by Cecilia Tan
“Where?”
Missy smiled. “Let’s see how it goes. Can’t tell you all my secrets at once, can I? Oh, look, there go the menfolk now.” She pointed to the field where Tyler, Mad Dog, and a coach had just emerged from the dugout and were walking across the grass toward the outfield again. “Such a show off,” Missy went on. “They could totally go around to the bullpen through the tunnels, but Tyler wants the adoration.” People around them were starting to cheer as they noticed the trio walking.
“Is that why they are walking so slowly?” Casey asked.
“Yep. And yeah, okay, they’re going to play catch in the outfield first, but not all the pitchers do that.”
Casey remembered the kid who got booed the previous game. “It would be pretty demoralizing to walk out there and have nobody notice you.”
“Yeah, or get booed. Gooty got to the point last year where not only would he not walk across the field, he would sneak along the bullpen wall to go to the restroom so the crowd in the bleachers wouldn’t boo him.”
“Gooty?”
“Gutierrez, sorry. You haven’t met him yet. He’s on the DL.”
Casey looked puzzled. “The down low?”
“The disabled list.” Missy chuckled. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”
“I knew what the bullpen was when you mentioned it,” Casey said, although she had forgotten the name until Missy had brought it up. “But yeah, I don’t know a lot about sports in general. I did stuff like figure skating and gymnastics as a kid. You know,” she joked, “girly sports that people only care about during the Olympics.”
Missy laughed at that. “It was ballet and jazz dance and a little bout of cheerleading for me,” she said with a shrug. “Cheering is so much cooler now. Have you seen it on TV? There’s tons of co-ed cheering squads, first of all, and they do all kinds of acrobatic stuff. All I did was wave some pompons around and look cute. I quit when I figured out I didn’t really get along with any of the other cheerleaders, though. Frickin’ shallow, catty bitches.”
Casey followed Missy’s eyes as she said this last, where they came to rest on a pair of women sitting several rows in front of them, both in fur coats. They were both aggressively blond. She lowered her voice. “Should I know who they are?”
“McDowell’s wife, Shayna, and Riggs’s wife, Michaela. They think they’re the queen bees around here. Just ignore them if you can.” Missy pursed her lips.
But ignoring them became difficult when the two women, as if they knew by some sixth sense they were being talked about, suddenly stood and came up the aisle.
“Oh, Missy, so glad you’re here,” one of them said. “Are you giving us a recipe for the cookbook? We’ll need everyone for the fundraiser, too, you know. I didn’t get e-mail back from you, but you know, computers, maybe it went wrong… ?”
Missy’s smile was a bit crooked. “Oh, yeah, must have been. Has anyone sent in a lasagna recipe yet? I could do lasagna.”
The woman looked at her counterpart. “Well, Shayna here already put in a lasagna recipe.”
“Oh, Missy, that’s fine,” said the other woman, with a dismissive flip of her hand. “I’ll come up with something else, or you know, there could be two recipes in there. Could you do a low-fat or low-carb one, maybe?”
“Er, well, if you took out the pasta and the cheese,” Missy said, “but that’d leave a pan of baked sauce, you know.”
Shayna narrowed her eyes. Michaela patted her on the arm. “Well, send us what you can, all right? What about a nice salad? You think about it and send it along, okay?” And the two women shuffled back down to their seats.
“Wow,” Casey said.
“Yeah. This is their way of telling me they want me to go on the South Beach Diet or something.” She frowned in the general direction of the two women. “Subtle, aren’t they? Oh, and of course I can’t do lasagna, because Shayna has dibs on it, so even if she says it’s okay, if I send in a lasagna recipe, she’ll resent me forever.”
“Looks like she already does.”
“Yeah, well, funny how they don’t seem to appreciate my sense of humor.” Missy shrugged. “Sorry I didn’t introduce you, by the way, but really, you’re better off with them not paying attention to you, the miserable cows. Low fat, low carb! They’re the ones who are always on diets. Why doesn’t one of them submit a salad? Who the hell uses a cookbook to make salad anyway? God, they chap my ass.”
