by Gemma Bruce
Chapter 22
Two days before the opening-season game with the Allegheny Drillers, a weather front moved in, the air grew chill, and the rain came down. It started with dark rolling clouds that turned the morning to dusk. The rain began as a mist, grew into drops, then pounded down in sheets, turning the diamond into rivulets of mud.
It was a setback, J.T. mused as she huddled with the players beneath the awning of the dugout, watching Castaldi, Mr. Harris, and several other people from the front office unrolling an ancient tarp over the diamond.
Her first article had come out in Sports Today and Rob Brown read aloud to the others. The article was buried on a back page, cut in half with, to J.T.’s mind, most of the interesting points edited out.
In spite of this, it managed to paint an accurate picture of a team struggling against a changing demographic. It mentioned a few of the players by name. That was enough for them, to be mentioned in a national sports magazine. It provided a tiny bright spot in the gloomy day. At least the article had managed to keep the upbeat, optimistic mood she’d been trying to create. And she had to be thankful that if it wasn’t up to her standards, it made the team happy.
For her, the writing was pretty much on the wall. She’d sent in a compassionate character study. What was printed was raw facts and a few observations.
Tommy was the only one who seemed to notice her disappointment. But he’d left the ballpark almost as soon as he’d arrived. He had meetings, builders to consult. He was going full steam ahead with his plans for the community center.
So she was surprised when he came outside at a little before three, dressed in sweats, carrying the equipment bag and holding two Galaxies rain ponchos.
“They’ll be there,” he said. “You copping out?”
“Hell no,” said J.T. “I’d rather be wet and working than sitting here doing nothing.” And worrying about her failing career as a journalist.
“Then let’s get going. Frankly, I’m hoping they’ll settle for pizza and talk. There’s a neighborhood joint just a couple of blocks away.”
Two-thirds of the team were waiting under a tree near the sidewalk. Some were wearing raincoats or ponchos. Others just shivered in rapidly soaking sweatshirts.
It was a unanimous decision and they jogged as a group to Angelo’s Pizza Kitchen on Grove Street. They filled every table of the small restaurant, loud, rowdy, and as excited as if it had been Christmas.
They fell silent as soon as the food arrived, downing several pies and pitchers of soda in record time.
Then Tommy called them to order and talked to them about baseball. He was great at it, mixing the elements of the squeeze play, the run back, and the infield fly rule with advice to keep their eyes on their goal and the importance of schoolwork. This last brought a chorus of groans.
“No really,” Tommy said. “How do you think I got to be a pitcher for the Galaxies?”
“’Cause you’re the man.”
Tommy grinned, but shook his head. “Because I used my brains. And I didn’t like it at first anymore than you, but my dad made me study. Told me to make something of myself. And he was right. I don’t have the fastest fast ball, and my cutter misses the plate one out of five times.” He pointed to his temple. “But I know how to use this. Don’t underestimate it. Good thinking can get you past bad playing, but mush for brains won’t. My dad knew that. And now I do, too. Don’t forget it.”
The rain let up and they went back to the lot to be picked up by their parents. Tommy and J.T. walked a few feet behind them, watching as they jumped into puddles and pushed each other good-naturedly.
“You’re good with kids,” J.T. said.
“I learned it from the best.”
“Your dad sounds like a remarkable man.”
“He was. He didn’t finish high school. Worked in the mill all his life, just like his father had. He wanted better for his children, but the mill closed down and everybody’s plans got shot to shit. Not just ours. But we’ve done all right. Even though I was the only one who made it to college.
“He died when I was fifteen. I hope he knows that I made it.”
Tommy fell silent. He was surprised at how J.T. had drawn him out of himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t talk about his father. He did. But he rarely let himself visit that painful time.
They walked for a while without talking, then J.T. said, “Bernie told me he taught you how to throw a curve.”
“He did, but he taught me a lot more. He’d been working down in Florida, but he was born and raised here. Every time he came home for a visit, he took me out to a vacant lot near the factory and taught me everything I could absorb, how to throw and catch, hold a bat, throw a curve.
