Choosing Sophie

by Leslie Carroll

  Dusty pulled me aside. “I don’t think my ticker can handle anything stronger than decaf at this hour, Venus.”

  Suddenly I was a short-order cook. And when Kyle mentioned that he was “kinda hungry,” I found myself making pancakes for everyone—well, everyone except Sophie, who wouldn’t eat them because they contained dairy products.

  “Just what I love—the whole family gathered around the breakfast table,” I quipped. Maintaining a sense of humor was my only hope of getting through these awkward minutes. But I wasn’t about to kick Kyle out of the house. After all, I wanted to know what his intentions were toward my daughter.

  So did Dusty. He gestured to Kyle and Sophie. “So, is this…a thing?” he asked his pitching ace. “Because if it’s not a thing…I can’t have no bad blood, Kyle. It wrecks the team’s morale.”

  Kyle reached for Sophie’s hand. Their fingers entwined affectionately. Sophie gave Kyle a shy glance. “Don’t worry, sir. It’s a thing,” he told Dusty.

  Sophie blushed. “It better be, after tonight.” She gave Kyle a playful shot in the arm.

  So my supposition about Sophie’s First Time had been correct. I couldn’t wait to have that mother-daughter chat with her. But time seemed to be moving at the speed of refrigerated maple syrup. “And you are Kyle, aren’t you?” I asked the young man, only half kidding. “After all, you’ve demonstrated a propensity for making undesignated switches.”

  Now Kyle blushed. “I only did that the one time, Ms. deMarley—I swear it. I wanted so bad to be a Cheer that I couldn’t let anything stand in my way.”

  “So, you didn’t send a stand-in into my guest room tonight. I mean you aren’t a stand-in.”

  “I’m not Lyle—I promise. Want to see my driver’s license?”

  “So…are you two a ‘thing’?” Sophie asked me, looking at Dusty.

  “Dusty was just seeing me home this evening.”

  Sophie narrowed her eyes. “Unh-huh. When he lives less than half a mile from the stadium.”

  “Maybe we oughta come clean,” Dusty said, smiling at me. “Sophie, I’ve become quite fond of your mother. As an expert on the game of baseball, I still think she’s got a lot to learn, but as a woman, I find her pretty remarkable.”

  “Join the club,” Sophie grinned. “My mom’s definitely a pretty awesome lady. But if you hurt her, you’re going to have to answer to me; and I’ll kick your butt.” At least she was still smiling.

  “Don’t worry, Sophie. If ever I do the slightest thing to make your mother unhappy—not counting a pitching change or rearranging the lineup—I’ll be kicking myself ‘from here to kingdom come,’ as Ro—as someone I knew—used to say.”

  I caught the slip and looked away. There was a fifth person in the room, even now. It didn’t make our little coffee klatch any easier.

  Kyle chowed down on the pancakes. I inhaled mug after mug of high-octane coffee. It wasn’t even midnight yet. Gee, maybe we should all catch a movie.

  After his third helping, the pitcher pushed his chair back from the table. Looking at Sophie, he said, “I guess I’d better be getting on home, now. I, um, I told my brother I’d help him hook up his stereo equipment. He just moved in with me,” Kyle said. “Can I give you a ride home, sir?” he asked Dusty.

  “Don’t you live in Queens?” the manager replied.

  “It’s not so far to the Bronx from there. It’ll be no trouble at all, sir.”

  Dusty hesitated. I reached under the table and touched his hand, making it clear that he was free to spend the night if he still wanted to. But he leaned over and murmured in my ear, “Aww, I think you and Sophie might like to have a little heart-to-heart tonight, and I’ll just be two hundred extra pounds of baggage to deal with.”

  “Sophie, where’d you put the other helmet?” Kyle asked her.

  Dusty paled. “Helmet?”

  “Yeah, I brought the bike down tonight.”

  “On second thought…I don’t think these old bones were meant for riding motorcycles. ’Sides, I might throw you off-balance,” Dusty added, patting his gut.

  “It’s a sturdy machine, sir,” Kyle assured him.

  The sight of Dusty Fredericks in his pink Cheers uniform and red crash helmet was worth a photo; in fact, Sophie dashed off to find her cell phone so she could take a picture. “I think I’ll send this off to the Daily News,” she teased, showing us the snapshot. “Look how adorable you look, Dusty!”

