A Season of Daring Greatly

by Ellen Emerson White

  Adler let out a sharp whistle, and everyone who didn’t have on headphones or earbuds looked up, with the others reacting more slowly.

  “This is Cafferty,” he said. “Act right, or I’ll bounce your heads like Ping-Pong balls. Got it?”

  Some of the guys looked agreeable, some unfriendly—and some had blank expressions, so she could tell that quite a few of the players on the team spoke very limited English.

  “Be nice to me, or he will dribble your heads,” she said—at least, she hoped that was what she said—in Spanish, moving her hand as though she was bouncing a basketball. “Very hard.”

  Several of the Latino guys laughed, and exchanged muttered remarks.

  “You’re full of surprises, Cafferty,” Adler said, and looked at Sofia and an older Hispanic guy—maybe a coach? “How’d she do?”

  Sofia shrugged affirmatively, and the older guy pursed his lips, and she could tell he wasn’t even close to being on the “it’s so great to have a female player here!” bandwagon. “Not bad,” he said finally.

  “That’ll be useful,” Adler said, and motioned towards the overweight clubbie. “Nicky, get her set up with gear.”

  And with that, pretty much everyone went back to whatever they had been doing, although it was a relief to recognize Scott, the Competitive Balance Round pick, putting together a thick sandwich.

  “See you out there, Caffy!” he said cheerfully.

  “You bet, CB,” she said. With luck, she was going to have one friend here, at least.

  Nicky waved shyly for her to follow him to a room where equipment was stored.

  “Um, they had us set aside stuff for you,” he said. “But, they’re bringing in, like, a tailor tomorrow?”

  Fittings and alterations. “Great, thank you,” she said, glad to see that, once again, she had been given number twenty-eight. “Did anyone else want the number?”

  “One guy, yeah. Schwartzman,” he said, avoiding her eyes.

  And probably already not a fan of hers, if he’d had to give up his favorite number.

  “Senior sign,” he said. “So, um, you know.”

  No clout, in other words. Some animals were more equal than other animals. Well, she would figure out a way to make it up to him. Buy him a steak when they were on the road, or something.

  There was a surprising amount of gear. First, he handed out home and road uniforms, as well as a batting practice version, and three different caps. Sometimes, there would be one-time-only jerseys for theme nights at the ballpark, which would usually get auctioned off after the game. She was also given two pairs of long shorts—which were going to be much too baggy—a couple of high-tech, moisture-wicking, dri-FIT, hypercool workout shirts, two more on-field team T-shirts, sanitary socks, stirrups, a belt, a pair of shower shoes, a light windbreaker/warm-up jacket, a thicker jacket, and a Pirates fleece, as well as a Pirates hoodie. Everything else, except for one of the T-shirts, was Pomeroy-specific issue, with PR and cartoon dog logos.

  Once Nicky had checked through the entire pile, he handed her an inventory sheet to sign, since everything would ultimately be returned whenever she left the team—for whatever reasons—and reissued to another player.

  A player who probably wasn’t going to be thrilled about the alterations.

  “We, um, have extras stocked,” Nicky said, still not making eye contact. “Because I think the Hall of Fame, and like, the big club, will be taking some of it after you play. But, I have to keep track on the sheet, okay?”

  She nodded. “Absolutely. I’ll be careful not to lose anything.”

  “Do you have—cleats?” he asked.

  That was a serious question? Wow. She nodded.

  “And—turf shoes?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “You only wear team stuff at the ballpark,” he said. “Or you get fined?”

  She nodded a fourth time. She had been surprised to hear that they weren’t even supposed to wear their caps when they were out in the world, but she assumed that it was to help players keep a lower profile—and maybe not disgrace the team if they did anything stupid in public.

  “Well, so, um, yeah,” Nicky said, and looked in the direction of the clubhouse.

  Eager to leave, then. “Thanks. I’ll see you later,” she said.

  He gestured towards the gear. “Unless you, uh, need me to carry this stuff for you?”

