Imagine you’re at work, and you’re in the middle of a high-pressure situation. All eyes are on you as your entire career rests on one decision. You’re all too aware that you can be destroyed by one mistake. Your eyes narrow, your breath becomes shallow, and you focus on the goal with every bit of strength you possess.

Suddenly the air is filled with loud, tacky organ music. The gentleman next to you spits on the ground with such gusto that some of it splatters on your shoes. And from behind you, someone yells, “Jeter you suck!”

But Derek wasn’t complaining.

Even when he didn’t get enough sleep between games, when he woke up and forgot what city he was in, when Alex was grumpy and he had to spend the night alone, when he went out to buy a new shirt and a horde of twelve year-old girls followed him around for hours, Derek still didn’t complain.

And Derek didn’t complain about Melky until the day he put his glove over his mouth and Alex fell on the ground.

A glove over one’s mouth wasn’t an usual sight. Someone would whisper to the pitcher than the runner was leading too much, whisper to the outfield that the next batter always hit to the right, or a shortstop might whisper to the third baseman when he wanted to meet in his hotel room that night. For example.

But in that game, during a pitching change that seemed to go on forever, Derek noticed Melky with his glove over his mouth. Derek turned all the way around, expecting some sort of warning, signal, or encouragement. Instead Melky said, in a singsong voice, “Johnny es una tortuga.”

From center field, Johnny Damon smiled and waved.

At third base, Alex put his hand over his mouth and fell to the ground.

Joe trotted onto the field faster than anyone had seen him move in a while. Derek could just imagine Michael Kay speculating from the booth: “A-Rod appears to have a pulled hamstring! A broken rib! Drive-by shooting! Cancer!” Alex explained away his stifled laughs and red eyes by saying he choked on some dust. Joe’s poker face returned, and the game quickly resumed.

Derek put his glove over his mouth. “What was that about?”

“It’s about a fly ball about to hit your head,” Alex said flatly.

Derek caught the ball and flipped it to second for a double play that ended the inning. “But what did Melky say?” he asked as they walked back to the dugout.

Alex smiled, looking like he might burst into laughter again. “He said ‘Johnny is a turtle.” He looked around to make sure none of the parties were nearby. “And Johnny just heard his name and waved like an idiot.”

Derek filled a cup of water and sat down. “Why would he do that?”

Alex took the seat beside him. “Hideki’s coming back soon. Melky probably wants to play center.”

“But how…?” Derek was confused. Of course, he was usually confused when Alex was around. He was confused about how Alex would badmouth players who cheated on their wives or girlfriends, yet would say these things while he was lying in Derek’s bed. He was confused about how one night Alex would show up in his hotel room with DVDs and snacks and want to stay up all night as if they were adolescent boys exploring their burgeoning sexuality, and then disappear the next night and act moody and withdrawn for days. And he was confused about how calling someone a turtle could possibly help you to unseat them from their position.

Alex gestured in the opposite direction, where Melky was approaching, and motioned for Derek to be quiet. Melky nodded politely and went to the water cooler.

“Ask him,” Derek whispered.

“Ask him what? Why he’s singing songs in right field? How about ‘mild mental illness’?” Alex leaned back and shoved a handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth.

“Then just translate,” Derek said. “Hey, Melky!” he called out.

Alex elbowed him hard in the side. “What are you doing? I can’t speak Spanish.”

“Then you’ve certainly fooled us all, what with how often you speak Spanish.”

“I can understand simple sentences,” Alex said. “But I don’t know enough to hold a conversation or to translate for someone.” He spit a sunflower seed on Derek’s shirt. “Asshole.”

“What your language in front of the children,” Derek said as he waved Melky over.

“Who’s on deck?” Melky asked as he approached them.

Like many of their foreign-born players, Melky had learned what they called Baseball English. He could say things like “inside pitch”, “home run”, and “batting average”, but he didn’t know enough of the language to get a cab or buy a sandwich. Mariano had taught Melky his initial Baseball English, and because Mariano felt close to the rookie (or because Mariano was a sick fuck), he’d also taught Melky phrases like “Red Sox sucks”, “Ortiz can blow me”, and “Manny Ramirez is developmentally disabled”.

“Giambi,” Derek told him. “Giambi’s on deck. We have time.” He pointed to the place on his wrist where a watch would be. “Time.”

Melky’s expression remained flat. “Usted tiene muñecas flacas y yo no soy impresionado.”

Alex chuckled. “He said you have skinny, unimpressive wrists.”

Derek extended his middle finger. “Is this the same in English and Spanish?”

Melky smiled. “Es que una invitación?”

Alex opened his mouth to speak, but Derek held up his hand. “I think I got that one. Quick question. Are we monogamous?”

Alex spit some sunflower seeds onto the ground. “Monogamy, polygamy,” he said. “These words imply some sort of relationship. You and I are nothing-gamy.”

Derek leaned closer and lowered his voice as he reached into the bag of sunflower seeds next to Alex’s leg. “Then you’ve certainly fooled us all, what with how often you sleep with me.”