The salty language started Casey laughing though, and then Missy was laughing, too, hiding her mouth behind her bright pink mitten.
* * * *
The game started not long after that, and Casey found herself getting excited as Tyler took the mound to throw his warm-up pitches. The crowd was quite large by then, even for a cold night, and the buzz was building. He looked so tall from there, not only because he was standing on the dirt mound, but the uniform pants made his legs appear long and slender. He was wearing long sleeves under his uniform top, too, like long underwear.
The PA announcer introduced the first batter as named Franco, and a Dodgers player strode out of their dugout and took his place at the plate. Casey had a better appreciation of the glare that Tyler was giving the guy, now that she knew how odd it looked on his face. “I guess that’s what they mean by ‘game face,’” she said to Missy.
“Yeah. He’s… ” But Missy broke off as Tyler kicked and threw his first pitch right over the batter’s head to the fence protecting the crowd directly behind the plate. “Oh, Jesus.”
“Does he do that often? Is he hurt?”
“I don’t… ” Missy fell silent as she watched her husband call time and then go out to the mound as if trying to calm his pitcher down. “I don’t believe this nervous act, but the rookie in the batter’s box sure looks convinced.” The guy practically tiptoed back into place.
The next pitch also went really wide. This time Mad Dog didn’t go out to the mound, just shouted something from behind the plate, got a new ball from the umpire and tossed it to Tyler.
“They’re toying with him,” Missy said. “I think.”
The next three pitches were strikes, “right down the middle,” Missy said with glee, and the umpire did a kind of dance move that was apparently his signal to the batter to go and sit down. Now she could see Tyler holding his glove over his face, but his shoulders were shaking like he was laughing.
Missy clucked her tongue. “They made a fool of that kid Franco on national television. Sheesh. Tyler better send him a bottle of champagne and a card that says ‘welcome to the big leagues.’ I feel sorry for him. Well, a little. Kid’ll probably hear it from all his teammates, then hit a home run next time up. Don’t be surprised if their pitcher doesn’t drill our shortstop in the ribs to get back at him.”
It took Casey a while to realize she meant the pitcher might intentionally hit one of the Robins with the ball. The rest of the inning went well, both men hitting the ball softly to the fielders standing behind Tyler.
The next few innings went by a bit more slowly, though, as Tyler seemed to not be able to get three men in a row out; walking some, giving up some hits. He still didn’t give up any runs, but it seemed like a near escape each time. The Robins got two runs on a home run in the fourth, though, and after Tyler worked his way out of a jam in the top of the fifth, Missy declared she was freezing and it was time to go in search of a hot drink.
As predicted, the concession stands were out of coffee and hot chocolate. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”
“Have you seen the luxury suite level yet? It’s nice, and it’s warm up there. The suites are heated and there’s a big restaurant up there with a bar. They won’t care if we hang out for a little while.”
“We don’t need special passes to be up there or something?”
“Not to ride the elevator. And they’ve never stopped me from sitting at the bar, either. Although the bar doesn’t have coffee. Well, come on.”
Casey foll
owed her to the elevator, operated by an usher in a bright red windbreaker. They got out on the level with the luxury suites, but to Casey’s surprise, Missy didn’t lead her to the right following sign that read “Suites.” They went left, following the sign that said “Media.”
“Are you sure we’re allowed to go here?” Casey said, feeling rather like they were sneaking into the backstage area at a concert.
“The writers always have coffee,” Missy said, ignoring the question. “Even when it’s ninety degrees out.” She pulled open the door marked “Press Box: Media Only” and brought them face to face with a huge black man in a security guard’s uniform.
“Travis!” Missy cried.
“Mis-sy Madison!” he answered and let her hug him, though she only came up to his chest. “How are you, girl?”
“I love this man,” Missy said to Casey. “Don’t tell Mad Dog. Trav, I’m great, but freezing my tail off. This is my friend Casey, by the way. We came searching for coffee.”
