A Season of Daring Greatly

by Ellen Emerson White

  Jill wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered—or uncomfortable. Both, maybe.

  Mr. Norcross looked at her now. “If you had ignored the child in the pink sneakers to come over and talk to me and the rest of the baseball people, I was going to call the front office and tell them that you’re an extraordinary prospect, but that despite your baseball makeup, you don’t have the right temperament to be the kind of trailblazer you’re going to need to be, and that we should move you quite far down our board.”

  Their draft board. For the MLB Draft, which was next week. When her entire life might utterly and irrevocably change.

  Now, he turned to look at her mother again. “This is history that matters, Dr. Cafferty. It matters a great deal.”

  Her mother nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  It was quiet for a moment, and then he reached out to shake Jill’s hand.

  “It was a true pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I very much hope to see you again.”

  And she, very definitely, hoped so, too.

  CHAPTER 3

  After Mr. Norcross gave her mother his card and left, it was silent again.

  “I’m going to get drafted,” Jill said. As shocking, and overwhelming, and implausible as it felt to say that.

  Her mother nodded. “I know. And I’m quite terrified about it.”

  Jill kind of was, too. Felt a certain amount of dread—but, also, some wild excitement and anticipation. “It’s not necessarily going to be the Reds”—although, at the moment, she kind of liked the odds on that—“but, if I get picked in the first ten rounds, and it’s a team that’s going to take me seriously and not treat me like a novelty act, I’m going to sign,” she said.

  “Let’s just wait and see what happens,” her mother said, “okay? Until we’re really forced to—let’s please wait.”

  Fair enough. It was all theoretical, unless and until a team did, in fact, pick her.

  “Am I driving you home?” her mother asked.

  Jill looked around, and saw that some of her friends were still hanging out on the bleachers, since by now, they were used to her having to spend a lot of time schmoozing after games. “Thanks, but Lauren and everyone are still here, and I haven’t even gotten to say hi yet.”

  Her mother glanced over, too, clearly trying not to be obvious about it. “She’s in the wheelchair today.”

  Yeah. Which was hard to see, since Lauren was mostly only using a cane these days, and usually didn’t need the wheelchair anymore—and she had been on the cane, when Jill had last seen her during seventh period. “I know,” Jill said. “I hope she’s just tired.”

  “Well, tell her I said hello,” her mother said.

  “I will,” Jill said. “And thanks for coming to the game. Do you mind bringing a bunch of my stuff home?” Since she had her backpack, too, and it was a lot to carry.

  Her mother looked a little impatient. “Of course not.”

  Okay, dumb question. But, it was better than standing around talking about the fact that sometimes, parents did have very good reasons to worry that something bad might happen to their children.

  And that children needed to worry about their parents, too.

  Jill carried her gear over to the car and took off her ice wrap, packing it back into the cooler. She quickly changed out of her uniform—which wasn’t a big deal, since she was wearing a pair of compression shorts and a shirt underneath it. She put on gym shorts and a grey Under Armour T-shirt, then switched her cleats for a pair of running shoes.

  Her mother watched her, her expression very tense. On the whole, Jill liked being tall, but her mother nearly always stood in a self-conscious hunch. “You just pitched an entire game,” she said.

  Jill nodded, and tied the shoes tightly. She did some regular weight training, but she spent more time working on plyometrics and flexibility, which meant that the bulk of her strength had to come from her legs.

  So, whether current Internet pitching gurus were in favor of the idea or not, she put in a lot of miles running, or on her bike. A lot of miles.

  “I’m only going to do a few poles, and some sprints, and maybe jog home,” Jill said.

  Her mother started to say something, but then motioned vaguely at the remaining scouts and coaches, who were watching from a distance.

  “After they leave,” Jill said. Which they would, once they saw that she was sitting down to have girl talk. “So I won’t look like I’m showboating.”

