CHAPTER 7
Leaving the next morning was pretty hectic, with last-minute packing and good-byes, but Jill made a point of getting up early enough to take Maggie for a walk down to the seawall. It was soothing to stand there, and watch the ocean for a while, before heading back. And, right before they left, the last thing she did was to spend a few more minutes alone with her. She didn’t want to burst into tears, so she just kept patting her and telling her what a good dog she was, before giving her one last hug.
Except, okay, in the car on the way to the airport, she maybe did cry a little bit, behind her sunglasses.
“Carol”—who was their neighbor—“will take very good care of her, until Theo and I get home,” her mother said.
Jill nodded. But, that didn’t change the fact that it felt awful to leave her behind.
Their flight was on time, and entirely ordinary. They went to the hotel, first—back to the fancy Fairmont—and had lunch in the main restaurant. All she could manage was part of a club sandwich, while her mother toyed with a grilled chicken salad, but Theo stuffed in a huge meal, including two desserts.
Before heading over to the ballpark, she changed into a blue dress, which was on the preppy side, but also comfortable, and—with luck—somewhat flattering. Her mother’s outfit was similar, and Theo—ever himself—was wearing a black fedora, and a bolo tie with a turquoise slide, along with a conventional white oxford shirt, khakis, and loafers.
The day was going to be slightly complicated by the fact that they wanted her to throw a bullpen session after the press conference, so she had to bring along a bag of gear, too. And a hairbrush.
When they arrived at PNC Park this time, there was a much larger crowd of fans—and a lot of security, most of whom immediately swarmed over to lead her inside. Which saved her from the “Do I stop to sign autographs, or not?” problem, since all she had time to do was to smile and lift one hand in a slight wave—and try not to blink at the stream of camera lights and flashes, despite having worn her sunglasses.
First, there was a formal signing ceremony, in a conference room that didn’t contain much more than a large table, Pirates logos placed in strategic places, and lots of media, along with front office and MLB personnel.
She signed the contract with the neatest possible penmanship, hearing someone who clearly didn’t really follow baseball say, with obvious surprise and pleasure, “She’s left-handed!” Which got a pretty big laugh, from most of the room.
There were more camera flashes, and then she shook hands with the commissioner of baseball, the Pirates GM and the CEO, and the scout who had apparently enthusiastically recommended her, even though she only remembered meeting him a couple of times.
From there, they went to the media room for the official press conference. It was mobbed—jammed, even—and as she walked out to the podium, she couldn’t help worrying that she might trip, even in flats. She also felt pretty damn sick to her stomach, presumably from nerves, and not from the tiny bit of lunch she had been able to get down.
The general manager, Mr. Saunders, handed her a Pirates cap, and she reflexively bent the brim the way she liked it, and then put it on, while people clapped, and camera shutters clicked all over the room. Then, they had to pose, holding up a Pirates jersey, which had CAFFERTY stitched on the back, and was—she was pleased to see—number twenty-eight, which she had requested. Her hands must have been shaking, because after she slipped it on over her dress, it took her a couple of tries to get it buttoned.
More applause, more handshakes, more camera flashes. After the baseball commissioner and Mr. Saunders made opening remarks about what an inspiring day this was for baseball—and for equality—it was her turn to stand at the podium and answer questions. She gave very careful responses—which felt and sounded more rehearsed than they actually were—and said that she was excited to be here, it was an honor, she wanted to do her best to live up to the trust the Pirates organization had put in her, and so forth. Nadine and the other media relations people were probably relieved that she was erring on the side of being benign and pleasant, to preserve her corporate and endorsement viability, and that she was going out of her way not to come even close to offending anyone, anywhere about anything. But, speaking so cautiously felt like being in a verbal straitjacket.
It helped that most of the reporters seemed to want her to do well, since that made the whole story just that much more heartwarming. In this venue, at least, no one was trying to trick her into anything resembling a gaffe.
“Do you play because of your father?” someone asked. “To honor his memory?”
Which probably wasn’t a weird question—but, it felt weird, and invasive, and she had to remind herself not to touch the dog tag around her neck. “My father didn’t mind baseball, but he was really a football guy,” she said. “Although I hope he would have been happy about the way things have turned out so far.” And proud. “But, because of—everything, for a long time now, my mother has been the one helping me play.”
Several of the reporters glanced dubiously in her mother’s direction—and it was true; she didn’t exactly present as an elite athlete. She had been seated next to Theo—who was, of course, texting madly—in a row of chairs lined up near the podium.
“So, um, your mother taught you how to pitch?” the same reporter asked.
Her mother had sometimes played catch with her, when she was little, but the last time Jill had thrown to her, when she was about fifteen, her mother missed the first fastball, taking it right off the shoulder—and they both agreed that it would probably be better for her not to act as a receiver anymore.
“She came to my games,” Jill said. Mostly didn’t enjoy them, but came. “Made sure I had healthy meals, and slept enough, and got a new glove or cleats when I needed them.” Which was pretty often. “And, to be honest, she put up with me, whenever I was acting completely monomaniacal.” Since that was a near requirement to succeed at the higher levels of sports. “I’m not always terribly interesting—but, she makes it seem as though I am.”
