The Sandlot Imagines/One Shots

Yeah-Yeah

It had been about six months since Alan was in the marines — he was told he looked more like a marine so he went with it, but he and his Marine pals were dropped off in San Fernando Valley for a night until they were picked up the next morning. He departed from his friends and went to the sandlot.

None of his childhood friends were here anymore. Bertram went missing, Timmy was in college, he and Tommy were never really that good of friends to hang out just them two, Kenny was in college, Ham was off wrestling, Smalls was in college, Benny was in college, and Squints was probably off somewhere following Wendy. He didn't have the heart to go look for anyone else he had hung out with in elementary through middle school. Nostalgia hit him hard. He missed the summer nights that were spent playing ball in too hot weather and scratching mosquito bites. He missed the treehouse. He missed his friends. He missed his childhood. The marines forced him to grow up prematurely.

He was nineteen years old with no goddamn connection to his childhood, which was something that shouldn't have been taken away from him so soon. His vision was blurry and he didn't have the heart to swat away the mosquitoes that were starting to swarm. Something about the town seemed so different from his fondest memories. It seemed so pure, so innocent. It hadn't seen war like he had.

He got up and dusted the gray, parched dirt off his clothes. He took one last look around. It was far more dilapidated than how he remembered it and the treehouse was torn down. Somebody probably moved into the Timmons's old home. He exhaled sharply and curtly walked off to Tom's Bar. Sure he was only nineteen, but maybe they'd let it slide since he was in service.

He was too distracted to take in all the neighborhood changes. Alan walked through the glass door and the small bell chirped. He took a seat at the counter and said to the mixologist, "A beer please."

Neither he nor the mixologist bothered to look at each other. "Coming right up," she told him.

She handed him his beer and they made eye contact. At first he didn't recognize her, but as soon as she spoke he knew who she was.

"Yeah-Yeah?" her soft voice managed to choke out.

He froze. His lips parted slightly and his very blue eyes widened in shock. "(Y/n)?"

She instantly became cold with him. "You're not old enough to drink, give that back."

"I'm in service!" he defended. "Give me a break!"

Her father, Tom, came by her side. He was a burly man, just starting to gray. "Let him have it, (Y/N). He deserves it," his deep, raspy voice spoke.

She gave Alan a hard look and slapped a washcloth on the counter. "Fine," she said through gritted teeth. She stormed off to who knows where.

"What's wrong with her?" Alan asked Tom as he took a swig of his beer.

Tom shrugged. "I don't know, son. Say, what part of the military are you serving in?"

He hesitated. "Marines," he mumbled.

Tom grunted and walked off. "You have a goodnight," he said brusquely and walked off to the back.

Alan groaned and buried his face in his hands. A bastard, that's what he was. He grew up to be a marine; a jerk. A disappointment.

"It's closing time," (Y/N) spoke. His head snapped up and a half smile crept to his lips.

"How are you, (Your/Nick/Name)?," he asked, liquid courage flowing through his system.

She glared at him. "Get out, McClennan," she spat.