Cooper: That was for my sister.
Cooper: In-law. My sister-in-law. I’m not always a weirdo with my sister.
Cooper: Waverly?
Cooper: For the record, you’re the only person I ever embarrass myself in front of. I had dinner with an actual king of an actual country right before the season started and I spilled mead all over myself and called him Mour Yajesty and accidentally hit on his wife and I wasn’t as embarrassed as I am right now. And it really was an accident. I was complimenting her necklace. Not her breasts. I didn’t know there was a word in their country where jewels meant the same thing as breasts. I was framed. Set up. Made the pawn for everyone’s entertainment. And I know better now. Except when I talk to you, apparently.
Cooper: *gif of himself stealing second base and landing face-first in the other team’s second baseman’s crotch*
Cooper: ^^ Not as embarrassing.
Cooper: *gif of himself doing the funky chicken in the dugout at Duggan Field*
Cooper: ^^ Also not as embarrassing. Or embarrassing at all, actually. I own that one.
Cooper: *gif of himself with his pants falling down on the ballfield*
Cooper: ^^ That one was almost embarrassing, but only because I was wearing a belt from a clothing line my agent was trying to get me an endorsement deal for and it looks bad when you have a belt fail for a company you’re hoping to endorse, and also, I have cake. I HAVE CAKE. The cake should’ve kept the pants up. Total cake fail. Usually I’d get myself de-pantsed on the field on purpose and it would be way harder than that.
Random number: Cat got stuck in the cat door. I had to rescue him. Also, HOLY MOLY, how do you not sprain your thumbs typing that much in thirty seconds? Don’t you need your hands to play baseball? Does your management know what you do with your fingers and your electronics when you’re unsupervised?
Cooper: Practice. I’m a finely-honed texting machine.
Cooper: But that doesn’t mean I’m annoying. I know when to quit.
Random number: *doubtful emoji*
Cooper: Correction: I do my best to know when to quit. It’s sometimes hard due to being cursed with such a big personality.
Random number: I honestly thought I’d have to ask for proof that this is you and not some spoof number you gave me just for kicks, and yet here we are.
Cooper: *selfie of himself wearing a 1980’s headband in front of a fountain*
Random number: I’m trying so hard to not be amused by this entire conversation.
Cooper: Resistance is futile. And way less fun.
Random number: Where are you? And what are you wearing?
Cooper: It’s Richard Simmons Day in the clubhouse. I’m jogging in Reynolds Park and wearing tiny shorts for my warm-up before the pre-game warm-up. Wanna see?
Random Number: I feel like there’s no correct answer to that question.
Cooper: Good point. I’ll save them for dinner so you can see them in person. Pictures don’t do them justice.
Cooper: And by THEM, I mean the whole ensemble. Shorts. Wristbands. High socks. How I look in the shorts.
Cooper: But I promise to change the shirt. I’ll wear your face instead of mine.
Random Number: I didn’t say dinner. I said TALK. But weirdly more important right now - YOU’RE WEARING A SHIRT WITH YOUR FACE ON IT?
Cooper: *selfie showing his shirt, which does, indeed, have his face on it*
Cooper: You don’t wear shirts with your face on them?
Random Number: No.
Cooper: I’m gonna need a selfie to confirm I’m talking to who I think I’m talking to before I send you any more photos that might end up on a gossip website.
