He was either going to laugh—or give her an odd look, and she was relieved when he went with the former. “That kid Scott,” he gestured towards left field, “kept saying that you weren’t really a diva princess, and that you were pretty fun in Pittsburgh—but, not too many of us were buying it.”
She had a terrible feeling that either Diva or Princess were potential nicknames. So, maybe she should redirect, although this was going to be based more on the rhythm of the game, than any savvy observations. “They’re swinging at a lot of first pitches,” she said.
“You got that right. That kid”—Jonesy waved vaguely at the mound—“has had trouble finding the plate all night, and they’re still swinging.” He shook his head. “Every pitcher in the world is lucky that hitters are as dumb as rocks.”
Well, yeah, that was pretty much the gospel, among pitchers.
“No idea what you’ve really got,” he said. “But, except for one or two guys, you can be pretty far off the black, and they’ll still bite at it.”
It was a hell of a lot easier to get hitters out, if they were helping with the process. “Thanks,” she said.
Jonesy shrugged. “Mother’ll take good care of you. That guy was born to sit behind the dish. Too bad he can’t hit worth a damn.”
For Marcus’s sake, she hoped that that wasn’t true.
She spent the next few innings at the railing, with Jonesy making the occasional “Walked right up the ladder with that guy” or “That one doesn’t like you coming inside” remarks, all of which she carefully filed away.
The third baseman on her team, some guy named Geoff, hit a solo shot in the fifth, and she high-fived him along with everyone else. It was his first home run as a pro, and he was very excited. So much so that he high-fived her right back without missing a beat.
She finally located her mother and Theo sitting in two box seats behind home plate, when she turned around to look at the crowded stands between innings. Theo was using his phone, of course, but he gave her a thumbs-up, and nudged her mother, who waved. She tipped her cap ever so slightly at them, and then went back to leaning against the railing.
They were losing, eight to three, but no one seemed to be terribly devastated about it, except for that night’s starting pitcher, who had left the game during the fourth, and returned from the clubhouse in the seventh. He was sitting by himself, unhappily expressionless, with a big ice pack strapped to his shoulder.
Hector, who was lounging against the railing on her right side, shook his head. “I may not speak Spanish,” he said, “but most of our gardeners are Japanese, so at least I can say a few things to that poor guy.”
She glanced back at the miserable pitcher, who was staring straight ahead at nothing. “Can you teach me a couple of phrases? And what’s his name?”
“Shosuke,” Hector said. “I would have figured he would know some English, but he can barely say hello.”
So, he was probably feeling even more lost and off-kilter than she was. Especially after giving up six runs, in what was probably his first start. And he looked really young, too. “That must be”—She stopped. “You have multiple gardeners?”
Hector nodded cheerfully.
So, he came from extreme wealth—in a zip code that must be near the famous 90210. “That explains the fabulous dental work,” she said.
Hector nodded again, and smiled a very toothy smile.
“Anyway,” she said. “About Shosuke?”
“I don’t know much,” he said, “but I can teach you a couple of things. Kon’nichiwa is hello.”
She pronounced the word quietly to herself a few times, to try and commit it to memory.
“And sayonara is good-bye,” he said.
That one, she already knew.
“Arigatō is ‘thank you,’” he said. “But, sometimes they say dōmo arigatō, which could be for emphasis? I’m not sure.”
She repeated those words, too.
“And, well, that’s about it, sorry,” Hector said. “Mother Grimes”—he gestured towards Marcus, who was down at the far end of the dugout, conferring with a relief pitcher, who had come into the game the inning before—“has been using some apps to try and learn enough to communicate with the guy. So, he’ll probably end up being the expert around here.”
Somehow, that didn’t surprise her at all.
When the half inning was over, and they had all gone back out to the field for the top of the eighth, she moved to sit near Shosuke, who was quite skinny, and looked to be maybe twenty years old.
“Kon’nichiwa,” she said, tentatively.
His eyes lit up, and he rattled off a couple of rapid sentences.
She felt guilty about having to shake her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Japanese. I just—dōmo arigatō? And—sayonara?” She wouldn’t insult him by saying words like sushi and teriyaki.
He made a small bow in her direction. “Hel-lo,” he said, sounding very shy.
“Kon’nichiwa,” she said again.
