A Season of Daring Greatly

by Ellen Emerson White

  She wasn’t going to throw the kid under the bus—but, yeah, it had been his ball.

  As they left the field, she saw that Mr. Norcross was leaning against his car, talking on his phone—again? still?—but, he waved her over.

  “Let me call you back,” he said into the phone, and then slid it into his pocket.

  “Mr. Norcross, this is my friend Greg,” Jill said.

  Mr. Norcross nodded and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. Are you the quarterback?”

  “Thank you for not calling me ‘the gay quarterback,’” Greg said, and then paused. “Although I do play with quite a lot of joy.”

  Would it be more effective to punch him—or kick him? Jill narrowed her eyes, instead, and he grinned at her.

  Although he did get described that way, rather too often. A DII coach, who had been considering recruiting him, had actually asked, “Exactly how gay are you, son?” whereupon Greg had said, cheerily, “As gay as a weekend in the country, smelling jasmine, watching little things grow.”

  To the coach’s noticeable consternation.

  And later, Greg had said, “Well, guess that queered the deal, didn’t it?”

  In so many ways.

  “Where are you playing next fall?” Mr. Norcross asked.

  “Amherst,” Greg said.

  Mr. Norcross nodded. “Decided to go DIII?”

  “My talent is DIII,” Greg said, and gestured towards Jill. “Unlike, you know, Hotshot over here.”

  Jill wasn’t sure about that—in either case—but, with luck, the latter was entirely accurate.

  “I’m sure you’ve had it for the day,” Mr. Norcross said. “But, I wanted to ask you one favor.” He reached into the front seat of the car, and came out with a baseball, which he handed to her, along with a pen. “Would you mind signing this?”

  A brand-new official MLB baseball. Which seemed strange. She glanced over at Greg, who was frowning. “Well, I’m not sure if I—”

  “Indulge me,” Mr. Norcross said. “Okay?”

  It still seemed strange, unless it was another test of some kind—although she couldn’t quite imagine what it would be. People often asked her to sign balls, especially when she had a notably good game, but most of the time, it was little girls, not MLB directors of scouting. But, she spun the ball in her hand, so that the sweet spot was facing up, and carefully wrote her name on it. Then, she gave it to him.

  “Thank you,” he said. He examined the signature, and nodded. “That’s pretty good. The more clear and legible you can be, the better. You don’t want to send someone home with a scribble they can’t read.”

  Okay, so it was a test. Or maybe a lesson.

  He put the ball back in her hand. “If this all comes to pass, you’re going to have a lot of extra demands on your time. And even if you’re tired, or in a hurry, or had a bad game, for the person who asked you, it’s usually going to be a big deal. So, try not to forget to let it be a special moment for them. And use a regular pen, whenever possible, so it won’t bleed as much.”

  Good advice. “What about the ones headed straight for eBay and places like that?” she asked.

  Mr. Norcross shrugged. “There’s only so much you can control. Focus on kids where you can, and don’t stress about the rest. Although if the same guy shows up every single day, asking you to sign, you can assume he’s selling them, and maybe run it past the team’s PR department. There are going to be a lot of people around who want to help you, so take advantage of that.”

  Which was making it sound as though he was absolutely sure that she was going to be playing professionally.

  “This is really going to happen,” she said, “isn’t it? I mean, that someone or other is going to draft me.”

  He nodded. “Without a doubt,” he said.

  CHAPTER 4

  As soon as Mr. Norcross drove away, Greg snatched the baseball from her, and clasped it reverently.

  “Oh, I’m so excited!” he said. “This is a dream come true! I’ll treasure it always. I think I’ll even sleep with it under my pillow.”

  Being mocked kept a person humble. “You’re an idiot,” Jill said.

  Greg tucked the baseball into the pocket of his shorts. “I’m going to sell it for a million dollars.”

  “Do I get a cut?” Jill asked.

  He shook his head. “No, but if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll spring for a movie ticket or something.”

  “Always a big spender,” she said, and he grinned at her.

  Instead of heading straight home, she ran down by the seawall, and sat on a stone bench for a few minutes to look out at the ocean. Normally, she would probably do the beach—a mile down to Narrow River, and then back—but, she was too tired. So, it was nice just to sit, and watch the waves for a while. They were tiny and gentle today, which meant that there weren’t any surfers, but there were lots of people—and their dogs—walking by. She liked the beach best on grey winter days, when there was almost no one around, but it was always a really beautiful place to be.

  When she finally got to her house, it was quiet—although that was pretty normal these days. Even six months ago, their setter mix, Maggie, would have rushed to greet her at the door, but she was suddenly aging—rapidly—and it took her longer to get up now—or even hear any of them come in.

  Since Maggie had especially been her father’s dog, that made it that much sadder, of course.

  As she walked inside, Maggie was lying on the orthopedic dog bed in the corner of the kitchen.

  Jill put her duffel bag on the nearest chair, and then crouched down.

  “Hey there, girl,” she said. “How are you?”

  Maggie wagged her tail, happily.

  “What a pretty girl,” Jill said, and kept patting her.

