“Oh, he’s playing better than ever. He just doesn’t seem to be enjoying it as much. Anyway, it’s not a story. Just a little mystery. And he’s avoiding me like mad.”
Joe Kelsey, also known as Preacher, is the left fielder. He’s an earnest black man from Oakland who has been in the Titan organization since he left high school. He went a bit wild for a year in the minor leagues, getting mixed up with drugs and, apparently, some sexual experimentation he’d like to forget, but found God, cleaned up his act, and has been solid ever since. He doesn’t thump the Bible excessively, which is fine with me.
He’s a complicated guy, always has been, but before this season has always talked freely to me.
“You’ll figure it out, eventually,” Jake said. “When are you going to the ballpark?”
“Soon. I’ve got to explore. Besides, I want to beat the traffic.”
“I’ve got a parking pass for you here somewhere. And your Titan credentials.”
“Thanks. Who else have you got covering?”
“Jeff’s doing a column. I’m sending Roger Chan, the new kid, to do a sidebar. Tell him what you want. Cityside is sending three or four bodies to cover the stadium, the traffic, and the fans. You and Jeff figure out how to divide up the rest. I’ll probably come down myself for a couple of innings. Bill Spencer and Jay Morse are the photographers. Let them know if you want anything special.”
“Well, I might ask them to get some candid stuff of Tiny, just in case.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, by the way, I’ve got two months’ worth of expense sheets for you to sign.”
“The only thing you can be counted on to hand in on time. Get out of here.”
“Yes, boss.”
Chapter 5
Jeff Glebe bummed a ride to the ballpark with me, which is always an adventure. First there’s the problem of fitting his six-foot five-inch frame into my tiny car. The two of us with our briefcases and equipment make for a snug fit. I opened the roof so we could have the illusion of being able to breathe.
The second problem is that Jeff is an extremely nervous passenger. He never says much, but his grip on the door handle and audible intakes of breath are clue enough. And I’m a good driver.
“Relax, Stretch, I’m not going to kill either one of us,” I laughed, glancing over at him, which made him whimper.
We were on the Gardiner Expressway going west, with eighteen-wheelers roaring by in the passing lane. I was going more slowly than usual in deference to Jeff’s sensitive psyche, but it didn’t seem to help.
“Why did I come with her? I forgot, that’s why,” he said, holding a conversation with himself. “I forgot that she’s a maniac who drives a sardine tin on wheels. If I get to the ballpark in one piece I’ll never sin again. I promise.”
“That promise will last about ten minutes.”
“Keep your eyes on the road, for God’s sake.”
“Sheesh, you’re a baby.” I took the new exit to the ballpark, shifting down on the ramp.
“Are we there yet?”
“Open your eyes. Lo, before us is the eighth wonder of the world. Look at the size of it! Do you know where I’m supposed to park?”
He directed me towards an out-of-the-way section of the lot, reserved for press. It figured. The box holders couldn’t be forced to walk an extra couple of hundred yards to the entrance. No, that was for us, with our computers and briefcases and other assorted crap. I pulled into the best spot I could find.
“Want some help getting out?” I asked Jeff.
He stood up in his seat with his head sticking through the roof to get his legs out, which lost him a bit of dignity. Not that he has much to spare. Aside from his height, Jeff is cursed with a face that, while attractive, features a largish and rather beak-like nose. The overall effect is not unlike a flamingo, though not as pink.
“Okay, kiddo, let’s go and make journalism history,” Jeff said.
Even though, at forty, I’ve got almost ten years on him, he always calls me kid. But he has redeeming features. He can write, for a start, and is that rare jock journalist who is neither cynical nor star-struck. Besides, he always laughs at my jokes.
We walked across the parking lot towards the stadium, decked in banners, past recently planted trees and grass that couldn’t quite hide the fact that it had been a construction site only weeks before.
We went in the press entrance and, after some confusion over our credentials, took the elevator to the press box. I was glad to see that the Titans had kept the ancient retainer who passes out press notes and keeps strangers away from the place. He showed us where the Planet seats were in the opulent new press box.
“No windows!” I said. “Hallelujah.”
In the old park, the press box had been sealed in behind glass to keep the elements out. It also kept out crowd sounds and any real excitement in the game being played.
We tried out our new soft swivel chairs, set up our computers, and checked that the phone worked. It was all pretty nice. Looking down on the field, we could see some of the Titans were taking batting practice. Others were gawking like tourists at their new park.
I spotted one of our photographers, but not the one I was looking for. What I wanted was some nice unguarded stuff of Tiny, taking his batting-practice cuts, kidding around with the other players, signing autographs: shots that needed a modicum of sensitivity and imagination. Jay Morse is a good photographer who could handle the assignment easily, but she wasn’t here yet.
Bill Spencer, who was, is one of those journeymen who is fine for pictures of lottery winners and car wrecks, but nothing a lot more challenging. His idea of covering a game is to focus one camera on home plate and the other on second base and snap any action that comes into the frame. I hate working with him. Not only is he unprofessional, he gives me the creeps.
