A Season of Daring Greatly

by Ellen Emerson White

  Her aunt nodded, not even looking up from her papers.

  “But, that’s way over slot,” Jill said.

  Her aunt shrugged. “They can afford it, and frankly, they need to raise the bonus considerably, just for the putting-up-with-media-garbage factor. You’re not an ordinary slot pick, and I have no intention of pretending otherwise.”

  Yeah, but—“That’s a lot of money,” Jill said. And she would have to be incredibly good to live up to that amount.

  “Well, a huge chunk of it will go to the government, if that makes you feel better,” her aunt said, taking rapid notes on a yellow pad.

  Not really. “I’m going to want to make some big donations,” Jill said.

  “I don’t want you to endanger your financial security, so not too big, I hope.” Her aunt frowned. “Although it would reduce your tax burden.”

  Wow, she really was a ruthless New York shark. A side of her Jill had rarely seen.

  “Jesus, Karen,” her mother said. “How about because it’s a nice thing to do?”

  Her aunt nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard tell of such things.”

  Okay, that was a joke. Probably. So, Jill laughed, and her aunt grinned at her, before focusing back on the papers.

  Good, she had just been yanking her big sister’s chain, then. Mostly, anyway. And successfully, since her mother looked annoyed.

  “What do you have in mind?” her mother asked. “For charities, I mean.”

  “I don’t know,” Jill said. “Places like Fisher House and TAPS.” Charities which helped military families. “Animal rescue groups. Children with cancer. That kind of thing.”

  “I think it’s a great idea,” her mother said.

  “As long as we vet any potential charities, first,” her aunt said, jotting a few notes down. “I don’t want to see you compromised in any way. I’ll also see if I can get the team to match some or all of it. And we’ll look for a Pittsburgh-area charity, too.” She lowered her pen. “And thank you for not blindsiding them with it at the next press conference. This way, they’ll have time to decide how they want to handle it, without any pressure.” She looked back down at the legal pad. “Obviously, I’m getting you a basketball waiver, but I’ll go for tennis and skiing, too, of course.”

  Baseball contracts had strict clauses forbidding various activities that were considered physically dangerous, including things like wrestling, hang gliding, racing cars or motorcycles—and, alas, downhill skiing. “If you could get skiing taken out of there, that would be great,” Jill said. The idea of having to refrain from one of her favorite sports indefinitely, and possibly for many years, was pretty awful.

  “Working on it,” her aunt said, and picked up her phone.

  The contract had extensive details and contingencies and addendums and guarantee-exclusion provisions and so forth, and her aunt stayed on the phone almost nonstop for the next hour. It was hard to tell, though, how the negotiations were going, by only hearing one, often terse, side of the conversation.

  At her mother’s strong behest, Jill had agreed that it made sense to wear a dress to the event, and had spent a little time at home practicing walking in heels. Fairly low heels, but it was still enough of a challenge to make her feel considerably less coordinated than usual. She also went with earrings, her grandmother’s pearls, a little bit of makeup, some perfume—the whole nine yards. And she decided to wear her hair down, to look less jock-like, for once.

  They got to the ballpark right on time, and she shouldn’t have been surprised to see a large crowd of fans and press waiting near the entrance, gathered behind police barricades. Mostly, the people cheered and shouted encouraging things, although there were also quite a few catcalls of the “Go back to softball!” variety, and some exceedingly profane and obscene remarks, along with—yes—people holding protest signs. Because, of course, her very existence on the planet was already desecrating baseball.

  “I’m not universally beloved?” she said to her mother. “This is terrible.”

  Her mother’s smile was rigid, which maybe wasn’t an unreasonable reaction.

  “It’s always going to be like this,” Jill said quietly. Hell, it pretty much always had been like this, ever since she started routinely breaking eighty on the gun. “It’s easier just to ignore it.”

  “I don’t have to like it,” her mother said, sounding very stiff.