Her mother smiled, her eyes looking a little bright, and Jill knew she was remembering more than a few endless, fretful conversations about grip variations for the changeup, or how to lengthen her stride, or mulling over whether she should drop her arm-slot—and other minutiae, which had probably made her mother feel like taking a nap, instead of listening intently.
When all of the media hoopla was finally over, she had to throw her bullpen session—about which, she was, increasingly, becoming a nervous wreck, although she hoped to hell that it didn’t show. Usually, she was pretty good at maintaining a poker face, but today, it was taking effort. Too much effort. The breathless “She’s a girl! And she can throw a ball! By herself!” stuff was all well and good, but she needed to be able to pitch, and to do so impressively, for any of the rest of it to matter.
Nadine had taken her mother and Theo off somewhere—out to the dugout, maybe? In the meantime, Mr. Saunders and Mr. Jarvis, who was the team’s CEO, escorted her down to the clubhouse, where she was introduced to a bunch of coaches and trainers and equipment managers, before they left her to get changed. Some of the Pirates were in there already, to work out, get medical treatment for injuries, and whatever else they needed to do before the game started. Most of them appeared to be only mildly interested by her being there, although a few looked irritated or even hostile. But, with the GM and CEO right there, no one said anything—or even approached them.
She was taken to a small room off the trainers’ area, and handed uniform pants, an on-field workout shirt, a belt, sanitary socks, and stirrups. She changed quickly, so that she would have time to fix her chignon—and to sit down in a chair and take several deep breaths to try and calm down. For a few terrible seconds, she thought she might actually throw up, but she kept breathing, until she felt under—flimsy—control. Then, she worked on the brim of her new cap a little more to get it just right, put it on, took one more deep breath, and s
tood up. The shirt fit pretty well, but the pants were too loose, although the belt helped take care of that.
The head trainer, whose last name was Garcia, was waiting for her in the main treatment room.
“I’m going to stretch you out now,” he said, “okay?”
She nodded, not sure what she was supposed to do.
He motioned for her to sit on one of the padded tables, so she jumped up there cooperatively. Sometimes, the high school’s athletic trainer had helped her learn some flexibility exercises or iced her up after games, and she had done a little work with someone over at the university, and another guy who worked for a local off-season training facility, but the sessions had never been particularly extensive or elaborate.
Garcia reached out, and then hesitated. “Are you comfortable with me putting my hands on your body?”
Oh. Gosh. She frowned. “Well, I was until you said that.”
He frowned, too.
“It’s probably fine, as long as we decide that we feel a deep and special love for each other,” she said.
Now, he stared at her.
Right. Okay. “My humor does not always amuse,” she said.
An understatement, apparently, given his expression.
He grunted something she couldn’t quite distinguish, and then—cautiously—started stretching her right arm and shoulder, before moving to concentrate on the left arm and shoulder. He had to reach inside her shirt here and there, especially to rub on this really strong heat balm stuff, but she was wearing a sports bra, and it wasn’t any big deal. He seemed so tense that she didn’t suggest just pulling off the workout T-shirt, to save them some time and trouble.
The stretching took ten or fifteen minutes, and was more like a massage than anything else. When he was finished, her muscles were certainly loose, but she was also kind of drowsy—and weirdly keyed-up, which was precisely not the way she wanted to feel. The menthol fumes from the heat balm were pretty intense, too.
“Good to go?” he asked.
“Um, yes, sir,” she said, and blinked a few times to try and force her energy to come back. “Thank you, sir.”
“Good luck out there,” he said.
She nodded her thanks, picked up her glove, and then followed him out to the main clubhouse. There were a few more players in there now, mostly in front of their lockers, in various stages of getting dressed—and there were no front office people around. So, it didn’t come as a complete shock that two of them were naked, which—since they were parading around, practically prancing, as though they had been waiting for her to come out—was clearly intentional.
“Like what you see?” one of them asked.
She had every intention of ignoring them, although she had to concentrate on not flinching when the other one suggested that they come over and check to see if she was wearing her cup—and someone else muttered a crack wondering whether she had been issued any kneepads. Some of the players seemed to think all of that was funny as hell, although it was somewhat heartening that others appeared to be annoyed, and someone barked at them to grow up and knock it off already.
“Hey,” she said vaguely to the clubhouse in general, as she passed through, without pausing to wait for any responses.
In the tunnel leading to the dugout, Garcia glanced over at her, but she just shrugged and looked straight ahead, thinking about pitching, and everything she needed to do to try and get into the right mindset.
When they emerged into the dugout, they were joined by the pitching coach, a guy named Durben, who walked to the outfield with her. Her mother and Theo were standing behind the third base coach’s box, and she nodded at them, without breaking stride.
It was mortifying—and more than a little hokey—that the public address system came on, and announced her name and number, and described her as tonight’s starting pitcher for the Pittsburgh Pirates, accompanied by a massive mock-up photo of her up on the Jumbotron. Most of the players on the field were visibly amused, and she could feel herself blushing—and hear Theo laughing on the sidelines. She glanced back, and saw that her mother mostly just looked nonplussed.