  “Okay,” her mother said, and sighed. “Dinner at seven-thirty, all right?” She opened the door on the driver’s side. “I wonder where your brother ended up.”

  Jill pulled her phone out of her bag, and saw that she had a lot of new texts, including one from Theo, which said, “You looked good out there! But, I had to go find caffeine.” “He says he needed coffee, so he’s probably at Cool Beans.” A local place, where she and her friends often went—and pretended they were there to do homework, which, of course, they weren’t.

  Her mother nodded. “Remind him about dinner, please.”

  Even though he would still probably forget. But, Jill quickly texted him.

  Her mother started to get into the car, but then paused. “Your father would be so incredibly proud of you.”

  Some days, more so than others. But, today, yes, she was pretty sure he would have been. “Yeah,” Jill said. “I hope so.”

  “I’m very proud of you, too,” her mother said, and they both nodded, somewhat uncomfortably.

  Which was as good a note to part on as any, probably.

  There were still quite a few people around the field, and she had to stop and answer questions, kindly rebuff the Sports Illustrated guy again, and be polite to more strangers. But, finally, she managed to excuse herself, and made her way over to the bleachers.

  “Fame is a heavy burden,” Lauren said.

  Jill nodded, and took a seat next to her. There was a great comfort in having been friends with people since kindergarten. “Where is everyone?”

  “Cathy went to get the car, Stephanie had to go to work, and Maureen needed to study for finals,” Lauren said.

  At the moment, Jill didn’t even want to think about how much studying she needed to do. “You really didn’t have to come to the game,” she said, gesturing towards the wheelchair.

  Lauren just looked at her. “I wasn’t about to skip it.”

  Okay, last game, senior year—it had been kind of a big deal. “You were on the cane all day, though,” Jill said.

  Lauren shrugged. “So, I got tired, no big deal. Cathy’s going to give me a ride home, and I’ll take it easy tonight.”

  She sounded perfunctory—and dismissive, which was entirely reasonable, since Lauren’s entire family, and most of her friends, had done nothing but fret over her protectively since the accident. “And I shouldn’t bug you, when you have lots of other people around to do it, instead,” Jill said.

  Now, Lauren grinned. “Exactly. I know it’s a learning curve for you, but you’re doing very well.”

  Which led to a somewhat troubling thought. “Oh my God,” Jill said. “Am I exactly like my mother?”

  “More or less, yeah,” Lauren said.

  It came out of genuine concern—but, still. “You can probably make up your own damn mind about when and where and if you want to use the wheelchair,” Jill said.

  Lauren’s grin broadened. “So quick. So clever.”

  Oh, yeah, no doubt. But, it always came as a relief, when Lauren sounded like herself again. There had been quite a few weeks—months, even—of monosyllables and near-silence. She was small, and blond, and fine-featured in a way that tended to make people underestimate her, but before the accident, Lauren had been one of the best athletes she knew. Determined, driven, and game savvy, whether it was tennis, basketball, or softball. And now, she spent most of her free time—taking pain medication and doing physical therapy.

  “Ready to frighten everyone off?” Lauren asked.

  Absolutely
. Jill nodded.

  Lauren pulled a bottle of nail polish out of her hoodie pocket. Some sort of Eggplant Purple shade.

  “That’s hideous,” Jill said, and held her right hand out.

  Lauren nodded, uncapped the bottle, and started carefully applying the polish to Jill’s nails. And, indeed, most of the hangers-on looked aghast, and began drifting away.

  “Girl stuff,” Lauren said. “They just hate girl stuff, don’t they?”

  Jill nodded again. “It’s good to have things to count on.”

  They had figured out, a couple of seasons ago, that sitting down to braid her hair, do her nails, or anything else traditionally feminine cleared out the crowds pretty quickly. Yeah, there was always some jerk around who took photos and put them online, attempting to make a profound statement about gender roles or whatever damn thing—but, it was still their traditional post-game strategy.

  “This looks really awful,” Lauren said.