  No, she definitely didn’t.

  Hundreds of the fans were closing in, eagerly pushing against the barricades, and she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to stop and sign autographs and pose for photos, or what. But, they were quickly ushered inside by a special assistant to the general manager, a couple of people who worked in communications and media relations, and several security guards and Pittsburgh police officers.

  “She’s fine,” her aunt said to her mother. “Really.”

  Which she was, although the visceral anger in some of the shouts had been creepy.

  “Well, maybe she shouldn’t be so fine about it, because it’s awful.” Her mother shook her head. “If he were here, they wouldn’t dare pull that.”

  Yeah, she was probably right. Jill’s father had been a happy-go-lucky type—but, that didn’t change the fact that he was a very large man, and could be damned intimidating, on the rare occasions when he was so inclined.

  And, somehow, her stomach suddenly hurt.

  As they moved down a hallway decorated with displays of Pirates memorabilia, Monty, the special assistant to the GM, who was a beefy Caucasian guy in his early thirties, looked over at her curiously. “No pantsuit?” he asked.

  What? That was really what he had expected? She blinked. “Uh, no,” she said. “We thought—would that have been preferable?”

  “Of course not,” he said, flushing. “I was just surprised.”

  That made two of them.

  “And you’re a clod,” Nadine, a slim African-American woman who had introduced herself as the director of media relations, said. “Ignore him, Jill. You look great.”

  She hoped she looked presentable, at least, and not clunky. Actually, she didn’t own a pantsuit, and was pretty sure she had never tried one on before, even for a Halloween costume. “Well, I’ll be sure to buy some pantsuits,” she said, “if that’s what the well-dressed ballplayers are wearing these days.”

  Her mother gave her a sharp look.

  “A mannish one, with a ruffled blouse, for an unexpectedly feminine touch,” her aunt said.

  Her mother sighed. “Don’t encourage her, Karen.”

  “See what you started?” Nadine said to Monty, who looked even more embarrassed.

  One of the other assistant general managers came out and brought them to a large conference room, where they met a lot of high-level front office people, from the chairman of the board, to the general manager, the director of baseball operations, the head team physician, and various assistants, coordinators, scouts, and other organization personnel.

  It was easy to tell by how friendly people were—or weren’t, which ones had been against drafting her so early. Tight smiles, not-very-good eye contact, much briefer handshakes. But, she pretended not to notice, and was equally polite and pleasant to everyone. It was comforting, though, to feel her mother pat her back gently, after they were introduced to one unusually brusque and crotchety scout.

  The cocktail party was going to be held on an outdoor picnic deck, overlooking the field. There were supposed to be about three hundred guests, most of whom owned luxury boxes, were corporate sponsors, or were longtime season ticket holders. In some cases, the guests fell into all three categories.

  Right before the party started, her mother and aunt were taken off somewhere, while she waited in a hallway with the other three high draft picks. They were all trying to be cool, so she couldn’t tell whether any of them were as nervous as she was. As a pitcher, of course, she had learned long ago never to let anything resembling anxiety show—since it just gave hitters an advantage. But, right now, he
r stomach felt so unruly that it was harder than usual to look calm and relaxed. Confident, even.

  The first round pick was a big right-handed fireballing pitcher from Texas A&M. Cocky, tall guy, with thick, blondish hair and very broad shoulders. The second round guy was a wiry Latino shortstop from a Florida junior college, who was supposed to be a defensive whiz and speedster, and then, there was the brown-haired slugging outfielder from some high school in California, the Competitive Balance Round pick. Her three fitness center companions.

  “You had to wear a dress?” the pitcher said.

  Yes. “You had to wear a jacket and tie?” she said, and heard the outfielder laugh.

  The shortstop, who appeared to be suffering from anticipatory stage fright, didn’t seem to be listening.

  The pitcher looked disgusted. “Why remind everyone you’re female, you know? And—you’re only the third round pick. I don’t even know why they invited you to this.”

