What was surprising was the sound of Toby Ziegler cheering.  Cheering.

Will cocked his head to one side and grinned absently at the wall, then went back to work.  One of the pandas at the National Zoo was pregnant, which was apparently a big enough deal that the president needed to make a brief comment.  Since Toby had pointed out that he was not about to waste his time and energy writing a paean to cute, fluffy bears, Will was on the hook for the speech.

It was hard enough to write something so silly in the silence; with the renewed shouting next door, it was nearly impossible.

Will abandoned the zoo remarks and stood, stretching to get the kinks out of his back, and headed for Toby's office.  He stopped short in the doorway, a little taken aback by the sight of a grinning Josh Lyman wearing a backwards baseball cap, feet up on Toby's coffee table, while Toby -- in a Yankees hat -- sat in one of his leather guest chairs, head in his hands.

"Will!" Josh greeted cheerfully, holding aloft an oversized bowl of slightly burnt popcorn.  "Have some."

Will blinked.  "What are you doing?"

"Game seven," Josh answered cryptically.

"Okay."  Will nodded.

Toby sat up -- with a quick glare in the direction of the TV -- and turned to Will.  "The ALCS."

Frowning, Will searched his memory for that acronym.  "Association of..."  He gave up with a shrug.  Josh and Toby stared at him with eerily similar expressions of shock and horror.  "What?" Will demanded, his tone defensive.  "I'm still working on the zoo speech."

"The ALCS," Josh said, gesturing vaguely at the TV.

Will glanced over, saw a commercial with a meaty-looking athletic guy, a few half-naked women, and a larger-than-life-sized stick of deodorant, and shrugged.  "Okay."

"The American League Championship Series," Toby explained in that careful, amused tone of his.

"Ah," Will said.  "That's baseball, right?"

Josh actually gasped aloud.  "Of course it's baseball!  It's October, Will!"

"I grew up in Belgium," Will pointed out with a half-shrug.  "Never really got into baseball."

Josh and Toby exchanged looks that clearly expressed their pity for their poor, benighted colleague.  "Will, Will, Will," Josh said.  "Pull up a chair."

"I really should get back to--"

"Will," Josh interrupted sternly.  "This is the Yankees versus the Red Sox.  The best rivalry in sports.  Game seven of the ALCS."

Will nodded as if he knew precisely what they were talking about.  "Important game."

Toby sighed.  "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Not really," Will admitted ruefully.  "But I'll keep a good thought for..."  He frowned.  "Who are we rooting for?"

"Yankees," Toby answered, as Josh said, "Red Sox."

They glared at each other, Toby pointing at his Yankees hat, while Josh twisted his around on his head, leaving his hair sticking out in seven different directions.  Josh's cap had a large "B," which didn't seem to have any relation to the Red Sox, but Will decided not to ask.  "Okay, then.  I'll leave you to your game, then."

"You don't like sports?" Toby asked.

"No, no," Will said, turning back.  "I do.  I just prefer football -- soccer.  I meant soccer," Will clarified.  "Sorry."

"Soccer," Josh scoffed.  "Soccer games can end in a zero-zero tie.  Why can't they be real men and keep playing until someone actually, you know, wins?"

Will glanced at the corpulent Yankee at the plate and raised an eyebrow.  "You know how much stamina it takes to play a game of soccer?  Baseball is positively sedentary in comparison to--"  He broke off when he caught the look on Toby's face.  "Hey, who's winning?" he asked, more to head off a Tobylecture than out of any real interest in the answer.

"The Red Sox," Josh answered gleefully, handing the bowl of popcorn to Will.  "At Yankee Stadium.  Against Roger Clemens."

Toby rolled his eyes.  "They just pulled Clemens."

"And why?" Josh asked, content, as ever, to answer his own questions.  "Because he gave up four runs.  Sweet irony."

Will frowned at the popcorn -- how do you burn microwave popcorn, he wondered -- and asked, "Who's Roger Clemens?"