  Her mother was sitting at the table, reading the paper. Actual newsprint, since she was nothing if not old-school. “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  Always. Reliably. Constantly. “Yes,” Jill said, giving Maggie another pat before standing up. “Do I have time to take a shower first?”

  Her mother nodded. “We’ll eat in about half an hour.”

  Which seemed like a really long time, and Jill was tempted to bring half the refrigerator upstairs with her as a snack. But, she settled for giving Maggie a biscuit and taking a banana for herself.

  “Did I get any messages?” she asked.

  Her mother indicated the legal pad on the table, with a pen resting on top of it. “Quite a few. The agents are still swarming, and the networks are remarkably persistent.”

  ESPN and the MLB Network had both invited her to attend the draft in person, and since she knew she wasn’t going to be picked early on the first day, it was easy to say no. And, truthfully, even easier to have her mother do it for her.

  “You don’t have to call any of them back,” her mother said. “I told them you would be busy studying.” She paused. “Which you will be, right?”

  Apparently so, although the idea of streaming something or reading a book sounded a lot more appealing. “Looks that way, yeah,” Jill said. She had finished her Senior Project, her AP exams, and the research paper for her ethics class, but the rest of her classes still required finals—mostly to keep the seniors from checking out mentally during their last semester and spending all of their time on the beach.

  It would be nice not to care about her final exams, since they might not really matter in the overall scheme of things—but, she did. Kind of a lot.

  When she went upstairs, she saw Theo on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  “You collapse from exhaustion from too much texting?” she asked.

  He nodded. “My phone’s charging.”

  Oh, the humanity. “How is she?” Jill asked.

  “She’s far,” he said glumly. “Far, far away.”

  It was probably just as well that his summer internship—at a robotics lab in Providence—was going to begin pretty soon, since that would keep him distracted until classes started again
.

  She did study that night. And the next night. And the night after that. And most of the day on Sunday. Which made for an incredibly boring weekend, but at least, she was pretty confident that she would get through the exams in decent shape. Although she also found some time to work out, throw a brief bullpen session over at the university for a last-minute cluster of scouts, and go to the movies with Lauren and a few of their other friends.

  The networks were still calling, to try and get her to appear live in the studio during the draft. There were also offers to come to her house and film her watching the draft with her family and friends—but, with a very clear image of round after round passing, without her being picked, recorded for posterity and airing live, Jill declined.

  Much to her mother’s relief.

  Although—funny thing—all three of her grandparents were coincidentally coming to visit, her Aunt Karen was taking Amtrak up from New York, and another aunt and uncle were flying in from Chicago. Theo was even promising less vaguely than usual that he would be around, too.

  She had her last two finals on the second day of the draft, so instead of sitting around and watching the early picks the night before, she would be busy—what else?—studying.

  Of course, she did end up watching some of it, until she got tired of hearing sports pundits speculating about various players’ prospects, especially when she was one of the people being discussed. The sportscasters were positively giddy about it all, and kept mentioning her constantly, even though there was no chance that she was going to go in the first round. Or the second. Or the competitive balance rounds.

  The next day, she had her calculus final in the morning, followed by her Spanish final after lunch. The draft would start up again at one o’clock, but she wasn’t really worried about that, since at best, she wouldn’t be picked until much later in the day—if at all—so she could relax.

  Well, not relax, considering that these were final exams, and her entire future also maybe hinged upon whatever was happening in a bunch of MLB draft rooms all over the country—but, close enough.

  The second day was rounds three through ten, and then, the last thirty rounds would take place on the third day. She hadn’t made her mother a firm promise, but they had a general agreement that if she didn’t go on the second day, she would head off to Stanford, and wait to see what happened when she graduated.

  Probably. Depending. Maybe.

  She was in the middle of a translation for her Spanish exam when her cell phone started vibrating, and vibrating, and vibrating—which had been happening on and off all day—mostly reporters, she figured. But now, the thing was suddenly going crazy, with texts and calls.

  Everyone sitting near her noticed, too, and they all looked at her knapsack, and then at their teacher.

  “Go ahead and pick up,” Mrs. Taveras said.

  Didn’t have to tell her twice. Jill took her phone out, just as another call came in, with an unfamiliar area code. She had been halfway expecting it to be—she hoped—from Cincinnati, but this was a different number.

  “Where’s four-one-two?” she asked the room in general, and people shrugged.

  She was tempted just to let it go to voice mail, and call her mother to find out what was going on, but—well, if it was only a reporter, she could always give him or her a quick brush-off.

  “Hello?” she said, cautiously.

  “Hello, is this Jill Cafferty?” an older male voice asked.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “This is Ronald Saunders, from the Pittsburgh Pirates,” the man said. “I’d like to congratulate you, and welcome you to our organization.”

  Her heart started beating considerably faster, and for a second, she thought she might burst into tears—which surprised the hell out of her. “Yes, sir,” she said, and swallowed. “I mean, thank you, sir. Um, what round are we in?”

  Mr. Saunders laughed. “Your mother said you were taking a final, but I didn’t think—that’s great. I love that.”

  Although it didn’t answer her question.