  Jill nodded. They always made a point of using truly ugly colors, because it was more entertaining that way.

  “As far as I could tell, your mother was flipping out,” Lauren said.

  Yet again. Jill sighed. “I know. I wish she’d have more fun with this. I mean, it’s pretty exciting stuff.”

  Lauren glanced up at her. “I wish you’d have more fun with this.”

  She would be annoyed as hell if most other people had said that—but, coming from Lauren, it was probably just the simple truth. “I am having fun,” Jill said, although she had meant to sound enthusiastic, instead of defensive.

  Lauren nodded pleasantly.

  “I’m all about fun,” Jill said. “It’s a way of life for me.”

  “Unh-hunh,” Lauren said.

  Point taken. “The Sports Illustrated guy asked me if there’s any way to know whether I’m good enough, and whether I even belong in the conversation, since I haven’t faced much serious competition,” Jill said.

  “They always ask stuff like that,” Lauren said, shrugging.

  True. And they might be right.

  “What did you say?” Lauren asked.

  The usual drivel. “That I’m looking forward to getting a chance to find out, and that I hope there are a lot of interesting opportunities ahead,” Jill said.

  Lauren laughed. “And if baseball doesn’t work out, you can run for office someday.”

  It was good to have options. “The Reds sent their director of amateur scouting,” Jill said.

  Lauren’s eyebrows went up. “Huge deal,” she said.

  Very much so, yeah. During the past couple of years, most of her friends had mastered all of the arcane nuances surrounding Major League Baseball scouting and the draft process.

  Her right hand was finished, albeit sloppily, and she held out her left hand, instead.

  “Think I have backup career potential here?” Lauren asked.

  Jill looked at the three spots where the purple had overlapped her nails, so that the polish was on her actual fingers. “I don’t have high hopes, no,” she said.

  “Well, the price is right,” Lauren said, and kept painting.

  When all of her nails were done, Jill waved them slightly in the air, so that the polish would dry and she could go work out.

  Their friend Cathy had parked the car as close to the field as possible, and was now walking over to join them. Like so many other people in her class, Jill had known her since elementary school. They had been Brownies together, and learned to ski at Yawgoo Valley, back when they were about seven, among other things.

  “Good game, Jill,” she said. “You guys all set?”

  Jill and Lauren both nodded, and Jill got up to push the wheelchair.

  “Watch those perfect nails!” Lauren said.

  Watch them smear, mostly.

  After making sure Lauren was safely in the car, and then helping Cathy load the wheelchair into the trunk, Jill turned to go back to the field.

  “You’re not coming with us?” Cathy asked. “We were going to grab some coffee on the way home.”

  A mocha latte would be entirely awesome right about now. Jill shook her head. “I need to burn off some energy, and run a little, before things stiffen up.”

  “All work and no play makes you dull as hell,” Lauren said.

  Unfortunately, dull had kind of become her norm.

  She was stretching her hamstrings when she saw Greg come jogging across the outfield.

  “I thought you went off with the guys,” she said. Thought she was the only person not sensible enough to go enjoy the rest of the afternoon, like a normal carefree, soon-to-graduate senior.

  He shrugged. “I had them drop me back here. Figured I’d hang out.”

  Which was certainly a nice enough idea. “Want to run poles with me?” she asked.

  Greg shook his head. “Hell, no. I ate about a thousand Twinkies during the game.”

  Running poles was enough of a chore so that she probably wouldn’t mind skipping it herself. But, she kept stretching, anyway.

  Greg reclined on the grass, using his folded hands as a pillow. “One of those scouts is still here. I saw him in the parking lot, in his car, and—I don’t know. Seemed like a good idea to stick around, in case he’s weird or something.”

  As strapping, cocky quarterbacks went, Greg was awfully sweet. “Thanks,” she said, although she hadn’t really felt isolated, since there were people playing tennis on the courts behind them, and a local parks guy cleaning the dugouts. “Which one?”