  “Yeah—kind of like Cupid meets Evel Knievel,” I said, tickling him in the ribs.

  He grabbed my hand and squeezed it, to keep me from going after his midsection again. “I get the hiccups when I get tickled!” he said. He turned to give me a hug, just as Kyle turned to embrace Sophie.

  “See you tomorrow!” the men said in tandem, as though they’d been scripted.

  Sophie and I looked at each other and tried not to crack up. “Get home safely,” we replied in unison.

  As soon as we locked the door behind them, we burst into laughter. It felt good to release the tension. A huge relief. Sophie yanked my hand and dragged me over to the living room sofa. “So? Was he good?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, c’mon, Mom. You and Dusty. You—you did it, didn’t you?”

  I tried to maintain an aura of mystery. “None of your business,” I said coolly, then started to laugh again. “It’s not appropriate to talk about it with you, of all people,” I told her.

  “Gimme a break. Look at you—you’re dying to tell someone what happened after the game tonight. And who better but me. Who else, I mean?”

  “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  She scrunched up her face. “Spoilsport.”

  “Deal with it.” But how was I going to bring up the Kyle-virginity thing? “We need to talk, Soph. I think you owe me a…” I was floundering. “I don’t know how to put it…not exactly an explanation, but…I mean I know you’re an adult, and in some ways it’s not my business, but I’m still your mom, and we missed that oh-so-vital birds-and-bees discussion we should have had about a dozen years ago…did you at least use protection?”

  “Did you?”

  I wasn’t about to give her an answer. And if we were going to operate on a level playing field, she had the right not to respond to my question.

  “I know what I’m doing,” Sophie said simply. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, remembering the trip we’d made to the drug store just before Christmas. “You’re the Rubber Maid.”

  Pretending very hard to be angry and mortally insulted, she tossed a throw pillow at me. “Witch!”

  The Cheers had been performing extremely well for the past couple of weeks, which was all to the good, since I had a fund-raiser to coordinate. Sophie’s softball coach at Clarendon had approached me about doing a little something to help their program. So the Cheers were going to play three innings against the most recent crop of Kumquats before their 8:00 p.m. start against the Albany Filibusters. It was looking very much like the Cheers and the Filibusters were in a head-to-head battle for the wild-card slot in the A-ball playoffs, so the game was sure to be a sellout. And the girls’ softball team was going to be the beneficiary of the entire gate.

  There was a holiday mood in the stands on the day of the fund-raiser. We had a sell-out crowd on hand. How many of them were there to support the Kumquats, and how many were itching to see the Cheers forestall the Filibusters, was up for debate, but the bottom line was that it didn’t make a difference to the bottom line. Clarendon’s women’s softball team was going to get the whole tasty enchilada. It was a Title IX dream come true.

  One of the selling points of the fund-raiser had been the promise of a full demonstration of the Cheers’ stripper-style warm-up in front of the crowd before the start of the exhibition game.

  “Take it off!” the fans shouted, as the guys gyrated to the strains of “Love Potion No. 9,” bumping their hips and grinding their pelvises, crawling and arching
their backs like alley cats, and executing standing crunches that showed off their killer pecs and abs. Romeo Hicks in particular, really got into it, adding a few choice moves of his own that could have landed him a job as a Chippendales dancer. My jaw dropped when some of the women in the stands began to toss dollar bills at him. This, of course, encouraged some of the other players to go for the gusto as well, and in a matter of minutes, the Cheers were being showered with greenbacks.

  Wait till I tell them that money’s going to the girls’ softball team as well, I thought.

  We had gift bags for every fan, filled with discount coupons from local merchants, a raffle ticket for a set of Dusty’s hand-painted drinking glasses, and a baseball cap designed by Joy Ashe just for the occasion, sporting an image of Razzie the Raspberry and Clarendon’s Clara the Kumquat holding hands, a match truly made in the produce aisle.

  Sophie was suited up and ready to take the field. “How’s your arm feel?” she asked me.