  Because—lugging a small pile of clothes all the way across the hall was going to be hard. “Well, it does look very heavy,” she said.

  He looked at her uncertainly, but then moved to pick the stack up.

  She had always thought that baseball people were a happy, lighthearted lot—but, it really wasn’t seeming that way. “Sorry. I’m kidding,” she said.

  “Oh.” He stepped back. “Okay. It’s cool. This is all just, you know, different.”

  That, it was.

  CHAPTER 10

  Her new dressing room was very small, with a regular wooden locker—exactly like the ones in the clubhouse—a folding chair, and a small wooden stool. There was a shelf above the locker, to use for personal items, she assumed, since there was a small box on the left that could be locked—although, since she didn’t know the combination, that was kind of moot. The shelf had a neatly arranged supply of new travel-sized toiletries, including a bar of soap, some shampoo, two plastic razors, and a small can of shaving cream.

  There were also two cubbyholes at the bottom of the locker, for things like cleats and street shoes. And, very sweetly, there were several bouquets of flowers on the floor in the corner, two of which turned out to be from her grandparents, plus one from her mother, and some from a couple of family friends.

  The door didn’t lock—which might not bode well for potential pranks, but at least, it closed tightly. So, she changed into compression gear, and then put on the home uniform, which had Retrievers blazed across the front in royal blue. It didn’t fit quite right, and she was probably going to need to swap the pants out for the next smaller size. The tailor was going to come in handy, since she was pretty sure that the jersey made her look like a beefy rectangle, but the dressing room didn’t have a mirror, so she couldn’t tell for sure.

  She put up her hair in the usual chignon, making sure that her new cap—with the smiling cartoon dog—would fit comfortably above it. Then, she hung up the road and BP uniforms, and unpacked enough of her baseball stuff so that she could put on her cleats and have a glove ready for warm-ups.

  When she was done, she wasn’t sure if she should venture bravely out, wait for someone to come and get her—or just sit there quietly in the folding chair, take a few calming breaths, and mull over the degree to which her stomach was upset again. For lack of a better idea, sitting in the chair seemed like the least stressful choice.

  Then, it occurred to her that it had been an eternity since she had checked her phone. Maybe the most soothing thing to do would be to text people like Lauren and Greg, see what was going on at home, and what she was missing.

  She was retrieving the phone from her bag when there was a knock on the door, so she went over to answer it and saw a guy standing there in full uniform. A teammate, she assumed, as opposed to a very young coach. She had no intention of noticing whether any of the other players were attractive—but, this guy was, in an understated sort of way. African-American, hair closely cropped, but not shaved, carried himself well.

  “Hi, I’m Marcus Grimes,” he said, with a soft Southern accent, although there was a distinct note in his voice that commanded attention.

  “Hi, Marcus,” she said. “I’m Jill Cafferty.”

  They shook hands, quite formally.

  “So,” he said. “Welcome.”

  She nodded, trying not to look as anxious as she was feeling. “Thanks. I’m guessing”—based upon his build, which was similar to a defensive lineman—“that you’re a catcher or first baseman?”

  He smiled slightly. “Catcher.”

  Ergo, they would be spendi
ng a lot of time together this season.

  “I was wondering,” he said. “Did they do it of their own volition, or did you request a private room like this?”

  She didn’t want to say that the grown-ups had decided—since she was supposed to be one. “I think the front office presented the idea,” she said. Possibly, her aunt had worked on it during negotiations, too. “Although I’m sure my mother would have strongly advocated for it, if they hadn’t.”

  “But, you’ve spent time in male locker rooms,” he said.

  Most notably, yesterday. “Not much,” she said. “Usually just for team meetings, and things like that.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms. Not quite as tall as she was, but way more muscular, with wide shoulders. “Are you squeamish?” he asked.

  Strange question. “I don’t know,” she said. She wasn’t big on cinematic gore, but that probably wasn’t what he meant. “I guess it depends.”