  “Guy in the dark green shirt,” he said.

  She switched to quad stretches. “What’s he doing?”

  “On his phone,” Greg said. “But, it seemed like he was watching you, too.”

  Hmmm. “I went to the Reds’ home page”—she gestured to her unzipped duffel bag, where her phone was—“and he’s their director of amateur scouting, but he’s also the assistant director of baseball operations.”

  Greg sat up halfway. “That means they aren’t kidding around.”

  So it would seem. She switched to a different stretch, for her lower back.

  “Well, do the poles, and let’s see if he’s still here when you’re finished,” Greg said.

  Sounded like a plan.

  She was too tired to sprint all out, but she ran hard, starting at the right field foul pole, along the fairly bumpy warning track to the left field pole, and then, back to the right field pole.

  After eight repetitions, she was pretty much gassed, but she gutted her way through ten.

  “Oh, yeah, dig it out, baby!” Greg yelled. “Show ’em you’ve got some heart!”

  “Watch and learn, son!” she yelled back.

  Her legs were shaking from exertion, and she walked across the outfield to cool down—and catch her breath. Almost every book or website about pitching gave different advice—usually some version of “Here is why everything you thought you knew is wrong”—about techniques and training and off-season routines and a million other things, so she had long since decided that she would do whatever made her feel healthy and strong, advice be damned. And burning off what she assumed was lactic acid—or maybe just nerves—after a game always felt soothing.

  Five forty-yard sprints, five interval sprints, some more cooling down, a few extra stretches—and she figured that was enough. Especially since she was entirely worn out.

  “You’re making me feel like a total slug,” Greg said.

  A title well-earned.

  “He still there?” she asked, bending down to take a water bottle and a small towel out of her bag.

  “Yep,” Greg said. “Still on the phone, too.”

  With luck, calling his general manager to ask if they could draft her really high. She wiped off her face, neck, and hands with the towel, and then pulled on an old blue New England Patriots windbreaker, zipping it halfway.

  She felt good. As though her body was humming gently, and the post-game tension was pretty much gone now.

  “The Sports Illust
rated guy is back, too,” Greg said, doing ten fast push-ups—probably to remind her that he could, effortlessly, and then standing up.

  She had no intention of agreeing to a high-profile interview before she was drafted—especially since she might not be drafted, and would look like an idiot. People had written a bunch of stories about her in the past few years—which her mother insisted upon keeping as brief and vague as possible—and she’d yet to read one that, in any way, sounded like her, or felt like a decent characterization. Mostly, they went with a “She’s a girl! And she throws like a boy! Wow!” tone.

  There had been a stream of breathless pre-draft articles, and sports website analyses about her prospects, but it was really too stressful to read them, especially since the assessment of her abilities—or, in some pundits’ opinions, lack thereof—generally seemed pretty arbitrary. And it was creepy to read judgmental opinions about her size, and what was regularly deemed her “probable lack of projectibility.” In other words, she was about as tall as she was likely to get.

  Which was pretty damn tall, in her opinion.

  “All of this making you crazy?” Greg asked.

  She nodded. “Remember when sports were just fun? And we could throw the ball around whenever we wanted, and no one cared whether we were any good?”

  “Yup,” he said. “And then you had to go and screw it up, by not turning out to be mediocre.”

  Yeah, he was kidding—but, was that how it had happened? Maybe it would have been better just to be a perfectly adequate high school baseball player, and leave it at that. She hadn’t planned to sigh, but she must have, because Greg looked over at her.

  “If you sign, it’s only going to get crazier,” he said.

  That was true, too.

  They walked across the infield, Jill automatically stepping over the foul line without touching it. Because everyone knew that that was very bad luck.

  “Still mad about the bunt?” Greg asked.

  Yes. “I was a step slow,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But, Leonard should have been on it before you, anyway. He was late getting out there.”