  I shook it vigorously and swung it around and around, releasing any kinks in my elbow and rust in my rotator cuff. “Good, I think. Except my guts are in knots. In all the games the Cheers have played, you know I’ve never tossed out the first pitch.”

  “Don’t ‘toss’ it—hurl it. Aim for the center of Spot’s mitt. Don’t take your eyes off that sweet spot. If you look where you throw, you can’t miss—most of the time. And don’t be nervous. You’ve danced mostly naked in front of people who were close enough to you to be sprayed by your sweat; throwing a baseball sixty feet should be a piece of cake by comparison. And don’t embarrass me,” she teased. “Make me proud of you, Mom.”

  I gave her a huge hug. “Don’t forget to adjust your stance against Kyle so you can make contact with his sinker. He’s going to play this game for keeps.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom.” She gave me a high five. “So am I.”

  You know how people always tell you to picture the crowd in their underwear, so performing in front of them won’t seem so daunting? In my case, I had to imagine myself in my scanties in order to get up the gumption to step onto the field. I swear I needed to pee throughout the entire national anthem, but there was no escape route. And when I took the mound in my game cap and my Cheers uniform—raspberry is a terrible color for redheads; what had I been thinking?—home plate had never looked farther away. Suddenly, I had a renewed appreciation for pitching skills, even the dearly departed Tommy DuPree’s. Gripped with fear, I probably took longer to release the ball than Steve Trachsel. And when it bounced off Spot Baldo’s mitt and into the dirt in front of the plate, I sighed with relief that at least I’d reached the catcher.

  I jogged back to home plate and shook Spot’s hand. “Stretno,” I said to him. “Good luck! Vidimo se! See you later!”

  “You are good woman!” he exclaimed, grinning and pumping my hand. “You speak to me in Croatian! Yes!” He kissed me on both cheeks.

  Kyle only pitched the first inning, so he could save his arm for the game against the Filibusters. But people had coughed up good money to see our ace, so I couldn’t disappoint them. I practically had an orgasm when Sophie got a line drive off him.

  “That wasn’t a gimme,” Dusty observed. “She really hit him.”

  I clutched his arm. “Uh-oh. I mean, I’m ecstatic for Sophie, but I hope that doesn’t bode well for Albany.”

  “We’ll be okay,” he assured me. “The guys’ll play the Kumquats hard enough—but not that hard.”

  “What are you saying? Or not saying?” Carleen McLure successfully laid down a bunt, moving the Kumquats’ base runner over to third. “You go, girl!” I shouted.

  “I told them to conserve their energy. They’ll give the Clarendon fans a good show for their charitable contributions, but they’ll leave enough in the bank to forestall the Filibusters. In fact, I told our kids to give Albany the impression that the upstaters’ll be able to stomp all over them later. Then we’ll ramp it up again and surprise the hell out of ’em.”

  I knew Dusty was doing the right thing. And it’s what I paid him to do. Though I wanted the Kumquats to kick butt, I also wanted to get my A-ball team into the playoffs. Under my aegis, the Cheers would be a laughingstock no more—in spite of their pink uniforms. And when the Kumquats lost, 3–1, the women were universally deemed to have acquitted themselves quite well against the team that was rapidly becoming the Atlantic Coast League’s version of the Little Engine That Could.

  “I hit him, I hit him!” Sophie kept exclaiming ecstatically after the game. She ran up to Kyle Angel and jumped him, straddling him with her legs and planting a huge kiss on his lips. “I hit you, I hit you!”

  “Remind me never to let that happen again,” he teased.

  “How’s your arm?” She dragged her beau into the dugout, sat him down, and began to vigorously knead his shoulders as if she were managing a prize fighter. “Don’t forget the Filibusters’ dirty tricks,” she reminded Kyle. “The second baseman, Tony Travis, is Mr. Melodrama. He always pretends to be nailed by a pitch. He’ll hit the dirt, roll over, and practically play dead until the ump awards him first base. And their center fielder—number 34, Corey Sparks—they call him ‘the Sparkplug.’ He’ll try to fake a sprint for second, and you’ll end up getting charged with a balk. He does that to pitchers all the time. Wanna shower with me before the game?”

  “What?” Kyle looked like he wasn’t sure whether to act shocked or excited by Sophie’s unusual invitation.