The first day he was assigned to one of my stories, he made it clear that he doesn’t approve of women reporters, especially women sports reporters. Over the years he has delighted in taking pictures of me with naked athletes in the locker room to show around the newsroom, with rude captions attached. Besides, he smells. I decided to leave him to his clichéd shots of the open roof and wait for Jay to get me the stuff I wanted.
“Coming, beautiful?”
“Keep sweet-talking me and I might, big boy.”
When we got to the elevator, Cecil was on duty and, I was glad to see, looking well. He’s a man of about seventy who has been in charge of the elevator since I began covering the team six years ago. He’s a real gentleman.
“Nice to see you back, Miss Henry,” he said.
“And you, too,” I said. “You’re looking well.”
“I’m in the pink, thank you.”
“How was your winter?”
“Pretty good. The wife and I went down to Florida.”
“Did you get any fishing in, Cec?” asked Jeff. Cross-generational guy talk.
“A little. I’m getting on a bit for that. At least that’s what the wife says.”
The elevator stopped at the ground floor and the doors slid open.
“Don’t you believe it,” I said.
“I always say you’re only as young as you feel.”
“You bet, Cec. See you later.”
“Thanks.”
“If he’s right, I’m about seventy-five,” I said as we went into the wide service corridor that ran under the stands. It still showed signs of being under construction. We followed the hand-lettered signs to the tunnel that went past the umpires’ locker room to the Titan dugout.
It was busy on the field. Television crews were setting up, officious production assistants giving unnecessary orders to technicians in down vests and jeans. A dozen blow-dried on-air personalities practised their spiels, pointing out the wonders of the stadium.
The Cleveland
Indians team bus had just arrived, and the players wandered out of their dugout in street clothes, stopping to chat with former teammates and old friends and to stare at the tens of thousands of empty blue seats.
The pitchers were in the outfield running sprints. Tiny was in the batting cage, his face grim. Dummy Doran, the bullpen coach, was tossing soft pitches, but Tiny was popping them all up. Sugar Jenkins, the batting coach, and Red O’Brien, the manager, stood behind the cage with crossed arms and expressionless faces.
When his turn was over, Tiny stepped out of the cage and banged his bat on the ground. Alex Jones jumped in to replace him and began spraying sharp hits in all directions.
Sugar took Tiny to one side, and the two conferred in soft voices, the diminutive coach gesturing with his hands as though he held a bat, while the huge first baseman loomed over him, listening. Finally, Tiny shook his head, then made a remark that made both of them laugh. Turning away, I noticed Jay Morse, snapping pictures of the pair with a long lens.
“Great, Jay,” I said. “Did Jake tell you what I wanted?”
“No, I just thought we might need some pictures of Washington. Things aren’t going very well for him, are they?”
“You’ve got it right.”
I filled her in briefly, and probably unnecessarily, on what I thought we might need, then joined Tiny, who was walking off the field.
“So what did Sugar have to say?”
“Nothing I haven’t heard before.” He put his bat in the rack and stripped off his gloves, then sat down on the bench, a frown on the dark face that usually only smiled.
“I guess not.”
“Have you noticed anything different with my stance lately? I’m not sure my front foot’s right.”
“You’re asking me? You must be desperate. All I can tell you to do is relax.”
“I’ve heard that before, too.”
“Don’t worry, it will come.”
“I’m too old to worry about something I got no control over. I just wish my stroke would come back.”
“Me too, Tiny.”
“’Cause if it doesn’t, you know that kid’s got his bags packed down in Triple A.”
He grabbed his glove and trotted out to the infield. Conversation over.
Just then, Joe Kelsey came over to the rack to choose a bat. I greeted him, and he acknowledged me with a brief nod.
“Is something wrong, Joe?”
“We’re losing, that’s what’s wrong.”
“Is that all? Are you worried about something? Are you mad at me?”
He shook his head and walked away. I shrugged. Just another day in the big leagues.
Chapter 6
By Katherine Henry
Planet Staff
The high point of opening day at the all-new Titan Colosseum yesterday came before the first pitch was thrown. After that, things went downhill fast.
American League President Fulford Covington was on hand to present Titan owner Ted Ferguson with the banner signifying the last year’s Eastern Division Championship, the first such pennant for the team.
The ceremonial first pitch was thrown out by Willy Singleton, the first Titan choice in the expansion draft that created the team. Singleton, now a high-school coach in Ardmore, Pennsylvania, threw a strike, something he rarely did while in Titan uniform.
Then things began getting ugly, on the field and in the stands. It was the Cleveland Indians that looked like champions yesterday afternoon, thumping the Titans, 7–2. The only bright spot for the fans was the home run by first baseman Tiny Washington that accounted for both Titan runs. Washington also had a double and single, indicating that he has broken out of the slump he’s been struggling with since. . . .
“Attention, scribes. There will be a press conference in the lunchroom in fifteen minutes.”
The announcement, by Titan public relations director Hugh Marsh, drew groans from us all.