  “We’re very pleased to have made you our third-round pick,” he said, “and are excited to be part of an historic moment for women and sports.”

  Wow. Third round. Almost certainly putting her in the first one hundred picks. Were they nuts? Her heart was pounding even harder, and it was a little bit hard to get her breath. “I see,” she said—since her mind was pretty much a complete blank. Nobody would pick a novelty act in the third round—right? “I mean, thank you. That’s very nice of you, sir.”

  She heard warm male chuckles—and realized that she was not only probably on speakerphone, but might also be on live television, sounding like a moron. A moron with good manners, but a moron, regardless.

  “Would it be all right, sir, if I call you back after I finish my exam?” she asked.

  Mr. Saunders laughed again. “You bet, Jill,” he said. “Take your final, and we’ll contact you at home later on. And congratulations!”

  After he hung up, she stared at her phone for another few seconds.

  “So?” Greg asked.

  “The Pirates,” she said. “Third round.”

  There was some clapping and cheering, and shouts of “Yeah!” and “All right!” She glanced at Lauren, who made her eyes extra wide, and mouthed the word, “Pittsburgh?”

  Which was almost certainly the precise reaction her mother had had, too.

  And, in all honesty, not too far from her own reaction, which was along the lines of “The Pirates?” Other than reading a biography of Roberto Clemente once, she had probably never, in her entire life, given a single thought to the Pittsburgh Pirates, other than being pleased when the Red Sox beat them in interleague games.

  “This is wonderful news,” Mrs. Taveras said, over the clamor of congratulations, “but, we’re in the middle of an exam here. Jill, if you need to be dismissed, it’s all right, although—”

  Right. They were taking a final. And even if she wanted to leave, it would just mean making it up later.

  “She’s about to be a millionaire,” one of the guys in the back row said. “She doesn’t have to pass Spanish anymore.”

  The money. She hadn’t even thought about the third round, and what that meant, in terms of money.

  A lot. Probably not a million, but—wow.

  Mrs. Taveras was trying to get everyone to settle down, and Jill blinked, making an effort to refocus. Exam. Work. Time to concentrate. She looked down at the passage she was supposed to translate from The House on Mango Street—or, in this case, La Casa en Mango Street.

  Spanish. She’d been studying Spanish for years. She was good at Spanish. Not quite fluent, but more than comfortable.

  Although, at the moment, the words looked entirely foreign, in every way.

  Except, if she was going to be a professional baseball player, she would need to know how to be able to regain her composure very quickly—and this could be a good exercise.

  Being able to speak Spanish was going to be helpful, too.

  She churned her way through the rest of the exam—which probably wasn’t going to be the best grade she ever got. But, she finished, gave Lauren a “see you later” nod, exchanged high fives with Greg and a few other people, and then handed the exam booklet to Mrs. Taveras.

  Her mother, and Theo, and her maternal grandmother were waiting for her out by the main office.

  “Oh, it’s so exciting!” her grandmother said, and hugged her.

  “Oh my God, no,” Theo said, and grinned at their mother.

  Jill turned her head enough to look at her. “Is that what you said?”

  “Well, I said, ‘Wow,’ after that,” her mother said, a little defensively.

  Fair enough.

  A lot of people—the principal, teachers, people who worked in the office, students—were all coming over to shake her hand and congratulate her, and the hall was very noisy and crowded.

  Over near the main doors, she saw Keith, who was a
local cop who had served in Afghanistan with her father—and had gone out of his way to keep an extra eye on her family ever since. He came over, and gave her a big hug.

  “Third round!” he said.

  That part was still fairly shocking to her, too.

  He glanced at her mother. “We have a lot of press showing up. So, Vicky”—his partner—“and I are going to give you an escort home. We’re assigning at least one car to the house, too.”

  Which made it all sound far more threatening than it actually was, when they got outside. Yes, some reporters were there, and asked questions, but they were friendly, and it was easy enough for her to say that she was excited, and eager to see what happened next, and other bland and benign things. The only question that brought her up short was when someone asked if she wished her father was there to share this with her, but she just told the truth—that she wished that was true every day.

  They had a big gathering at the house that night, and people from all over town showed up. After a glass—or maybe two or three—of wine, her mother gave a few of the sports and local networks permission to come in and film the party for a little while, and do some brief, fairly raucous interviews with people.

  Some of the coverage seemed to be solidly in the “What an exciting day!” camp, while other commentators were more concerned that she had been “a huge reach” as a third rounder, and that the Pirates would regret having wasted such a high pick. It would be the better part of wisdom not to watch any of it—and, mostly, she didn’t, although sometimes, the television was hard to avoid. But, it was gratifying to hear one analyst say something to the effect of “She’s a six-two lefty, touched ninety-three on the gun last week, and already has the makings of two plus pitches. How is that reaching?”

  She was getting so many calls and texts—including dozens from various agents—that she finally gave up and turned both of her phones off.

  Increasingly, the whole day was feeling very overwhelming, and while she totally appreciated that so many people had come over to celebrate, she really kind of wished that they would go home. At this point, she mostly just wanted to escape. Yeah, the party was in her honor and all, but it really wasn’t her style.