  “Well, I certainly want to hit the showers before I watch you guys play the Filibusters. And I thought you might want to freshen up before you have to get all sweaty again. Mom’s about to start the ‘intermission’ show, so we’ll have plenty of time.” Sophie flashed him a seductive grin.

  I couldn’t believe what I’d just overheard coming out of my not-too-lately-virginal and socially reticent daughter. I started chuckling; Sophie reminded me so much of myself in that moment that I wondered if maybe there was something to be said for genetics when it came to libidos. The girl was certainly feeling her oats, and a couple of other things, too.

  “Uh…Soph. People are watching,” I whispered in her ear.

  She gazed at Kyle, utterly smitten. “Good!” She beamed. “I bet they all wish they were me right now. Did you know that some guy from Esquire called Kyle and wants to do an article on him as the sexiest young athlete of the year?”

  “Sorry to break up such a touching love scene,” Dusty said unapologetically. “Sophie, I need my ace.”

  “He’s yours—until eleven o’clock tonight,” Sophie said. She gave Kyle a kiss, followed by a playful swat on the ass. “Now, go put us one game closer to the playoffs, honey!” she commanded him.

  I’d drafted some of the girls who used to dance for me to perform between the Kumquat and Filibuster games. And I got our mascot into the act, just to make sure that the fun stayed more or less on the wholesome side. Razzie and the scantily clad showgirls got the fans onto their feet, teaching them a simple strut and a bump-and-grind routine. The men just ate it up, while the female fans learned some titillating moves that their partners would no doubt enjoy for nights to come. In fact, the show was so well received that I decided to put the girls on the payroll and incorporate their act into the seventh-inning stretch from now on. It certainly had a lot more pizzazz than sending the mascot out to shoot T-shirts into the stands with a giant air gun, or having a hokey foot race between the hot dog, mustard, and relish heads.

  Surprisingly, the game against Albany turned into a pitchers’ duel, with both starters shutting down the opposing team’s batters until the top of the seventh, when our right-hander, Lefty Pace, walked Corey Sparks, who then stole second off him. True to Sophie’s scouting report, the Filibusters’ Tony Travis turned sideways into a pitch, then acted like Lefty had beaned him right in the kidney. None of us in the Cheers’ dugout saw any contact whatsoever between the ball and Tony’s body, but the second baseman’s theatrics were enough to convince the umpire to give him fi
rst base and issue a warning to Lefty. Lefty, who had a temper, as well as a rather pronounced notion of justice, aimed for the next batter’s head, which earned him a second warning.

  Our kids grew increasingly testy as Albany got cockier, and I thanked my stars that no fights broke out, because we couldn’t afford to lose any players to the showers.

  Dusty and his pitching coach jogged out to the mound and had a little chat with Lefty. Whatever they said worked, because he retired the side, preserving the no-hitter into the seventh-inning stretch. But the war of attrition dragged on into the eleventh. With a man finally in scoring position, the fans rose to their feet, but Hollis Golightly was picked off at second during an ill-timed attempt to steal third. We held our breath as Grand Slammy Santiago stepped up to the plate. Then, inexplicably, he fell to his knees and crossed himself.

  I grabbed Dusty’s forearm. “What the hell’s he doing?”

  “Having a one-man revival meeting, maybe.” Sammy genuflected toward center field. “Though I’d prefer it if he didn’t interrupt the game to express his religious preferences. So would the ump,” Dusty added, noting the increasing impatience of the home plate umpire. “Can you believe that kid used to be a devil worshiper?”

  Sammy raised his arms. “Praise Jesus!” he shouted, then rose to his feet and settled into his batting stance.

  Maybe God really was listening, or maybe Sammy just believed He was, and that was all the proof the born-again slugger needed to knock the next pitch clear over the fence in left field. “The ball was last seen headed for the Canary Islands,” as Sophie put it. Sammy’s home run ended the game, putting the Cheers just one win away from the wild-card berth in the playoffs.

  I was ecstatic. I’d taken the team from the red to the pink; and now that they’d begun to post Ws—and if our Seventh-Inning Strut continued to pack the stands with libidinous baseball fans—the Cheers’ financials could be firmly in the black before the season ended.