"The Rocket," Josh answered.  "He's retiring this year.  And in his final appearance against his former team, he gave up four runs and had to walk away in the fourth."

With a nod, Will said, "And that's bad."

"Yup."  Josh's tone was positively smug.

Will would freely admit that, outside the basics, he didn't know much about baseball.  Didn't care much about baseball.  Couldn't, in fact, see what the big deal was about baseball -- man, was the game boring.  And long.

But what little he did know about baseball included the fact that Toby Ziegler was a diehard Yankees fan.  And mocking something that Toby felt so strongly about was more than likely to earn the mocker six weeks' worth of writing speeches about leading market indicators overseas and what that meant for the U.S.-Malaysian exchange rate.  Or, you know, the mating habits of pandas.

Josh didn't look particularly worried, even as Toby turned a murderous glare his away and said in that deceptively mild tone, "Roger Clemens struck out twenty batters in one game.  Twice."

Josh shrugged.  "Cy Young threw a perfect game."

Toby gave him a baleful look.  "In 1904."

"So?"

"So my grandfather was three."

Will stifled a laugh.

"Roger Clemens," Josh announced, "is a headhunter who beaned my friend Mike Piazza in the head."

"Your friend?" Will ventured.

"Oh, God," Toby groaned.  "Please don't ask Josh about--"

"Mike Piazza," Josh interrupted, sitting up to tell the story with appropriate hand gestures, "and I hung out during spring training a couple years back."

Will cut a skeptical look Toby's way.  "Hung out?"

"Josh flew down to Florida and loitered outside the Mets' spring training camp waiting for Mike Piazza to happen past.  When the unsuspecting man showed up, Josh out-whined the ten-year-olds until Mr. Piazza agreed to sign Josh's overpriced Major League Baseball jersey just to shut him the hell up."

Josh dismissed Toby's version of events with a wave of his hand.  "Mike Piazza called me dude."

Will raised his eyebrows and tried to look impressed.  "Wow."  He squinted at the TV.  "So this is only the fourth inning, huh?"

"Yup," Josh answered, apparently still reliving the glory of his encounter with Mike Piazza.

"Five more to go," Will surmised, glancing at his watch.  Baseball was such a long game.  He didn't understand how a man as busy as Toby Ziegler had time to keep up with a team that played over a hundred games a season.

Josh nodded happily.  "Yup.  And it looks like the Red Sox are going to pull it out."  Toby's head snapped around and Josh's eyes widened.  "Shit!" he yelped, nearly toppling his beer bottle as he lunged to the coffee table and began knocking frantically.  "Salt," he implored.  "I need salt."

Toby just chuckled, which was actually freaking Will out more than the sight of the Deputy Chief of Staff spinning around in circles for no apparent reason.

"Can't blame this loss on the Bambino," Toby remarked almost amiably.

Frustrated, Will shook his head.  "What loss?"

Toby spared him a glance.  "The impending Red Sox loss."

Will checked the scorecard on the TV.  "But they're ahead four-nothing."

"Doesn't matter," Toby answered.

Josh was still muttering, "I need salt."  He paused and glanced over at Toby, who pointed straight-armed at the door.

"Out," Toby barked.  "No spitting inside the White House."

Absently, Josh nodded and sprinted from the room, bellowing, "Donna!  I need salt right now!"

Still smirking, Toby settled back in his chair and reached for the popcorn.  "This is going to be good."

"What is?"

Toby's grin was downright scary.  "Watching Josh implode after the Yankees win this game."

***

A little after midnight, Will tossed the marked up notepad aside and stood.  He couldn't possibly write anymore about the in-vitro fertilization of panda bears.  And despite himself, he was a little curious about the outcome of the baseball game.

True, the story of the curse -- and Josh's incessant mutterings about cubs and goats and that stupid fan -- had just confused Will further.  But as much as he felt he should be rooting for Toby's Yankees, the Red Sox seemed to be a pretty scrappy team.  Four-and-oh when facing elimination this post-season, in fact.  Will wasn't really sure what that meant, but it sounded impressive.

So after Will locked his door, he sidled up to Toby's door.  The crowd had grown -- Donna and CJ were there, beers in hand.  The TV was playing a commercial, but both Josh and Toby were staring intently at the screen.

"Will," CJ greeted cheerfully.  "Have a beer."

Will skirted by Josh and Toby and perched on the arm of the couch, accepting a cool bottle from Donna.  "Thanks.  Game still on?"

"It's tied," CJ said.  "Five-five.  This is, like, the 27th inning."

Donna choked on a sip of beer.  "The eleventh," she corrected, still laughing.  She gave Will a curious look.  "You're not a baseball fan?"

"Not really.  I like soccer, though."

Donna glanced warily at Josh.  "Don't let him hear you say that.  He's anti-soccer."

Will grinned.  "Yeah, I gather it's somehow unmanly to end a game with a tie."  He glanced back at the screen.  Still commercials.  He indicated the TV with a tilt of his head.  "I thought the Red Sox were winning."

"Pedro gave up three runs in the eighth and now it's a tie ballgame," CJ explained smoothly.  Then she grinned at Donna. "Sounds like I know what I'm talking about, huh?"

"You repeated what the announcer said word-for-word," Donna countered.

"You guys aren't baseball fans?" Will asked.

"No," CJ answered.  "I don't get sports."

Donna snickered.  "I like the Cubs, but, you know," she gave a world weary shrug, "the goat."

Will brightened as the pieces slid into place.  "Oh!  The curse of the goat.  Yes."

Donna grumbled, "You don't have to sound so cheerful about it.  They were five outs away--"

"Sssssh!" Josh and Toby hissed in unison as the game came back on.  They sat in identical positions -- halfway off the seat, elbows on knees, intense, unblinking gaze locked on the TV screen.

And then the unmistakable crack of a bat hitting a ball, and both men were standing, Toby with an eager look, Josh a study of frozen dread.

The ball arced into the stands and Toby gave an uncharacteristic whoop while Josh wailed, "No!"

Will leaned closer to CJ and lowered his voice.  "Does that mean it's over?"

CJ shrugged.  "Looks like a fat lady's singing somewhere, yeah."

"It's over," Donna confirmed.  "The Yankees have the home field advantage.  In a tie game, if they score in the bottom of the ninth -- or in the bottom of any extra innings -- to break the tie, that ends the game.  It's called a walk-off run."

Will blinked in surprise.

"Josh talks about baseball a lot," Donna explained.

CJ, Donna, and Will reflexively glanced over at Josh, who was standing stock still, hands to his head.  Toby clapped him on the back.  "They shouldn't have traded Ruth."

Donna shook her head.  "Grady Little should've pulled Pedro in the eighth."

Toby weighed that, then pointed out, "Offense should've come up with some runs."

"No," Josh said, his shoulders slumping.  "I shouldn't have said they were going to win."

"Josh," Donna admonished.  "You spat and cursed and threw salt and spun around so many times you got dizzy."

CJ smirked at Josh.  "Did you fall down?"

Josh seemed happy to channel some of his disappointment into irritation.  "You know what, CJ--"

"Josh," Donna warned.  "Quit it.  And quit moping.  This wasn't your fault."  She glanced over at Toby and frowned.  "And you -- stop gloating."

Josh blew out a frustrated sigh and turned away.  "It's the Red Sox, Donna.  What was I thinking?  I said in the fourth inning -- the fourth -- that they would win."

Toby grinned.  "Yes, you did."

"Toby."  CJ rolled her eyes.  "Don't encourage him.  Despite your sizeable ego, Josh, you don't actually have an effect on every last thing that happens in the world.  Now come have a beer."

Josh took two steps towards the couch, then stopped.  "I should call my mother."

"Your mother?" Will repeated, surprised.  "It's after midnight."

Josh managed a grin.  "Trust me -- she's awake."  He moved to Toby's desk, activated the speakerphone, and dialed quickly.

It rang once and then a woman's voice answered with an emphatic, "Shit!"

CJ and Donna exchanged amused looks, while Josh scooped up the phone and said, "Exactly.  Hi, mom."

Toby turned back to the TV and grinned as his team gleefully sprayed each other with champagne.

Will tilted his head in Josh's direction.  "I don't understand why he's a Red Sox fan."

"Oh, because he's from Connecticut?" Donna asked.  "His mom's a Red Sox fan, and his dad loved the Mets.  So Josh comes by his hatred for the Yankees pretty naturally."

Toby sniffed.  "The Yankees are simply a better ballclub."

"Please," Donna snorted.  "The Sox set a new record for slugging percentage this season.  You know whose record they broke?  The Yankees.  Specifically, the 1927 Yankees."

Toby stared at her.  "Do you even know what a slugging percentage is?"

Donna made a face.  "Well... Not really, but I think it has something to do with batting."

Will glanced over at CJ, who looked as bewildered as he felt.  "What the hell are they talking about?"

CJ patted his knee.  "Trust me -- it's better not to ask.  Just nod and smile or Toby will try to explain how one team can be half a game ahead."

"Half a game?" Will echoed.  "But--"

"No." CJ interrupted.

Will took a fortifying swig.  "Okay.  Half a game.  Whatever."

CJ grinned.  "Good man."  

Donna indicated his beer with a tilt of her head.  "Being a Sox fan can drive you to drink."

CJ nodded.  "That's a good idea."

Toby quirked an eyebrow, but before he could comment, Josh hung up the phone and turned back to the group.  "My mother sends along her sympathies to everyone but Toby," Josh announced dropping onto the couch beside Donna, who scooted closer to CJ to give him more room.  "Now what's this about drinking?"

"I prescribe alcohol," CJ answered. "Let's go."

Josh nodded somberly.  "I should drown my sorrows.  It's kind of a tradition among Red Sox fans."

"For good reason," Toby murmured.

"The bar," Donna said, pushing herself to her feet before Josh could come up with a retort.  "C'mon, Josh.  Shake Toby's hand and tell him the Yankees played well."

Josh's expression turned murderous, and Will turned his snicker into a cough.  Toby just grinned and fished a cigar out of his desk.  "Let's go, Josh.  I think I owe you a drink."

Will jerked his thumb towards his office.  "I should really finish the panda speech."

CJ paused in the doorway and turned back, hands on hips.  "You'd rather write about panda bears than taunt Josh about cursing his Sox?"

"Hey!" Josh protested.

Will grinned and shrugged.  "I guess I can finish it tomorrow."

"Right," Donna nodded, steering Josh out of Toby's office.  "And the Red Sox can win next year."

CJ followed those two, as Josh groaned, "Do you know how many years I've heard that?"

Toby grabbed his jacket and flashed an evil grin at Will as they trailed behind the others.  "Eighty-five."

"Hey!" Josh yelped, but Donna and CJ grabbed his arms to keep him moving toward the door.  "The Red Sox are going all the way next year," he insisted.

"Sure they are," Toby snorted as he held the door for Will.  "But by next year, you're going to learn to appreciate baseball."

"I appreciate it from afar," Will pointed out, breathing in the crisp autumn air.  

Toby flashed his highly refined look of skepticism.  "Do you even know what a box score is?"

For a moment, Will was sure Toby was referring to classical music.  "What?"

CJ stepped to the edge of the sidewalk and lifted a graceful hand.  A cab sailed to the curb almost immediately.  Donna pushed Josh towards the front seat and climbed in after him.

"Box score," Toby repeated slowly, pausing at the cab door as CJ slid the length of the backseat.  "Inning-by-inning stats of the game."

Will didn't quite manage to suppress a groan.  "I know about the curses now.  Does that count?"

"No," Toby grumbled, sliding into the cab.

CJ leaned over Toby and peered at Will.  "Close enough for government work.  Now get in the cab."

"Yes, ma'am," Will said as he slid into the cab and slammed the door behind him.

THE END

11.29.03