“When Dad died, Bernie came home to be a pallbearer and be with the family. After the funeral he took me out to the lot.” Tommy paused, collected his breath. “I was still wearing my suit from the funeral. He asked me, ‘What did your papa want most in the world for you?’”
Tommy’s throat tightened as memory assaulted him. “I said, ‘To get an education.’ But I knew I never would. None of my brothers or sisters went to college. I already had a paper route after school and I figured I’d have to get a second job just to help out Ma.”
J.T. touched his arm and it was comforting beyond anything he’d ever felt.
“I don’t know why I’m carrying on like this. What were we talking about?”
“Bernie after the funeral.”
“No. I mean before.”
“I don’t know. I want to hear what Bernie told you.”
“He said that he’d promised my dad that he’d see to it that I went to college. I knew he couldn’t afford to send me. But it was such a Bernie thing to say, that I just started crying.
“He just stood there, not saying anything, waiting for it to all come out.
“After a while I realized he was holding a baseball. He shook it at me and said, ‘This is your ticket outta here, Tommy, my boy. I’m gonna show you how to use it. What you do with it is up to you.’”
Tommy chuckled. He remembered that day like it was yesterday.
“That afternoon I learned to throw a sinker. Even after Bernie went back to Florida, I’d go out to the lot every night and practice. I had three balls. I’d throw them up against a big old piece of cardboard, go after them, and throw them again until it was dark. Then I’d go home and study.
“At Christmas Bernie sent me a case of baseballs. I…I still have every one of them under my bed. Well. It’s Wayne’s bed now.”
J.T. was staring straight ahead. She was probably embarrassed for him. He didn’t know what had possessed him to bare his soul to her. He must sound like one of those up-close-and-personal sap stories that the networks loved to run.
“Anyway, the rest is history. I hope you’re not going to print any of this.”
J.T. stopped, cocked her head, bit her lip. Her eyes were misty. He realized his were, too.
“I won’t print anything you don’t want me to.”
“Thanks.”
A few years later, he’d won a baseball scholarship to GW. After he graduated he spent eighteen months in the minors, then moved up to the big game. He’d been there ever since. It had been a good life, but now he had more important things to do. His surgery had just been a salutary reminder of what he owed.
They reached the lot and waited until all the kids had been picked up or gone home. Tommy was barely aware of the rain, or the moment when it changed from a drizzle to a downpour.
They were both rapidly becoming drenched. It turned him on. Just the way her clothes had started to cling to her body. The way her hair curled around her face. He thought about kissing her, there in the vacant lot, but he knew she’d shy away. She didn’t want anyone to know they were an item. He wondered what that said about him.
Most of the team was still hunched on the bench when J.T. and Tommy returned to the ballpark. Bernie was pacing, but since only half of the space was covered by the
corrugated roof, he was drenched on both sides. His cigar had taken the worst hit and had started to unravel as it became more and more soaked with rain.
“Could somebody just cut me a break here?” he asked when he saw Tommy and J.T.
“You can’t play on that field even if it stops,” said Tommy. “Take them inside and show them some tape. Show them what they’re doing wrong, and what they’re doing right. Get them thinking.”
“Yeah, right,” grumbled Bernie. “All right, get moving. Get Castaldi to put on some coffee.”
The players got up and slowly filed back down the hall to the media room. Their burst of energy had died out with the first raindrop. Rob Brown closed his paperback and stuck it under his arm. Ramirez and Benitez scooped up their deck of cards. Boskey walked by, muttering under his breath, something that sounded like banana splits.
Kurtz was already in the locker room, jumping rope.
“He’s going to give himself shin splints,” said J.T. to Tommy. “It’s concrete under that carpet.”
“I wouldn’t bother about him. He’s smart enough to know not to jump on concrete. But he has a scout coming to the game, or so he’s told anybody who would listen. If he doesn’t burn out in the next two days, maybe he’ll get picked up and we’ll see the last of him.”
“You don’t like him.”