He smiled. “Konbanwa,” he said, and pointed up at the sky.
So, that meant—night? Or maybe—good night? Or—the sky itself? She would have to look it up later—or ask Marcus. “Konbanwa,” she said, doing her best to mimic his pronunciation perfectly.
He nodded, and bowed again.
She held up a baseball glove, then raised her hands questioningly.
“Gurōbu,” he said.
She repeated that, and then said, “Glove,” which he repeated, with enough confidence to make her assume that it was a word he already knew.
By the end of the inning, they had moved up to the railing, so she could watch the hitters, and gone through “baseball,” “pitcher,” “foul ball,” “ground out” and “strikeout.” She wasn’t sure if she would remember any of the words, but he looked more at ease, and ironically enough, she felt as though she was really communicating with one of her teammates—even though they spoke different languages.
By the end of the game, almost the whole team was up at the railing, rooting for an unlikely comeback, but they ended up losing nine to six.
Jeremiah intercepted her as she was heading towards the clubhouse and her dressing room, and she ended up doing several brief stand-up interviews on the field, with local news affiliates, and a few national networks. A group of fans was clustered by the edge of the stands, and she signed at least fifty autographs before making her way down the tunnel.
It was frustrating that she didn’t have a shower yet, but since she hadn’t played, she could get away without taking one until she got to the motel. But, she did stop by the employee ladies’ room to wash up, before going to her dressing room to change. There was a small laundry bag neatly folded on her chair, which she assumed had been left by one of the clubbies. She wasn’t sure what to put in there, so she decided to leave them only her uniform, her sanitary socks, and her stirrup socks. She could hand-wash everything else easily enough in the motel sink. She also didn’t know what gear she could safely leave behind in her dressing room, but decided to bring everything but her turf shoes with her.
She hadn’t been able to look at either of her phones for hours, and dozens of messages had come in, most of which she ignored—especially the six or eight from just one agent, a very smarmy and persistent guy named Aaron Marshak, who had been trying to land her for about two years now. He had even once—rather creepily—sent flowers to her mother on Valentine’s Day, with the apparent assumption that the entire family would be charmed by his doing so.
Since it would only take a few minutes, she went ahead and sent quick texts back to people like Lauren and Greg and her relatives.
There was a hesitant knock on the door, and she opened it to find Terence, the clubbie with all of the tattoos.
“You all set?” he asked. “You need anything?”
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’m supposed to put my uniform in the bag, right?”
“Yeah. Put everything in there, after you hook it on to thi
s laundry loop,” he said, handing her a white cloth contraption. “We mark the shirts and all with your number, to make sure you get back the right stuff.” He glanced in her locker. “Where are your cleats?”
She pointed to her gear bag.
“You need to leave those,” he said. “Nicky and I clean them.”
God, they had a terrible job.
“Stinks that you don’t have a shower yet,” Terence said. “But, there was a problem with the pipes. They’re supposed to have guys coming in here tonight, to work overtime on it.”
She nodded.
“There’s a tailor showing up tomorrow, too,” he said. “For, you know, alterations, I guess.”
She hoped it would be someone who worked quickly, since she really didn’t want to pitch in a baggy uniform. “I’d maybe like to go down one size in the pants,” she said. “If you have any smaller ones?”
He nodded. “You bet. We’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks,” she said. “And maybe tomorrow, you can walk me through how the dues work, and stuff like that.”
“Sure thing,” he said. “We have, um, you know, a post-game spread, if you’re hungry—but, I told Mr. Brayton I’d bring you up to see him right now. Since he’s with your family.”
In which case, details could wait. “That would be great, thank you,” she said.
Because, the truth was, she was not only very tired and ready to go crash out at the motel, but she could really use a hug.
CHAPTER 12
Once Terence brought her upstairs, she only got to say a fast hello to her mother and Theo before she was introduced to another series of strangers—including the friendly looking retired couple who were going to serve as her host family. After that, she had to do a few more interviews with print and online reporters, and by the time they were able to leave the ballpark, it was so late that the only place they could find that was still open was an all-night diner.
