Heart of the Game

by Rachel Spangler

  As the pageantry faded, the energy level crescendoed, and a race of chills broke out across Duke’s arms when the lead umpire shouted, “Play ball!”

  This was what she’d lived for every minute of every day for as long as she could remember. At thirty-one years old, she had her dream job. She had unfettered access to the game she loved, and someone actually paid her. All she had to do was watch a sport she would have watched for free and comment on the proceedings occasionally. She would’ve laughed at the absurdity of making money for that if she’d actually been doing her job, but after tweeting out the first pitch, a knee-high curveball from the Cardinals’ ace, she found herself scanning the crowd, wondering where the young mother and her two boys sat.

  The woman had said she’d been only about ten rows behind her son, which would put her almost to the back of the first section behind the home dugout. Nice seats—probably too nice for a single mother of two. There must’ve been a father somewhere she’d missed.

  The writer next to her blew out a low whistle and shook his head, causing Duke to realize she’d made a horribly sexist stereotype. She didn’t need a man to make money for her, or to get her to the ballpark. Why assume that about another woman?

  “LeBaron is dealing,” the writer said.

  “Huh?” She looked up to see a big “K” flash across the scoreboard, indicating their pitcher had recorded his first strikeout. So that was what’d caused his reaction, not some ability to mind-read her decidedly unfeminist thoughts. Maybe the mother was a hotshot lawyer and her husband was a loser. Maybe he was a total deadbeat. Maybe she didn’t even have a husband.

  No, Duke couldn’t go there.

  She tweeted the strikeout and marked it down in the score-keeping app on her tablet. Instead of returning her focus to the game, however, she continued to scan the crowd. Why was she so fixated on finding them? Sure, she still felt embarrassed about her mistake, but that should’ve been a reason to avoid them. Looking for them now only added to her creepy child-stalker credentials. She didn’t want to do anything to incur that kind of wrath again. She didn’t want to disappoint the kids, either. She’d hated the look on the older boy’s face when his mom told him he couldn’t go see the pitcher. No one should be sad on Opening Day. Opening Day should feel like a clean slate, a first impression, a time of hope and belief. They had a long season ahead, inevitably full of ups and downs, but today set the tone for everything to follow. Then again, maybe she wanted to see the family one more time. Whatever the reason, she missed the next two outs looking for them.

  Pulling herself together long enough to tweet “three up, three down,” she turned to the man next to her. Cooper Pachol was in his forties and had a beer gut and a bald spot. His red tie already had mustard on it.

  “You got a problem, Rook?” he asked, around a bite of his hot dog.

  “Nope.” She didn’t mind the nickname. It was her rookie season, after all, and while he often greeted her presence with mild disdain, she chose to consider the mild hazing as paying her dues. “Just wondering if you ever get up and walk around the park during the games. Maybe get quotes from fans or view things from different vantage points?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you the eager beaver?”

  She grinned and turned back to the field. “I guess that’s a no.”

  They watched in silence as the lead-off hitter popped up and the second batter struck out swinging. Then Yadier Molina stepped to the plate.

  “This is his MVP year,” Duke said.

  Cooper grunted and shook his head.

  “He’s going to live up to his new contract.”

  “He’s not. He’s got nothing left to play for. He’s locked up for the rest of his career. Now he’s going to phone it in or wreck his knees.”

  She disagreed. An image of Joseph Landon Grettano once again flooded her mind, and she smiled, because whether anyone believed it or not, these players had a lot to play for.

  As if validating her sentimentality, Molina pulled a double down the right field line, and the crowd roared. The rumble of it shook the stadium, and she found herself enthusiastically clapping along with the masses. A few of the other sportswriters looked her way, some with amusement, others with disdain.

  “Tough crowd,” she muttered, and bent over her Google Nexus tablet to blast the hit on social media.

  The reverie was short-lived as the next player grounded out, but she smiled down at the section where the young family sat and wondered if they’d enjoyed the hit.

  *

  The second inning passed uneventfully, and the air in the press box had grown heavy and stale. The room had a buzz of its own. The energy there hummed, dedicated, focused, busy. She found plenty to love, but on Opening Day she wanted fresh air, she wanted to jump to her feet over a good play, she wanted to high-five a stranger. Besides, the third inning seemed like a good time for a snack. Someone had said that recently…

  Right, the mother had promised her boys hot dogs in the third inning.

  Why did her mind keep returning to them?

  She had an idea, and before she examined it closer, she rose and scooted around several colleagues.

  “Where you going, Rook?” Cooper called. “Ladies’ room?”

  She ignored the jab. “Hot dogs in the third inning.”

  “Bring me one,” he called out.

  She jogged down a back stairway and onto the open concourse before weaving her way through the crowd and out into the stands. The press corps had food catered in for them, and it was a pretty nice spread, but she wasn’t interested in free food if it came from a stuffy interior room. Honestly, she wasn’t that interested in the hot dogs at all so much as the opening they’d give her. She’d look like a real idiot if she messed this one up, but she hadn’t gotten where she had in life by being afraid to make mistakes or worrying about other people’s judgment. She generally followed her instincts first and examined them later. The practice seemed to work out for her…most of the time.

