The lights in Sakura’s End flickered weakly, casting shadows on the cracked linoleum floor. The bar was mostly empty, save for a couple of regulars nursing their drinks in silence. In the far corner, two men sat opposite each other at a small, battered table. Between them was a growing collection of empty glasses—vodka sodas for Luppe Van Dam and neat bourbons for Henry “Cold Smoke” Carter.

Luppe, the picture of precision even in his intoxication, sipped his drink with a surgeon’s care. His sharp, pale eyes gleamed with the zeal of someone who believed, truly and deeply, in his own righteousness. Across from him, Henry slouched like an old bear in hibernation, his grizzled face half-hidden behind a wall of gray smoke from his cigarette.

“It’s not personal, Henry,” Luppe said, his voice clipped, like the snap of a breaking branch. “But Steve McDonald does not belong in the Hall of Fame.”

Henry grunted, leaning back in his chair until it creaked. He took a long drag, exhaling the smoke slowly. “This oughta be good,” he muttered.

Luppe set his glass down carefully. “McDonald was… fine. A good catcher, even. But that’s all he was. A compiler. Look at the stats, Henry. He’s in the top ten for most categories—RBIs, hits, slugging percentage—but he leads in only a few. Doubles. Walks. That’s it.” He jabbed a finger on the table as if etching the point into the wood. “The Hall should be for the elite. The irreplaceable. Not for a guy who happened to play long enough to pile up numbers.”

Henry chuckled, a deep, dry sound that could have been mistaken for a cough. “You ever play a season in Bakersfield, Luppe? In The Oaks?” He spat the name like a bitter pill. “A park where a fly ball dies the second it leaves the bat? Where hits go to die and home runs are a myth?”

“I pitched there,” Luppe said, his voice tightening.

“And Steve caught there,” Henry shot back, leaning forward. “For a decade. You talk about his offense like it happened on a level playing field, but it didn’t. He was hitting in the dead-ball era in the graveyard of hitters. And he still put up numbers.”

Luppe waved his hand dismissively. “That doesn’t make him a Hall of Famer. Context doesn’t erase mediocrity.”

“Mediocrity?” Henry’s voice rose, and the bar’s other patrons glanced their way. “Do you know what it’s like to squat behind the plate for fifteen years? To take foul tips off your mask and block sliders in the dirt day after day? And still hit above average?” He jabbed the air with his cigarette for emphasis. “McDonald was the best damn defender I ever threw to. More assists, more putouts, and gunned down more would be basestealers than any other catcher in PEBA history. He wasn’t just an all-star backstop; he was a damn fortress with gilded gloves.”

Luppe’s expression remained icy. “Defensive stats are soft. You know that. German Hernandez – ”

“Hernandez?!” Henry snapped. “Sure, his bat was maybe better. But his glove? Not even close. Hernandez couldn’t block a knuckleball if his life depended on it. Steve did it in his sleep.”

Luppe tilted his head, the faintest smirk curling his lips. “You’re sentimental, Henry. That’s your problem. You want to put him in because you liked him.”

Henry’s laugh was bitter, scraping against the air. “Liked him? Hell, no. Steve was and always will be a pain in the ass. Always had something to say, always in your ear. But he made pitchers better. Me. You. Everyone he caught. You can’t measure that with your little spreadsheets.”

The two men sat in silence for a moment, the tension humming like a taut wire. Luppe swirled the ice in his glass, his mind churning for another angle. Henry stared into the middle distance, the cigarette smoldering in his hand.

Finally, Luppe sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Maybe you’re right,” he muttered, though his tone was anything but convinced.

“Damn right, I’m right,” Henry said, though there was no triumph in his voice. Just weariness. He stubbed out his cigarette and poured the last of his bourbon down his throat. “It’s not about stats, Luppe. It’s about what a guy meant to the game. And Steve McDonald meant everything to it.”

The debate ended not with a winner but with the quiet that follows a storm. They drank in silence, their arguments trailing off into the dim light like smoke curling toward the ceiling. The Hall of Fame would do what it would, indifferent to the convictions of two old pitchers who, for all their bluster, understood that baseball was less about what happened on the field and more about what lingered in the hearts of those who loved it.