  He nodded gravely. “Will being around male genitalia be something that would unnerve you?”

  Did everyone think she was gay? She frowned at him. “Is that a trick question?”

  “Clubhouses are rowdy,” he said. “And often crass. Will that be a problem?”

  Points to him, for being up-front. “I could probably do without the homoerotic hijinks,” she said, “but, no, as long as I don’t have to take group showers, I don’t really care. I mean, female reporters have been in locker rooms for decades.”

  “Many of whom have been harassed, and hazed,” he said.

  He had extremely bookish diction, for a jock. “Where’d you go to school?” she asked.

  “Vanderbilt,” he said, somewhat impatiently. “But, right now, I’m trying to figure out your position on this.”

  “Well, I assume most people are here to play baseball,” she said. “And that there’s a difference between harassment and practical jokes.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Although there are plenty of guys who can’t necessarily tell the difference.”

  Good point. “If they’re just burning off energy, that’s one thing,” she said. “If they’re intentionally trying to make my life difficult, that would be another. I kind of figure that most of them probably usually know which one they’re doing.”

  He nodded again.

  “Are you saying I should have a regular clubhouse locker?” she asked.

  “It makes sense for you to shower and change in here,” he said. “But, sitting by yourself constantly doesn’t seem like a good idea. I mean, in the minors, there probably isn’t going to be a lot of team cohesion. Too much competition for too few slots. So, that’s isolating in and of itself. If you’re going to be spending most of your time alone, it’s going to be even tougher than it needs to be.”

  All of which made perfect sense. “Yeah,” she said. “Only, what if—”

  He pushed away from the doorjamb. “Come on. Let’s go talk to the guys.”

  Well, okay, then. She put on her cap—except, it was the away cap, so she swapped it for the home version, and tucked her glove under her arm.

  “Bring your fleece,” Marcus said. “It got pretty chilly last night.”

  If she knew him better, she would have saluted, and said, “Yes, sir!” or something otherwise obnoxious, but instead, she pulled her fleece out of her locker, and followed him out to the hall.

  Marcus glanced at her sideways. “‘Homoerotic hijinks’?”

  She grinned at him. “Just registering that one?”

  “A little slow on the uptake, maybe,” he said.

  Not very often, she was guessing.

  Adler was standing a few feet away in the hall, conferring with a coach she hadn’t met yet, and he looked surprised to see them coming out of her dressing room, although he didn’t do anything other than raise an eyebrow.

  “Are you okay with it, Skip, if we have a quick players-only meeting before stretch?” Marcus asked.

  Adler paused, before answering. “We’ve only lost the one game, son.”

  Marcus smiled. “Well, let’s try to keep it from getting worse.”

  Adler looked at them, then nodded. “Carry on.”

  When they walked into the clubhouse, almost everyone was in the middle of changing into game uniforms and getting ready to head out to the field.

  “Chick in the house!” someone yelled, although she wasn’t sure who it was, and a few guys laughed when someone else screamed in mock terror and covered himself with towels.

  “All right, listen up,” Marcus said, once they had settled down a little.

  “Shhh,” Scott said loudly to the guy sitting next to him. “Mother is speaking.”

  Jill looked at Marcus. “They call you Mother? Already?” With the season only a couple of days old?

  “I can be a mite bossy,” he said, rather stiffly.

  Yes, she had already caught on to that.

  “Here’s the law, guys,” Marcus said to the room in general. “I know there’s been some yapping and complaining, but we’re not going to have a member of the team off by herself all season. So, we need to figure out a way for Jill to be able to spend most of her time in here, and to make sure she feels comfortable.”

  “Well, it’s not like we can’t take turns visiting her,” a guy with a seedy-looking light brown mustache said.

  It got really quiet, although some of the ballplayers were still speaking Spanish among themselves. She felt her face get very hot, but she wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment, or fury, or—more likely—both.