  Well, wasn’t he an agreeable fellow? “I know,” she said. “I shouldn’t have begged them to let me come here. That’s why I’m standing slightly behind the three of you, as befits my lowly station.”

  The outfielder laughed again. “You know, you might do all right, Cafferty.”

  The shortstop still seemed to be caught in his own little anxiety-ridden nightmare. Which maybe didn’t bode well for his ability to play baseball in front of large, screaming crowds, down the road. Of course, she probably wasn’t one to criticize, when it came to that.

  When they were finally summoned, she saw her mother and aunt standing along the side of the big deck, with the other families. It would be really nice to go straight over and join them, but Nadine was already leading her around, pausing to introduce her every few steps. So, she smiled a lot, shook hands, and said things like “Thank you, it’s an honor” and “Yes, sir, I certainly hope so.”

  Being unfailingly charming and approachable was pretty exhausting, and it was a relief when she could finally take a minute to get a glass of ginger ale, stand by a metal railing overlooking the ballpark, and catch her breath. The outfielder, whose name was Scott Bronsky, was doing the same thing, and they nodded at each other. He wasn’t handsome, but he was the sort of guy who was still appealing, with a face that was slightly chubby and unformed, as though he hadn’t grown into it yet. He was about her height, and just stocky enough to look like a power hitter.

  “Hey, Three,” he said.

  Third round. “Hey, CB,” she said. Competitive Balance Round.

  “Oh, no, don’t turn out to be fun,” he said. “That would be really disappointing.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll make an effort to be grouchy and short-tempered and difficult whenever possible.”

  The outfielder pretended to wipe his arm across his forehead. “Whew.”

  Catch her on the right day, and it might even be an accurate self-description. “Are you going to sign?” she asked. Although she assumed that all four of them were, or they wouldn’t have been invited to this event.

  He nodded, his expression brightening. “Definitely. My agent says they should have it wrapped it up by tomorrow. I mean, yeah, I could go spend four years at LSU—but, I’d rather get started, you know?”

  She totally knew.

  “How about you?” he asked.

  She nodded. “They’re figuring out contract stuff, but it seems to be going okay. My lawyer is pretty tough.” She paused. “She’s also my aunt.”

  “Means you can probably trust her, then. How much you holding out for?” he asked.

  “I’d be okay with slot,” she said. “But—well, I think”—no, she knew—“that she’s pushing for more than that.”

  “What about endorsements?” he asked.

  They were definitely getting a lot of offers, including products like cars and tablets, which made very little sense. And, along with the usual slew of agents, lot of strangers with merchandising offers were still using every phone number and email address or social media account they could find to try and contact her. “I’d rather see if I’m actually any good at pitching, first,” she said.

  For the first time, he looked as though he was really paying attention to her. “Are you kidding me?” he asked. “You could go to town.”

  No question, but—“I don’t want anyone to give me money for the wrong reasons,” she said. “And the bonus pool is only so big, so I don’t want to—I’d rather earn it for what I do on the field.”

  “Hunh.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You’re losing jerk points here, Cafferty. This is very upsetting for me.”

  “You can call me Jill, you know,” she said. “Not Cafferty.”

  “I’m Scott,” he said, and they shook hands.

  With luck, he was going to be her first professional baseball friend. It would be nice not to go through all of this feeling quite so alone. “Am I the only one who’s completely nervous about whether I’m really going to be able to play at this level?” she asked.

  He grinned at her. “Nope,” he said. “You aren’t.”

  Good.

  CHAPTER 6

  They hung out for a few more minutes, mostly talking about where they might be assigned, both of them agreeing that they hoped they would be sent to the upstate New York–Penn Class A League Short Season affiliate, rather than the raw rookie-level Gulf Coast League in Florida. More of a demanding test competitively—and not as damn hot. Then, she noticed that the big pitcher from Texas A&M, whose name was Caleb Kordell, had stopped loudly mingling and preening his way around the party, and was now off in a corner, huddled with his agents, and that everyone was nodding and frowning a lot.

