pitcher was busy glaring at Toby.

"I think I missed your point, Sigmund. You want to try again?"

Toby shrugged. "Now Donna's the best assistant in the West Wing, but when you hired her she was under-qualified and inexperienced. But she makes doe-eyes at you--"

"She does have doe-like qualities," Josh agreed.

"--and two seconds later, she's got the job! You didn't want somebody who'd start out as a great assistant, you wanted somebody with potential. Donna had potential."

Josh shook his head. "What does this have to do with the--"

"The Mets are the sports equivalent of early Donna! You think you can fix things, Josh. People, policies... even baseball teams. A winning club would be too easy for you. Every fan says they could run their team better than its general manager, but the thing about you is, you'd actually take the job and expect to be good at it! The Mets are just the quixotic expression of your unfounded belief that everything in the world could be made to come out right if only it would bend to your will!"

"That's good," said Charlie as he finally returned Josh's wayward pitch. "I like that. Do you mind if I work that into my Psych paper?"

"Oh, come on, you're not actually--" Josh stomped off the mound. "You know what? Two can play that game! I think Toby likes the Yankees 'cause he's a fatalist and his conscience makes him devote himself to causes his brain knows to be hopeless! So he picks the sports team that always wins in a desperate attempt to have one small area of his sad-sack life where he can allow himself to bet on a sure thing! What d'you think, Charlie? D'you think that's even slightly possible?"

Charlie frowned, then shook his head. "No. I think he's from a line of Yankee fans."

"HA!" said Toby, and he got back into his stance.

"Fine!" said Josh. He slapped the ball into his glove, stepped on the pitching rubber, and tried to focus. If he could just focus his anger and indignation into this pitch, channel it all into a Zen-like determination to succeed, he could still win the bet. Josh reared back, kicked--

His cell phone rang, startling him and causing him to fling ball three into the first row of the stands.

"Son of a BITCH!" Ignoring the background laughter of Toby and Charlie, Josh raised his cell phone to his ear. "Donna, so help me, I'm gonna-- what? You're kidding! So just for letting Shannon make his case, we get his vote on-- Okay. Okay. Don't promise him anything. It's still a loony idea. Yeah. Yeah, I'll take the meeting at 3:30, but only 'cause you have doe-like qualities. You're welcome, I think. Hey-- good work. Yes, I'm drinking the damn fluids! Good-bye."

Josh tucked the cell phone away and looked up, only to find Toby holding out the bottle of sports drink from his bag.

"One word, Ziegler, you're gonna be taking that intravenously."

Charlie tapped his watch. "Guys, I gotta go."

"Yeah," said Josh. "Go on, get out of the... catcher's thing."

"What?" said Toby. "Come on! It's 3-0! Be a man, suck it up, and give me a chance to smirk as ball four whizzes past!"

"Oh, you're still at bat," said Josh. "Charlie's pitching."

Their catcher frowned. "Who says he is?"

"Ben Franklin, speaking from my wallet."

"Sold!" said Charlie, and he started taking off his chest protector. Josh ran in to take it from him.

Toby was having a mild conniption. "No, no, no, no! Come on, this is bush league! A, those weren't the terms of the bet--"

"The bet said you'd strike out, not that I'd pitch."

"B, you're paying him a hundred bucks to save twenty!"

"Yeah." Josh put on the catcher's mask. "But this isn't about money, this is about annihilating you and, you know, embarrassing all Yankee fans everywhere."

"C," and here Toby lowered his voice so that Charlie couldn't hear as he trotted back to the mound, "you know we make him catch because he's better than us! He's younger and stronger and makes us look like a couple of chumps!"

"Yeah."

"So what do you think you're doing to me?!"

"I'm showing you how I fix things." Josh tossed the ball to Charlie and winked in Toby's direction. "Remember, you gotta believe."

"Shut up," said Toby, and he gamely took his position.

He was still standing there, three quick strikes later, the bat never having left his shoulder. He wasn't even sure he'd actually seen the pitches as they sailed past.

"I think this has been a productive day," said Charlie as he walked away counting his money. "Oh, and for the record, gentlemen? I root for the Orioles. See you back at the White House."

"Yeah, yeah..." Toby muttered. When the younger man was gone, he sighed. "The Orioles! Pfft! When was the last time they won the Series?"

"1983." Josh held out his Mets cap. "You gonna try it on?"

Although disgusted, Toby Ziegler was a man of his word. He stuffed his Yankee hat in his pocket, grabbed the shabby cap from Josh, and shoved it down over his head. He really didn't look well in orange.

Josh broke into a big grin. "How does it feel?"

"As predicted, I feel like a chump. Or a Met fan. I haven't totally figured out the difference."

"You starting to believe?"

Toby grunted. "I believe you're a cheater. I also believe you proved me to be in the right."

"What? How?"

"You paid an outrageous, unjustifiable salary to a hired gun, just for the pure joy of winning."

Josh blinked. "Wow. You're right. I beat the Yankees by becoming the Yankees."

"And you're still whipped by your assistant."

"See, now you're just lashing out. Make your peace with losing, Tobias."

"Shut up."

"Just let it wash over you... it's a familiar, comforting feeling..."

"I mean it. Stop talking to me."

Josh slung a grimy arm around his friend's shoulder as they headed for the dugout. "You know, I invited CJ down here to play with us. She turned me down cold."

"Good thing," Toby said. "Have you seen her hit? You thought Charlie had us outclassed."

"Yeah. She's uncanny that way. Does it scare you a little, too?"

"Oh, yes."

"She's gonna love you in the Mets cap..."

"Stop talking to me now."

As the winner of the Subway Series, Josh felt he could afford to be magnanimous, so he fell silent and didn't poke fun at Toby when they got back to the White House. He let Charlie do it instead.