“I don’t think he’s good for the team. He was here for the end of last season. Bernie thought he was going to be an asset. I think he’s just trouble.”
“I think he’s taking drugs.”
Tommy shot her a sideways glance. “So do I. He’s bulked up considerably since last year. But Bernie insists on drug tests, and he passed the last one. I asked.
“And don’t give me that look, I know there are ways to create a false negative. But I’m loathe to rock the boat, considering everything else that’s happening. That’s all Bernie needs—to have to pull his starting shortstop and most consistent hitter.”
“I can’t believe you said that.”
“I know. I can’t believe I said that, either. I just dread the consequences. I’ll talk to Bernie about another test.”
“The aggressive behavior, the nervousness. They’re all symptoms of steroid abuse. I think he’s stacking. I researched an article on it last year. And if he is, that makes him a prime candidate for a heart attack or liver failure. What if he drops dead during a game?” J.T. sighed. “It’s for Kurtz’s own good.”
“I doubt if Kurtz will think so.”
Bernie didn’t think so, either. “What are you trying to do to me? We had a test at the beginning of spring training. Everybody was clean.”
“Everybody knew about the test in advance.”
“So? We’re not even required to give them.”
“But you always do.”
“We’ve got a game in two days.” He waited for Tommy’s response. When Tommy didn’t speak, he said, “Aw, hell. Castaldi. Forget the coffee, bring out the paper cups.”
The results were posted the next day. The team was clean, except one player. Bobby Kurtz.
Tommy hated to put Bernie and Larry and the team in this position. Just one more nail in the Beavers coffin. But drugs were drugs. It was time all the leagues accepted that and started cleaning house. Their attitude set a terrible example for young players and younger fans. He was just sorry that it had to begin with the Beavers.
The locker room was like a morgue. No one talked as they suited up for practice. They didn’t like Kurtz, but they needed him.
“Tommy?”
Tommy turned to see the clubbie Castaldi standing in the open doorway. “Mr. Chrysler and Bernie want you in the main office.”
Tommy nodded and made the long walk to the front.
Larry, Bernie, Kurtz, and Jimmy Griffith, the Beavers part-time trainer, were already there. Kurtz jumped up when Tommy entered. “This is your fault. I’m not taking steroids, just vitamins.”
Tommy looked at the trainer. “Stan?”
The trainer shook his head. “What can I say. He tested positive.”
“You got the samples mixed up. I’ve got a scout coming tomorrow.”
Tommy doubted that the scout was actually coming to look Kurtz over. He had a track record. No team would send a scout to a Beavers game. There wasn’t one player on the team who could make the grade. Including Kurtz. So it could only mean one thing. The team he scouted for was being courted by Charlie Wiggins.
Larry and Bernie must know that. And Kurtz, too. Though he was so desperate to get back in the game, Tommy doubted if he was thinking clearly.
“I gotta play!” Kurtz looked half crazed. He turned to Larry. “It’s my chance.”
Larry nodded slowly, looked at Bernie.
Bernie was mutilating a cigar. He yanked it out of his mouth and flung it at the wastepaper basket. “Retest him, Jimmy.”
Jimmy nodded and stood up. “Come on, Kurtz.”
Kurtz jumped up. “I don’t need another test. I’m only taking vitamins. If there’s steroids in them, I didn’t know about it.”
Tommy closed his eyes. How many athletes had used that excuse before being fined and suspended from playing.
“Don’t look at me,” Jimmy said. “I haven’t given him anything, not even a B12 shot.” He motioned to Kurtz.
Kurtz stood, took two steps until he was in Tommy’s face. “You’ll pay for this.” He shoved Tommy out of the way and stalked out of the office, Jimmy following at a safe distance behind.
Tommy turned back to face Larry and Bernie. Neither man looked back at him. They weren’t very happy with him.
Finally Larry looked up. “We were doing fine until that damn reporter came here. Did she put you up to this?”
Tommy opened his mouth, closed it. J.T.’s observation had just confirmed his own suspicions that Kurtz was taking drugs. Maybe she was responsible for pushing him into saying something, though he didn’t like to think so.