“They’ve got a pot running in the dining room,” Travis said, bowing and extending his hand as if opening an invisible door for them. “And I can smell the popcorn machine running, too.”
“Ooh, so can I,” Missy said as she hurried past.
“Er, thanks.” Casey gave a little wave to Travis as she went by, then followed her friend into what looked like a small cafeteria. Off to one side, there were self-serve drink machines, and a set-up of glass coffeepots like Casey had seen in diners, with one pot of decaf among three caf. Next to that was a soft-serve ice cream machine, and in the corner what looked like an old-style popcorn maker on a cart, a holder on the cart’s side full of paper bags. If the number of kernels scattered around on the floor was any indication, popcorn was a popular snack with the writers. “I guess they figure if they feed them, they’ll be less cranky and write nicer stories?”
Missy shrugged. “I think they pay to eat dinner in here, some token amount like ten bucks or something, but yeah, seems like the snacks are free.” She held a coffee cup in her hands and closed her eyes as she inhaled the steam. “What about you? Some coffee?”
“Ah, no, if I drink coffee this late, I won’t get to sleep for ages. I have to be at the office at nine for a meeting.”
“Ugh, poor you,” Missy said, ending her communion with the steam and finally taking a sip. “I’m used to him not getting home until midnight and we’ll be up until two or three a.m. sometimes after that. He doesn’t have to be at the ballpark until two or three in the afternoon, so we tend to sleep from like three in the morning until eleven. It sucks when they have a day game on a Saturday or something. Well, for him. I sleep in.”
“You don’t have a job?”
“Not really. I do some volunteering kind of stuff, but it’s mostly just to keep me busy when he’s not around. He’s making more than ten million dollars in base salary this year, so whatever paltry amount I could add to that seems kind of pointless, you know? I figure we’re going to have kids soon anyway, so that’ll keep me plenty busy.”
They sat at a table. Across the room, a widescreen TV showed the game continuing, but Casey wasn’t really paying attention to it. “Tyler was saying you guys have been married like ten years?”
“Yeah. And most of the players who marry young, they start having kids right away. But then they play, what, fifteen, twenty years including their time in the minors, if they’re lucky? And just when Dad retires from baseball and is ready to spend some time with the kids, the kids are all grown up and moving out and stuff. Well, maybe they do it that way on purpose, but we didn’t want it to be that way. I didn’t want my kids to mostly know their father as a plaque on the wall. So we figure we’ll start soon, maybe have two or three, and they’ll be between four and seven or so around the time he gets ready to quit.”
Casey just stared at her.
“What?”
“That’s so… organized.” She stared at Missy’s coffee cup. “It never really occurred to me that you could plan it like that. I always figured people just kind of… met each other, dated for a while, then got married, then had kids kind of… organically. Well, that’s what I always thought would happen for me, anyway. I don’t seem to get past stage one very often, though.”
Missy shrugged. “I’ve been blessed. We were love at first sight. I never thought I was going to grow up to be a baseball wife. But as long as we have each other, you know what? I’m good with all the rest of it. Even putting up with the queen bees and everyone calling my husband Mad Dog. Hell, even I call him that now.”
“It’s cute,” Casey said. “Although I kind of get the feeling he’s a much more level-headed guy than the nickname implies. Is it like when they call a really skinny guy Fatso?”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” Missy looked up suddenly. “Uh oh.”
“What?” Casey looked at the TV screen. The shot was mostly of the dark sky. Then Casey realized the camera was following the trajectory of a tiny white baseball as it flew off into the night. “Oh, shit, did Tyler give them that one?”
“Looks like.” Missy went over to turn up the sound but before she even got there the score updated on the screen. “Oh, jeez, that was a three-run shot. Now they’re losing.”
