I came back from the game half wasted and reacquainted myself with my ludicrously sparsely furnished apartment. I was starving and all there was to eat was ramen noodles in the brown package signifying beef.

Why do I have beef? I wondered. I know I fucking don't like beef. But upon closer scrutiny it wasn't beef-brown, it was teriyaki-chicken-brown. A duller, beiger shade. I boiled it in too little water and dashed it with cracked pepper. I drank a beer and ate it watching SportsCenter, with shrapnel shards of pepper, that rugged, brutish spice the Portuguese once pried from India, popping dark and dirty on my tongue.

I reflected vaguely upon the night's events.

I play third base for the Centropolis Eastmen, the most glorious and hallowed professional baseball team in all the land. And we had lost to the hated River City Hounds by four runs to three.

My name is Kelly Minter.