  She waved to a vendor hawking hot dogs and held up four fingers. What did she have to lose? She’d already made an idiot of herself once. If she fell flat again, at least she’d have some hot dogs to help ease the embarrassment.

  Taking the dogs, she handed him twenty dollars. She’d long since stopped complaining about the price of ballpark food. She could’ve made the same amount of food at home for three dollars, but it wouldn’t come with this view.

  She stopped once again to view the field and the battle raging there. Ben LeBaron threw another nasty curve for a strike, and the crowd cheered wildly as the umpire rung up a batter who didn’t even try to argue. She made a mental note on LeBaron’s strikeout count even as she scanned the jubilant crowd. She had to be in the right section, or pretty close by now, but the seats were packed with people all wearing the same colors. From behind, the boy and his mom would look like any of the other forty thousand spectators, and maybe they weren’t even in their seats. The Cardinals had recorded their first out of the third inning. Maybe the family had already gone to a concession stand. She stood there holding four hot dogs and looked lost.

  “Hot dogs,” she heard a tiny voice yell.

  “As soon as someone comes by.”

  She recognized the voice, even though it sounded infinitely more calm and patient than it had when directed at her.

  A curly little head popped up above the crowd at the end of the last row of the section. “I see hot dog.”

  “Where?” The mother turned around and her eyes met Duke’s. They were beautiful eyes, big, deep, and expressive. Duke froze under their scrutiny. She should say something witty, or charming, something disarming, or at the very least not creepy. Instead she held out her stack of hot dogs as an awkward peace offering.

  The woman shook her head, but smiled, and Duke relaxed immensely. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had bestowed such a stunning expression on her, and even if this one happened to be born out of pity, she’d take it.

>   “I got you guys some hot dogs to make up for earlier,” she offered tentatively. “But then I worried buying food for kids without asking would kind of be like walking off with your son without asking, and I didn’t want a repeat of earlier.”

  At the sound of her voice, Joseph turned around, his smile mirroring his mother’s, but he didn’t interrupt her continued grilling.

  “So you intended to stand behind us all game holding a bouquet of hot dogs?”

  “Uh, when you put it that way, it sounds much more appropriate.”

  “Much.”

  “I’m sorry, um…”

  “Molly,” she offered.

  “Molly.” Duke smiled as she said the name. “I’m sorry we started off on such bad terms. I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I disappointed your son. I’m sorry I put a dark spot on the otherwise bright ray of hope that is Opening Day.”

  “You really are a sportswriter, aren’t you?”

  She grinned. “I am. I love this game, this place, this holiday, and it would bother me if I left here today knowing I lessened someone else’s joy in this park.”

  “So you bought us all hot dogs?”

  “Third inning,” the little boy sang out loudly.

  “Yes.” Duke nodded in agreement. “And I waited until the third inning like you said the boys had to.”

  Molly pursed her lips like she wanted to remain stern but had to work hard to do so.

  “If you can’t accept them, I understand, stranger danger and all, but I wish you’d give me a chance to atone.”

  Duke and both boys looked at Molly expectantly, waiting for whatever verdict she handed down. She drew out the tension for a few seconds, pinching the bridge of her nose and scrunching up her expression before sighing exasperatedly. “Fine.”

  “Yes,” Duke and Joseph cheered in unison as the younger boy grabbed for his hot dog.

  “I got one extra,” Duke said, holding up the fourth. “I didn’t know if you had someone else with you.”

  “Someone else?” Molly asked.

  “Yeah, I didn’t know if it was just the three of you,” she said as she scanned their row for an empty seat, but saw none.

  Molly’s expression sobered as she shot a look to her oldest son, who shared her stoicism. “It’s just us, thanks.”

  She got the sense she’d stepped into something tense. Maybe Molly’s husband was in the military or on a business trip. Then again, she snuck a peek at Molly’s left hand as she unwrapped a hot dog. No ring. Not even the indent or pale white band that suggested she’d worn a ring recently. A rush of conflicting emotions surged through her. Was there any term in the American vernacular more loaded than “single mom”? She wanted to be respectful, tread carefully, but a part of her was also happy this fiery, young woman answered to no man.

  “You do it,” the little boy demanded, pointing once again to the hot dogs.

  “No, Charlie,” Molly said. “I’ll do it.”

  “You do it,” he repeated, pointing to Duke.

  “I’m sure Ms. Duke has better things to do right now than fix your hot dog.”

  She winced at the formality. “I don’t mind, but please, everyone calls me Duke.”

  Molly eyed her more closely, letting her gaze scan up her khakis and white polo. “Of course they do.”

  She didn’t have time to wonder what that meant before Molly snatched one of the hot dogs and handed it to her oldest son, then accepted one for herself. “Did you get any ketchup?”

  “I did, and mustard, too,” she said, pleased to have finally done something right. Crouching down in the aisle next to the little boy, she asked, “Charlie, what do you want on your hot dog?”

  “Ketchup.”

  Then looking around, Duke asked, “And you, Joseph? Ketchup? Mustard?”

  The boy wrinkled his nose.

  “What? You eat them plain?”