“That goes over big, with the country boys,” Durben said.
On one level, it was kind of neat, but mostly, it made her feel like a total imposter. “Well, I appreciate that they went to the effort,” she said.
Durben made a sound that was either a laugh, or a snort.
The trainer had gone over to talk to a balding man who was putting on his shin guards farther down the left field line. The two of them spoke for a minute, glancing in her direction, and then, Garcia came back over to join Durben.
They told her to do what she normally did before she pitched, so she ran a few easy wind sprints, just to get her blood flowing, and then did a series of stretches, uncomfortably aware of how closely she was being watched. By everyone.
The man putting on the shin guards was the Pirates backup catcher, and he was now doing his own stretching. He was a longtime veteran, who had played for several major league teams over the years, and she remembered once being very disappointed when he hit a game-winning double down into the left field corner to beat the Red Sox in a crucial game, when she was about eleven.
After he finished stretching, the man came over and put out his hand. He was either growing a beard, or just hadn’t shaved for a few days—and most of it was grey hair. “Freddie Morrow,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
She shook it. “Hi, I’m Jill Cafferty. It’s nice to meet you, too, sir.”
He smiled. “That’s adorable—but, I’m Freddie, okay?”
Right. And she wasn’t blushing again—because that would be entirely not cool.
They threw to each other from about twenty feet apart, and she made a point of hitting his glove precisely, to whatever degree possible. He obviously noticed, because he moved it to different positions as they tossed the ball back and forth—and she damn well hit those spots, too.
As they kept throwing, she drifted backwards every so often, until she was about a hundred and twenty feet away from him. Was part of her thinking, “I’m playing catch with a professional baseball player!” the entire time? Totally. But, she was trying to rise above it.
“Far enough,” Durben said abruptly, when she started to move back again.
Well, okay. She stayed where she was, and began working her way back in, until they were about twenty feet apart again.
Freddie bent to pick up the rest of his catching gear. “How do you feel?”
Mostly, she still felt like vomiting. Especially because, in addition to people from the front office, quite a few of the players—including members of the visiting team, the Nationals—had wandered out by the bullpens to watch. “Fine, sir—uh, Freddie,” she said.
He nodded. “Good. Let’s do this.”
As they walked towards the home bullpen, right behind the visitors’ pen, he glanced over at her. “Garcy told me you got a little static in the clubhouse,” he said. “Those idiots shake you up?”
Yes. Sort of, anyway. But, she shook her head. “I’ve seen it before.” Which didn’t quite come out right. “Um, I didn’t mean—” Wait, she was in danger of making it worse. “Some guys just feel the need to do that, I guess.”
He nodded. “Couple of jackasses, though.”
Yup.
And frankly, she had been underwhelmed—but, she wasn’t about to say so.
“Are you going to the GM about it?” he asked.
Thereby changing the dynamics of what had been—so far—a reasonably smooth day? She shook her head. “No. What happens in the”—she was going to say “locker room,” but it wasn’t the preferred term in baseball—“clubhouse stays in the clubhouse.”
Freddie nodded once. “Good answer. But I’m sorry if they embarrassed you.”
She had a feeling that if he had been inside, he would, at minimum, have been one of the people telling them to cut it out. Which would have been nice.
If her father had bee
n here, she probably would have told him, and he would have taken some quiet, but decisive action. She would have been happy to let him do it, too. That is, if they had dared to act up at all, knowing that Sergeant First Class Cafferty was someplace nearby.
“You know that you need to signal what you’re going to throw,” Freddie said, once they were in the bullpen, and he was pulling on his chest protector.
She wasn’t sure whether to be insulted—or sympathetic that he was the one who had drawn the assignment of being the first one to catch “the girl.”
“I Googled ‘how to throw a bullpen,’” she said, “so, we’re all set.”
He nodded, although she could tell he wasn’t entirely sure whether she was kidding. “Okay, then.”
One of the best baseball-related things her mother had done over the years was to talk the URI head coach into letting her throw some batting practice for the team, and to work out with them a few times. That had started about six months after her father was killed, and it was the kind of distraction she really needed. The Rams had a pretty strong baseball program—Division I—and although she had been too shy to ask many questions, she had made a point of playing close attention to everything. Once it was clear that she threw hard enough to make batting practice worthwhile, the guys had been very nice to her, and gave her some tips and advice. In fact, she was still using a version of the changeup grip one of them had taught her.
Anyway, she had also picked up things like how to motion with her glove towards the catcher to indicate she was going to throw a fastball or a curve or whatever during warm-ups and bullpens.
But, wow, there were a lot of people around today. Too many people. It was supposed to be a closed session, so there was no media allowed, but there were a bunch of front office executives, members of the grounds and stadium crews, and at least fifteen players from both teams, who were either curious—or hoping to get a good laugh. So, it was comforting to see her mother and Theo standing with the GM, CEO, and Nadine, although it made her just that much more nervous when she noticed that even Theo was tuned in enough to look a little pensive, while—oh, hell, was the pitching coach talking to her? Quickly, she focused her attention on him.
A Season of Daring Greatly Page 8