  “We’ve already figured out that you’re a dick, Owen,” a tall, lanky guy with dark hair said. “You don’t have to keep proving it.”

  “What?” Owen said defensively. “It’s what a lot of you were thinking.”

  Oh, she hoped not. “Obviously, at least one of you is going to be an idiot,” she said, just as Marcus started to say something. “But, with luck, most of you aren’t. Either way, I’m here to play, and if anyone acts like a jerk, I’m still here to play.”

  “Cafferty, we’ll get the clubbies to set you up with a locker,” the lanky guy said. “Mother’s right—you need to be able to hang out with us, or there’s no way this is going to work.”

  “Yeah, go ahead and change clothes in here,” Owen said. “Give us a show every day.”

  Really? “Shut up, Owen,” she said, as several other players said versions of the same thing, although “shut the fuck up, Owen” was the most popular choice.

  A guy who was clearly bilingual was filling in the rest of the Latino players, although she couldn’t help contributing that one of their teammates was un imbécil—among other things. She managed to rise above using the word pendejo—but, it took some concentrated effort.

  There were three loud knocks, and then one of the clubhouse doors was pushed open by a guy in black Under Armour sweatpants and a gold Pirates polo shirt.

  “Time for stretch,” he said. “Let’s get out there, guys.”

  That broke—although didn’t erase—the tension, and people were grabbing their caps, and gloves, and whatever else they were going to need during the game—including, she saw, more than one tin of chewing tobacco. Which was supposed to be illegal in the minors, but she had assumed that there were still people who did it, since it was a baseball thing. A stupid thing, but pretty popular, even on the AAU team she’d played on.

  “Thanks for backing me up,” she said to the lanky guy. More than lanky, she could see, now that she was up close—he was at least six-six.

  “No problem,” he said, and put his hand out. “Dimitri.”

  “Jill,” she said.

  After they shook, she followed him out to the tunnel leading to the dugout, and the field.

  She’d always liked the sound of cleats on cement. It was a “Play ball!” sound.

  There was enough crowd noise outside, so that it was probably a full house. She was trying not to be conspicuous, but as soon as she left the dugout, there was a surge of energy in th
e stands, and people were calling her name from a lot of different directions.

  She lifted her hand in a wave, but didn’t stray from the team, as they headed out to the right field foul line to stretch. Marcus was off with that night’s starting pitcher, but it probably would have looked dumb if she had clung to him like some insecure little shadow, anyway. So, she found an open spot, and followed along as the guy in the Pirates shirt—a man, actually, in his early thirties, maybe—led them through a series of organized stretches. Shoulder shrugs, arm circles, hamstrings, quads, and so forth.

  Of course, being baseball players, more than a few of her teammates didn’t exactly overexert themselves, although there was a noticeable lack of chatter and joking around.

  “How those groin stretches feel for you, Cafferty?” someone asked.

  She didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. “Shut up, Owen,” she said, which was echoed by Dimitri and Scott and at least two other players.

  Owen just kind of leered at her. “You wearing your—”

  “Don’t say it,” she said, before he could get the word “cup” out. Christ, guys were obsessed with their damn athletic supporters.

  “Let’s see some focus,” the man leading the stretches said, sounding grim.

  This did not lighten the atmosphere.

  When it was time to break off into pairs to play catch, she had a “What if no one picks me?” moment of panic, the likes of which she hadn’t felt—well, ever—in her entire life, when it came to sports.

  “Who’s Schwartzman?” she asked, hoping that it wasn’t Owen.

  No one said anything right away, but since they were all looking at the same guy, he sighed and lifted his hand briefly.

  “Me,” he said. “Why?”

  “Thank you for the number,” she said. “I think I owe you a steak dinner or something.”

  “Get him a car,” someone said.

  Okay, all high draft picks probably got grief about their bonuses. She saw Owen start to open his mouth, and pointed at him. “Shut up, Owen,” she said, before he could even let out one syllable—and several of the guys laughed.