  “What’s with Number One?” she asked.

  Scott shrugged. “I heard his MRI showed a labrum problem. Not sure if the elbow looked perfect, either.”

  Which was bad news. Major League Baseball mostly considered Tommy John surgery a necessary evil, but shoulder problems made them very leery. With good reason. “Poor guy,” she said.

  “With his crappy mechanics, I’m surprised he still has any ligaments at all,” Scott said.

  Jill raised her eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Hitters watch pitchers,” he said. “Want to make something of it?”

  Not really. And she’d seen the guy’s mechanics, too, on YouTube. Just watching him throw made her own arm hurt in sympathy, although he could bring it up there consistently in the high nineties. “What do you think will happen?” she asked.

  “They’ll still sign him,” he said. “Just for less than he wants. What’s the guy going to do, waste a season, maybe play Cape Cod or an independent league or something, and then go into next year’s draft?”

  Graduating college seniors had—a lot—less leverage than younger players did. They had more experience and, presumably, maturity, and teams had a better sense of how much they were going to grow and develop—but, if they got a bad offer, they couldn’t say to hell with it and go to college, instead.

  Which she and Scott could.

  On the other hand, the two of them were giving up on regular college lives—so, everything had a downside. And they were jumping into a high-pressure working world years before they needed to do so. She could see Nadine looking for her, with a slightly urgent expression—which meant that she had to go smile, and shake hands, and spend some more time being enchanting.

  “Tough to be famous,” Scott said.

  For a guy who had sort of sleepy-looking eyes, he was definitely alert. “Off to jump through hoops,” she said, and headed over.

  After the cocktail party, there was a smaller, more exclusive dinner, which was held in one of the ballpark’s luxury club facilities, with about seventy-five people attending.

  Which, just like lunch, didn’t really lend itself to eating, so she was pretty sure she would have to order room service again when they got back to the hotel.

  She and her mother were put at the same table, with a couple of team executives and their spouses,
some corporate sponsors and season ticket holders, and the jittery shortstop. The poor kid was on his own, without any family members, and despite having spent a year at a junior college, he spoke very little English.

  Jill’s Spanish was good enough so that she could talk to him comfortably, to his obvious relief. In fact, she switched seats with one of the season ticket people, so that she could sit next to him, and make sure he wasn’t completely left out of the dinner conversation.

  His name was Jorge, and he was from Mayagüez, Puerto Rico. His family had sent him up to Florida to live with his aunt and uncle, partially to go to school, but mostly to be in a better baseball program and improve his position for the draft. Which, since he had gone in the second round, had apparently been a smart plan.

  His English was much better than he thought it was, but he was so nervous that he mumbled a lot and rarely made eye contact.

  When they had gone back to the hotel after lunch, she had checked out all three of the other top draft picks online—and Jorge was a shortstop and center fielder. Plus speed and plus-plus throwing arm, great range, with a decent bat, but a low score for potential power, although he was only twenty and might grow enough to increase that. There was lots of online footage of him, and he was one of those guys who just seemed to glide to the ball, and was inclined to throw to first in the middle of leaping in the air, even when it might not be necessary. But, it looked impressive.

  Her aunt was at a different table, and appeared to spend most of the meal conferring intensely with team executives. But, when dinner was over and they returned to the hotel, she assured them that the contract negotiations were moving along very nicely, although there were still a lot of details to pin down.

  So, Jill and her mother hung around the city for another day and a half—which was fun, because they both liked cities. When they weren’t at the ballpark sitting in on meetings, primarily involving lengthy media training sessions, which bored the hell out of her, and security plans, which made her uneasy—they mostly just walked around various neighborhoods, doing some random exploring. They also went to the Carnegie Museum of Art, the Frick Art & Historical Center, and a concert by the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra.