Travis Hafner's alarm went off, startling him out of sleep. He leaned over to shut off the alarm. When his hand came down on more bed and not on his alarm clock nor his nightstand, he blinked his eyes open. And, okay, the alarm was beeping insistently at him instead of playing awesome heavy metal like it was supposed to, and the bedspread was absolutely the wrong not-very-manly-because-my-wife-picked-it-out floral print, which was strange, but possibly not without rational explanation. Travis scooted over a little on the bed to shut off the alarm, and noticed that hey, his elbow didn't hurt at all today, although his knees were kind of killing him.
And then he made the mistake of rolling back over, and--
Okay. That was absolutely not his his wife on the bed. He leaned in a little to get a better look at her past all the hair, and oh my godthat was Kate Wedge. That was his manager's wife what the fuck.
He screamed. Manfully.
Which woke up Kate, who also screamed.
Which made Travis scream again. Which made Kate scream again, and they went on like that in a loop for some time until the phone rang.
"Why did I wake up in your body in your bed this morning?" came the voice -- Travis's voice! -- over the line. He sounded pretty conversational.
"What?" Travis replied intelligently.
There was a pause on the other end of the line, then Wedge said in a slow, patronizing tone, "I need you to get up and go look in the mirror."
Which was kind of a creepy request, but since today was apparently all about creeping Travis out, he got up off the bed and walked over to get a good look at himself in the mirror on the closet door.
He screamed again and dropped the phone.
When he finally overcame the whole cranky knees thing enough to pick up the phone, Amy had apparently commandeered the phone from -- well, if he was Wedge, then Wedge was him, he supposed -- and was saying, "-- you big baby. At least you didn't wake up playing the big spoon to your husband's boss."
"My chin is enormous," Travis said.
"I'm aware of the size of Wedge's chin, honey," Amy answered.
Behind him, Kate cleared her throat. Travis turned around to look at her, which was less disconcerting than looking at a mirror and seeing Eric Wedge's freaky chin. Kate held out one hand impatiently for the phone. Travis wondered where she'd learned to look so imposing while wearing fuzzy pink pyjamas with little cats on them.
He handed over the phone.
Two and a half hours later -- it had taken an hour to get Shapiro out of his meeting and another thirty minutes to get him to stop hysterically asking "Are you shitting me? -- all four of them plus Mark Shapiro sat around a table in a closed conference room. Cleveland's mousiest secretary sort of hovered behind Shapiro's chair nervously.
"What did you two do?" Shapiro asked, still a little hysterically.
"You mean aside from waking up as Jamie Lee Curtis and Lindsay Lohan this morning?" Amy replied.
"Wait. Am I Lindsay Lohan or Jamie Lee Curtis in this scenario?" Travis asked.
"Lindsay Lohan in Jamie Lee Curtis's body, duh."
"Sweet. High five." Travis said, and reached out for a high five across the table. Because Amy was the coolest wife ever, she indulged him.
"If you're done?" Shapiro said.
"We didn't do anything," Wedge said.
"No wishing to be big in front of automated fortune tellers at carnivals or anything like that?"
"I bet it was the White Sox," Travis said. "Those fuckers."
"I really don't think--" Shapiro began, but Travis continued,
"Mark Buehrle's out to get me. Back me up here, Wedge."
Wedge glanced over at Shapiro, then Kate, then back at Travis before he said, "Well, he certainly does seem to dislike you." Which was very diplomatic of him.
"Look, he's a good pitcher, but I really don't think Mark Buehrle has fantastic cosmic powers," Shapiro said.
"Beliefs of Southsiders aside," Kate added.
"Well, that goes without saying," Shapiro said.
"Could be Mattingly?" Travis offered. "You know, about the single season grand slam record thing."
"Honey," Amy said, "I really don't think anybody's put some sort of baseball curse on you. This isn't a W.P. Kinsella short story."
Wedge sighed. "Look, can you just find a way to get us back in our real bodies? Pronk had less than flattering things to say about my chin, and I'm not in love with looking like Bill Goldberg."
Realizing that those were fighting words, Shapiro jumped in and said, "Look. I'll call in a few favors until we can get to the bottom of this. Until then, don't do anything else. No spontaneously growing tails or developing pyrokinesis or anything." He looked down at his watch. "I've got a meeting with the Dolans in ten, so just. Mouths shut. Low profile."
Of course, days turned into weeks, which turned into months, which turned into the rest of the off-season. And by the time spring training rolled around, things still weren't fixed.
"So," Shapiro said. They were in a poorly air-conditioned room in Winter Haven, Florida. "I think we're going to try something new. Just to bide time." He paused for dramatic effect, then continued. "You guys are gonna have to fill in for each other."
"Are you for real?" Travis asked. "Cause Wedge wasn't exactly the greatest hitter when he was still playing." He looked over at Wedge, which was still spooky as hell, then added, "No offense."
"And how many bullpens have you managed lately?" Wedge snapped.
"Look," Shapiro said, he looked over at Wedge, then corrected himself to look over at Travis. "Look. You put asses in seats, Pronk. And your body's physical abilities, your eyesight, might make Wedge in your body a better hitter than he was."
"Sure," Wedge said. "Why not."
And that's what happened to Pronk's ability to hit a baseball, and Wedge's ability to manage an American League team.