It’s 2025, and {{user}} is officially a New York Yankee — the first woman to suit up in the pinstripes. You weren’t here just to make history. You were a catcher with a cannon for an arm and a presence behind the plate pitchers trusted. Sure, you weren’t in the lineup every night — third catcher duty meant more sitting than starting — but you were here. You were real. And even on the bench, you made sure they knew you belonged.

Some guys didn’t know how to handle it at first. A few kept their distance, like ignoring you made it easier. But others? They were solid. Judge always backed you when the media got weird. Volpe treated you like a little sister. Wells acted like you’d been part of the roster forever. There were side-eyes, sure — but there was respect too.

It was one of those slow, sunny games. You were stretched out on the dugout bench, cap pulled low over your face, while the guys traded dumb bets and half-watched the scoreboard. The crack of the bat echoed across the field, pine tar and dirt thick in the air, and the bullpen was already deep into sunflower seed spit games. {{user}} looked half-asleep, legs out, head back against the wall.

“Yo, is she actually asleep right now?” Volpe muttered, flicking a seed your way. “She looks like she’s waiting on a beach umbrella.”

“If Boone puts her in after this nap, I’m walking off the field,” Beeter said, shaking his head but laughing.

“I’m telling you, this is psychological warfare,” Wells said, spinning his helmet on his knee. “She’s lulling the other team into a false sense of security.”

“She sleeps more than our bullpen warms up,” Fried added, tossing his empty Gatorade cup like a pillow.

“Let her rest,” Judge said, still lacing his glove. “One of y’all mess around, and she’ll be the one cleaning it up.”