  “He likes both ketchup and mustard, but he doesn’t like to be called Joseph.”

  “Ah.” Duke tucked the information away. “Let me guess, you’re Joe unless you’re in trouble. Then Mom gives you the full government name.”

  He laughed. “Yes ma’am.”

  “Wow.” Duke rubbed her eyes. “Okay, let’s make a deal. I’ll call you Joe, if you promise to never call me ma’am again.”

  “Deal.”

  “And you, you can call me Duke too, Charlie.”

  “Duke,” he said empathically.

  She fished several packets of condiments out of her pocket, then paused to watch the Cardinals record another out. She passed the packets out before setting to work on Charlie’s hot dog. “Do you want the ketchup on the bun or on the hot dog?”

  “Bun and dog,” Charlie said.

  “You got it.” Duke carefully zigzagged a red line from side to side, making sure to hit all points evenly. “Do you want me to break it into smaller pieces for you?”

  “No, no, no.”

  “Okay, okay. Do you want me to unwrap it all the way or peel it off as you go?”

  His little brow furrowed as he thought a moment. “I want to hold it.”

  “Great.” She glanced at Molly one more time, confirming her permission to give food to her son. Molly smiled, sending a little jolt of energy through Duke’s chest. Then she nodded, and Duke set the hot dog gently into Charlie’s outstretched hands.

  The boy looked inordinately pleased for all of two seconds, and then thrust the food into Molly’s lap.

  “What’s wrong?” Duke asked.

  “I don’t want it,” Charlie answered matter-of-factly.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t like hot dogs.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t like hot dogs,” he repeated.

  “That’s un-American. You’re at a baseball game.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “You told me exactly how to make it for you.” Duke waited for a response that could possibly explain this, but got none. “But…but you’ve been asking for a hot dog for three innings.”

  Charlie stared at her, his eyes wide and his little face filled with exasperation before finally saying, “I don’t like hot dogs.”

  Duke looked first to Molly, then to Joe for some sort of help, but they both seemed to be fighting back laughter. “Oh, I get it. You both saw this coming?”

  They nodded, grinning.

  “Let me guess? Charlie has done this before. From the looks on your faces I’d be willing to bet he does this a lot.”

  “Every night,” Joe confirmed with a giggle.

  “And still you let me do the song and dance.”

  “You never know,” Molly said, her voice light with amusement. “He could’ve eaten the hot dog for you.”

  “Has he ever eaten one for anybody?”

  She shook her head. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  Duke turned to stare at the field, noticing she’d completely missed the last out of the inning. She burst out laughing. She might have been the butt of the joke, but it still felt good to get swept up in this family’s humor, even for a moment. “I think I just got hazed, and you know what? I’m okay with that. Now we’re even for earlier.”

  Molly’s smile faded instantly. “We’re not even close to even for earlier.”

  Duke sobered. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I didn’t mean to reopen old wounds. Is there any way I can make it up to you?”

  Molly considered the request, frowning slightly as if the answer might be “Please leave us alone.” But with a glance at Joe’s expectant face, she softened. Pulling Charlie into her lap, she gestured to the now-empty chair. “Since it looks like you’re going to be around for a while, I guess you could sit down and tell us a little bit about yourself.”

  Duke grinned so widely it stretched her cheeks all the way to her ears. She probably should be getting back to the press booth, but she could work from anywhere for at least a few innings. How could she pass up an invitation she’d had to work so hard to earn
? As the Cardinals’ lead-off hitter stepped to the plate, Duke sat down.

  Joe flashed her a thumbs-up as she slid into the seat and immediately began bombarding her with questions. “Did you see Molina’s hit? Isn’t Ben LeBaron’s curveball wicked? Do you think the Cardinals will make the playoffs?”

  She laughed and tried to parse out her answers accordingly. “Yes, yes, and I sure hope so.”

  “Do you think this team could win a hundred games this year?”

  “That’s a pretty tall order. To love baseball you have to stick it out through a lot of ups and downs,” she said seriously, then brightened. “But it’s Opening Day, a time for hope and belief and trying to get off on the right foot. You can’t win ’em all if you don’t win the first one.”

  “You can’t win ’em all if you don’t win the first one.” Joe repeated the old baseball cliché, his young voice matching the inflection and slow drawl Duke used. “Then do you think we’re going to win this one?”

  She scanned the field, the players, the scoreboard, then turned back to Molly and felt a familiar stirring of hope she’d come to associate with the start of a new season. “It’s hasn’t been the most impressive start, but I believe we might make something of this one after all.”

  Bottom of the First

  Play Ball

  Molly rested her chin on Charlie’s head. He was still and content, eating the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she’d packed for him. Joe was focused with his usual intensity on the game. For a moment, everything was calm and peaceful. These precious times of serenity were few and far between. She usually only felt this together at night, when the day’s work was done and the boys were both safely tucked in bed. A crowded stadium, on the other hand, was full of dangers and distractions. Strangers, hot food, projectiles leaving the field, fights among spectators, bad language her three-year-old was bound to repeat at day care, and large crowds a child could simply disappear in. Everywhere a danger. And yet, here they all were, safe and content.