Alex spit a sunflower seed into Derek’s hair.

Robbie walked up to them, greeted Melky with a pound, and then turned to Alex. “They asked me to tell you that, if you’d like to go take your turn at bat, fifty thousand people are waiting for you.”

Alex nodded. “I should probably go do that.”

Derek patted him on the knee. “Good luck.”

“Stop touching me,” Alex said.

“Le molestan ellos?” Robbie asked Melky.

Melky shook his head. “Coquetear.”

Derek leaned forward and caught Robbie’s eye. “Ask him what he’s doing after the game tonight.”

Robbie translated the question, and Melky smiled. “Salgo a anunciar mi perfume. Se llama Puto.”

Derek looked to Robbie, but Robbie only shrugged and said, “I can’t repeat that. I’m a Christian now.”

Alex was still nearby, choosing a bat. As he passed by, heading out of the dugout, he kicked Derek's foot. “Hey,” he said. “If you don’t end up with him tonight, call me.”

“And if I do end up with him?”

As he continued walking away, Alex turned around and grinned. “Then call me.”

The next day the team was on defense when Derek heard Melky singing into his glove again. “Johnny es una bicho. Johnny es un cucaracha.” Melky’s youthful energy had kept Derek and Alex awake until the sun rose. But it was the seventh inning, and they were up 5-0, making Derek wonder how good the team would be if their best players didn’t have sex with each other every night. Or maybe, he thought, that’s what made them good in the first place.

Derek glanced sideways at Alex and brought his glove to his mouth. “You look good covered in massage oil.”

Without turning his head Alex covered his mouth and said, “You look good with a ground ball about to hit you in the crotch.”

Derek caught the ball and threw it to first base for an out.

Derek pretended to be scratching his forehead, using his forearm to obscure his mouth. “How do you say, ‘Hope I didn’t move too fast for you’?”

Alex snorted out a laugh. “Will I be translating your wedding vows next?”

Derek smiled, though his lips didn’t move as he spoke. “Jealous?” He leaned down to readjust his pants legs. “I’m just a nothing-gamy.”

“Yeah,” Alex said as he tilted his head down and rubbed his nose. “But you’re my nothing-gamy.”

With two outs and a full count, the White Sox DH had his strike called a check swing, and all hell broke loose. Before long Randy was being dragged away from home plate as the argument continued between Joe and the umpire.

“Espero que yo no moviera demasiado rápido para usted,” Alex said.

Derek looked over at him. “Huh?”

“That’s how you say ‘I hope I didn’t move too fast for you.’” Alex nodded to the outfield behind them. “Espero que yo no moviera demasiado rápido para usted.”

Derek turned around and motioned for Melky to come forward. “Espero que yo no moviera demasiado rápido para usted,” he said.

But Randy was back at the mound, and Thome fouled one into the stands next to them, a reminder to move back to their positions. Melky grinned as he started jogging backwards. “Estás es una tortuga,” he said, without even bothering to put his glove to his mouth.

The bottom of the eighth inning lasted an excruciating twenty-nine minutes, and after a disastrous offense where the only way they got on base was Johnny taking a pitch to the elbow, the Yankees were only up by one. It started raining, not enough to call the game, but enough to make everyone damp, moody, and desperate for a quick ending. Instead the White Sox tied, and they made it all the way to the twelfth inning before Derek hit a homerun that was met with more sighs of relief than cheers.

As he was exchanging pounds with his fellow teammates, he saw Alex moving toward him. After their dubious remarks in the outfield earlier, he wasn’t sure where he stood. Everything always managed to get confused somewhere between sex and innuendo, English and Spanish, baseball and life.

As they approached each other Alex smiled slightly and held out his hand for a modified shake. When their palms met Derek felt something small and square being passed to him. It was a hotel key card.

Alex put his hand over his mouth, as if he was scratching some invisible stubble, obscuring his lips, though the cameras had long since gone to commercial. “See you at third base, Tortuga.”

Derek nodded. “See you there.”

In the locker room, the water wouldn’t be warm enough and the towels would be scratchy. Before he’d even buttoned his shirt one of the YES Network reporters would be cornering him to ask some inane question like, “Are you happy about your team’s win today?” Then he’d go to his hotel room, where he’d lie on a hard mattress and return calls to family members he missed desperately, an agent he could barely stand, and a marketing executive that he didn’t even remember meeting. He’d lie down for a while and stare at the ceiling, wondering if he should use the key card, if Alex’s room would be empty, or if would he be waiting for him. When he finally worked up the nerve to go there, he’d be so exhausted he'd fall asleep before they could do anything, and Alex wouldn't wake him. They'd have to be on a plane at five o’clock the next morning, and they wouldn’t have a day off for the next fifteen days. And through it all he’d have Melky: playful and teasing, standing behind him and singing insults in Spanish, staring him down in from across the dugout, yet always in a hurry to talk to someone else. And he'd have Alex: running so cold it left him gasping, and so hot it made him dizzy.

But Derek wasn’t complaining.