“She recognized the signs. So did I. What I can’t believe is that neither of you did. Or maybe you just didn’t want to see.”
Larry jumped up. “How dare you.”
“Stop it, both of you.” Bernie was struggling to get to his feet. “I don’t need this shit. It’s bad enough that we’ll probably lose our best hitter for the opening game without having everybody at each other’s throats.” He grabbed his crutches and headed for the door. “I’m going to get Frankenberger ready to start as shortstop, just in case.”
He passed Tommy without looking at him. Tommy let him go, though he felt sick inside. Bernie might be upset now, but he’d come around. He always did.
J.T. was walking down the hall when she saw Kurtz storm out of the main office. She’d heard from the guys that Kurtz’s name had been left off the negative list. She hadn’t been surprised, but she felt sorry for him. Desperation was a terrible thing to witness.
He saw her, growled, and before she knew what was happening, he had her pinned to the wall. His big hands wrapped around her throat. She tried to wrench away, grasped at his fingers, but he was too strong. And too crazy.
“I should kill you.”
“Kurtz, stop it. This won’t help you,” she croaked as her throat closed.
Then she heard footsteps. Bernie’s voice yelling, “Kurtz, goddamn it. What the hell are you doing?”
Then Bernie’s face appeared behind Kurtz. He dropped his crutches and grabbed Kurtz’s shoulder. Kurtz spun around. Bernie lost his balance, struggled a moment, then Kurtz pushed him and he toppled to the floor.
He landed with a thud. J.T. screamed.
“You’re suspended,” Bernie said. “Negative or not. You’re outta here.”
“Fuck you.” Kurtz stepped over him and strode away. He was running by the time he reached the front door.
J.T. helped Bernie up though she wasn’t very steady on her feet. Tommy reached them seconds later. “What happened?”
“Kurtz attacked J.T.”
Tommy’s face drained of color. “A
re you all right? I’ll get Jimmy. Or should we—”
“I’m okay. Bernie’s the one who—”
“I’m fine,” Bernie growled. “Just frigging fine.” He swung his crutches around and started for the locker room. He stopped when he reached the door. “You want to press charges?”
J.T. shook her head. She’d already done enough damage. She wasn’t sure the Beavers could take much more.
Chapter 23
The Saturday of the game dawned sunny and mild. The team was concentrated if a little down over the loss of Bobby Kurtz. Only Frankenberger seemed happy. He was going to be starting for the first time since he joined the team. Sanchez was in uniform, but he wouldn’t be playing. Bernie had decided to start Dela Rocha, and J.T. had seen the two countrymen crossing themselves before Hector left for the bullpen. Boz kept pacing, not talking to anyone but himself and J.T. knew what he was saying. Banana split.
God. She hoped it didn’t let him down. At two thirty, Castaldi took her to the owner’s box from where she would watch the game.
The gate was packed with throngs of people, most wearing the red and white of the Beavers uniforms. It was Hat Day and every person who passed through the gate was given one. J.T. grabbed one and stuck it on her head.
The owner’s box was merely a section placed off to the right of home plate, with aluminum bleachers with backs. Deluxe accommodations. A prim older woman was already sitting there. Her white hair was neatly tied back in a bun beneath her Beavers cap, and she was wearing red slacks and a jacket with a big B on it.
She introduced herself as Thelma Wiggins.
The stands filled rapidly. To their right, a group of children and their parents were sitting in a corded-off section of bleachers. They were all wearing Beavers caps and holding red-and-white thunder sticks. They saw J.T. and waved their sticks at her. It was Tommy’s team and she bet Tommy had comped every one of them.
She waved back and made a victory sign.
And as she looked over the crowd, the hot dog and beer vendors, the children climbing up and down the bleachers as they waited for the game to begin, J.T. knew she was watching something so essentially American that it was hard to remember the huge stadiums, the hundred-dollar tickets, the bets, the contract disputes, the drugs. But drugs had come to the Gilbeytown Beavers. No one was immune from dishonesty.
