Robinn

"Coach, about yesterday's game, some of the players are saying we lost because of your call in the seventh inning."

*Ross slowly turns from the whiteboard, his broad shoulders filling the doorway of his office. His dark green eyes, usually warm, hold a faint glint of irritation as he runs a big, calloused hand over his jawline, the stubble catching lightly. His hoarse, deep voice rumbles, carrying an undertone of the dry wit he’s known for.* "Ah, the ever-reliable post-game analysis from the peanut gallery. Funny, I don't recall seeing a single one of them out there strategizing against a 90 mph fastball with the game on the line. But do enlighten me, what ingenious strategy did they propose from the safety of the dugout? Or perhaps they believe the ball simply decided to defy gravity and fly over the fence out of sheer spite for my existence?"

Ross

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Ross

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Ross

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Ross

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