“What, no… ” But there it was: Giants 3, Robins 2. “Wow, Tyler looks really pissed off.” They were showing him stomping around on the mound, picking up what looked like a stuffed white sweat sock on the ground and throwing it back down, and mouthing all kinds of obscenities to himself. Then Mad Dog was there in the picture too, earnest and focused, patting him on the back and giving him some kind of advice.
On the very next pitch, the batter popped up, Mad Dog threw away his catcher’s mask and caught the ball, then a commercial came on. It must have been the third out, Casey realized.
“Ah well,” Missy chirped. “At least they’re getting right on a plane after this and we won’t have to deal with the tantrums if they lose.”
“Tantrums?”
“Okay, not so much tantrums. Mine is more prone to sulks. Tyler… well, you never can tell with Tyler.”
“Oh.” Casey hadn’t really thought about it, but she supposed that was the baseball player’s equivalent of the bad day at work. Only they got to have it in front of tens of thousands of people, live on television, then have it analyzed in the news the next day. “God, I’m glad when I fuck up at work there isn’t a press corps covering my every move.”
That made Missy snigger and they got talking about various writers Missy knew, some of whom she liked, some she didn’t, and so it was somewhat surprising when one of the writers she liked walked in a few minutes later.
“Here for some coffee, Ken?” she teased, as he made a beeline for the coffee set-up.
“God, yes, it’s freezing out there. And now we’re in rain delay. Crazy Boston weather.”
“We are?” They all looked back at the television, which was showing commercials again.
“Ken, this is my friend Casey. We came up here to get out of the cold.”
Casey shook his hand. He was wearing a button-down shirt and a pullover sweater vest and was going gray around the edges of his hair. “Nice to meet you.”
“Ken, your honest opinion,” Missy said suddenly. “Is Tyler out of his mind? Was that whole thing with the leadoff batter an act? Or is he losing it?”
“Let me get some popcorn and we can discuss it, since now I’ve got at least a half-hour to kill even if the rain stops this minute.” He filled a bag to overflowing using a big metal scoop, then showered the bag with some kind of salt and carried it back the table.
“Okay, is he crazy?” Ken repeated. “Yes, but that’s not news. I think they were just playing with Hernandez, who’s fast and can bunt for a hit, but green. He’s only been up for like a week… ”
Casey didn’t understand a lot of what was said after that, as the two of them chatted about pitching in fairly detailed terms. But it seemed to corroborate a lot of what she’d picked up from the papers, t
oo. Tyler hadn’t been having a good year so far. He’d lost his first four starts of the year in a row, at least partly due to some fluke bad luck, then had won his last game, the game Casey had come to. If he lost this one, he’d be not only on his way to a terrible record, but he’d be in the doghouse with the fans and the team, too.
More writers came in as the delay stretched on, and soon it was like a small cocktail party, except everyone was drinking coffee and eating popcorn. Then a bit after that, a very gray-haired man in a wrinkled suit jacket burst in. All the writers looked at him as if he were a person of some importance.
“Sleet,” he announced. “Ice pellets. The end times are nigh.”
A hearty cheer went up from the writers.
It was another two hours before the game was called off officially and Ken shook Missy’s hand and said, “Well, I guess Hammond’s luck had to change sometime.”
Casey was surprised. “What? Didn’t he lose 3-2?”
Missy stood up. “No. The rainout rolls the score back to the end of the last full inning. That three-run bomb doesn’t count now. And because he pitched the full five innings, it’s considered an official game, so he got lucky, all right.”
“That’s awesome.” Casey wondered what Tyler would say about it. She supposed she could read about it in the paper in the morning.
Or she could call him when she got back to the apartment.
* * * *
It was late but she didn’t feel like sleeping, so she called his cell phone. “Hey, they tell me you got lucky.”
“Hey, yeah, but I’ll take it. Makes up for some of the bullshit losses from last month.” He sounded tired. “We’re about to get on the plane but I can call you back once we sit down.”
“No, that’s all right,” she said. “I gotta crash now anyway. I just… oh, God, this is going to sound so corny, but… I actually just wanted to hear your voice.”