“What is it, Hugh?”
“Ted and Red will be making the announcement.”
“Come on, give us a break.”
Marsh is new, and he is a disaster. He’s a former vice-president of the brewery that sponsors the Titan broadcasts. He is also an avid baseball fan and statistics nut who decided to take early retirement and live out all his fantasies by working for a baseball team. He loves crunching his numbers and hanging around the ball players, but he hasn’t quite got a handle on his role or that of the press in the greater scheme of things. He hasn’t quite figured out that he is there to help us, not the other way around. Without us, he wouldn’t have a job to do, but is he grateful? Forget it. He treats me the way he probably treated his secretaries in the corporate world.
Still, this time it wasn’t too bad. With an afternoon game, my deadline was far enough away that I didn’t care about the delay. I got up from my seat and stretched the kinks out of my back. There was no point in continuing with the game story. Whatever Fric and Frac were about to announce could end up being more important than the score of the game.
“Want to come get a coffee, sweetie?”
Jeff, in the throes of his usual struggle to find a lead, shook his head.
When I got to the lunchroom, Ted Ferguson, the owner, was already there, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“Well, Kate, how are you?”
He didn’t offer me a cup, so I poured my own.
“What’s this all about? Your public information representative wasn’t willing to go public with any information. Which appears to be a contradiction in terms.”
“Don’t be hard on him Kate. He’ll learn.”
“If he farts around like this on deadline, he’ll learn fast,” I grumbled.
“If you don’t like the way we run things around here, you can always go cover another team,” Ferguson said.
“Thanks a whole lot, Ted. But this isn’t a joke. You’ve got to explain to him that our coverage is important and that he’s got to be more helpful.”
“No one else is complaining, Kate.”
“Which means what, roughly translated, Ted? I’m just some uppity broad who doesn’t know her place?”
“You said it, Kate, not me. But I’ll see what I can do.”
He smiled, showing me lots of caps, then turned away. Just then, Red O’Brien came into the room, followed by Marsh and most of the other reporters.
“Thank you for coming,” Ferguson said, as soon as we had settled into seats around the Formica tables. “Red has a brief announcement to make, and then we’ll open it up for questions. We thought perhaps you might want to talk with us about the season so far. Red?”
He cleared his throat, then scowled.
“We have optioned the contract of utility infielder Bill Stearns to our Triple A affiliate and will replace him on the roster with first baseman Harold Cooper. He’ll be here later tonight. Any questions?”
The innocuous announcement was the beginning of the end of Tiny Washington’s career.
“I take it this decision was reached before today’s game,” I said. “Tiny Washington went three for four. Does that make any difference?”
“The decision had nothing to do with Tiny,” Red said. “The kid deserves a chance.”
“Will Cooper be playing first base tomorrow?”
“Yes, he will. There’s no point having him on the bench. For the time being, Washington will be the designated hitter.”
“Have you told Tiny?”
“I informed him after the game.”
One of the Cleveland writers asked Red about the poor start the Titans were having and half the local reporters got up and broke for the elevators. I didn’t bother. I knew they wouldn’t have made the announcement until Tiny had left the ballpark. I had his home number. I told Roger Chan to bring me quotes from the other players, then went back to the press box and got on the phone.
Cooper was en route and unavailable and Tiny wasn’t home yet. I talked to Jake and promised him a lengthy sidebar on the changes. Then I called Andy.
“I’m working tonight after all,” I said. “At least for a while.”
“Why didn’t you just say you couldn’t? Is baseball more important to you than our relationship?”
It took me a second to realize that he was joking.
“Piss off.”
“I’m working, too,” he laughed. “If I don’t see you later, I’ll call.”
“Everything okay?”
“Crazy and frustrating, mainly. I’ll talk to you later.”
Hanging up, I looked at the game story, realized I didn’t have to change much, and got back to work.
. . . indicating that he has finally broken out of his season-long slump.
However, that didn’t influence the decision of the Titan brass to call up Harold “Kid” Cooper from their Triple A affiliate and hand him Washington’s job. . . .
Chapter 7
I was done well before deadline. Kid Cooper arrived in Toronto on a 7:00 flight and I talked to him as soon as he got to his hotel. He was thrilled, of course. He’s a big farm boy from Kansas who looks and sounds like a player from a simpler, more innocent era in the game. By the time he’s eligible for his first arbitration hearing, he’ll probably be another snotty greedhead, but for now he’d look good on a Norman Rockwell cover.
Tiny was philosophical, as I expected him to be. While claiming that he had several good seasons left once he got his stroke straightened out, he had nothing but good wishes for his replacement. There was some poignant irony in the contrast between the eagerness of the young player and the resignation of the older, and the piece just about wrote itself. I tried to avoid the baseball-as-a-metaphor-for-life bullshit, but some of it inevitably crept in. Jake dug through some old photo contact sheets and found shots of Washington and Cooper together when the young player was called up the previous September. With Jay’s shots from that afternoon, it made a nice spread.
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