Her father had always ordered whatever a diner was offering as the daily special, and she had gotten into the habit, too. Which, tonight, meant meatloaf with mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes, carrots and peas, fresh cornbread, and Jell-O or pudding for dessert. All she had to do was add a dinner salad and a glass of milk, and she was reasonably good to go. Also, Theo gave her his coleslaw, and her mother shared some of the roast turkey from her open-faced sandwich.
“You think they’re ever just going to let you, you know, play baseball?” Theo asked.
It didn’t seem that way, did it? Jill shrugged. “They have to give me some space tomorrow. You can’t mess with someone when they’re pitching.” Although she had already been warned that an MLB camera crew was going to be following her around all day for a documentary or some damn thing.
“They’re fairly convincing about wanting you to succeed,” her mother said. “But, I guess it’s going to take a little while for them to figure out how to do that.”
And no, her mother had not been happy about the lack of a working shower or bathroom in her changing room.
When they got to the motel, she was tired enough to want to flop facedown onto the bed, without even changing into a sleeping T-shirt or anything. But, she took a shower, and hand-washed her compression shorts and shirt and underwear, first. Then, she let herself fall onto her bed, already half-asleep, barely managing to grunt her assent when her mother asked if it would be okay if she read for a while before turning out the light.
A light she never noticed, once she closed her eyes, and for all she knew, her mother read until dawn.
In the morning, they had breakfast at a nearby Denny’s, before driving over to the stadium, where she was going to have a fitting with the tailor at eleven-thirty.
Once the word had got out that she would be starting that night, they began to get messages from people who were going to drive up for the game, including her father’s sister and husband, and their family friend Keith, who had been deployed with her father, and was planning to show up with people from their National Guard unit. Her maternal grandmother lived in Chicago, but was going to fly in to see her play later in the season, maybe when the team went to play Staten Island or Brooklyn in New York City, and her paternal grandparents, who had retired to Arizona, had similar plans. Greg immediately offered to drive Lauren and some of their other friends up, but since she knew it would mean Lauren would have to miss physical therapy, and that she wouldn’t be able to spend any time with them at all, she asked if they could come when the team played the Connecticut Tigers or the Lowell Spinners, later in the season.
Having so many people in the stands was going to add some pressure, but it would also be nice to have extra support. Among other things, the damn game was going to be televised on ESPN—which ranked much higher on the pressure scale.
Her dressing room was still a work in progress, but when she walked in, a plumber and a couple of carpenters were in the shower area, toiling away.
“A few more hours,” one of them said. “Should be done by then.”
She nodded, gathering up the uniforms and issued gear in her locker to take to her fitting session. No one seemed to know where to do it, and finally, she ended up in a small conference room, where someone or other pushed the table against the wall, to make more room.
The tailor was a burly older man, who was unshaven and had an unlit cigar in his mouth. He was introduced as Russo, with no further elaboration, so she decided to fall back on her traditional strategy, and call him “sir.” He mumbled to himself, as he pinned and taped various seams in place, starting with the home and road uniforms. For a man with thick hands, he had a deft touch, pausing every so often to say “Throw” or “Field,” and she would pantomime the motions, and he would reposition some of the pins, to adjust the fit.
And she possibly did a triple take, when she realized that he was using the cigar as a pin cushion.
Since the Hall of Fame was going to whisk away tonight’s jersey, as soon as she took it off, Nicky brought out an extra one for him to alter.
“How ’bout the fleeces and workout clothes?” Russo asked. “And the BP jersey?”
She hesitated, not wanting him to have to do crazy amounts of work.
“Spit it out, girlie,” he said.
“The hoodie’s fine,” she said. “But, maybe the fleece could be a little more fitted. Mostly, people won’t see the BP jersey, but maybe we could do one of the T-shirts, and those incredibly baggy shorts? I look like a yahoo in them.”
He lifted a scruffy eyebrow. “We?”
“You,” she said. “Sir.”
He nodded, and motioned for her to put on the workout clothes. So, she stepped behind the open door to a storage closet they were using as a changing room.
“Not exactly one of those skirts who’s gonna be walking ’round in a sports bra all day,” he said.
No, it wasn’t who she was. She might put on a tank top, now and then, when it was hot, maybe, but she had always erred on the side of being reserved. She had private moments of being vain about her body—she was, after all, pretty damn fit—but, that didn’t necessarily mean that she wanted to waltz around for one and all to see. “No, sir,” she said. “I think that’s a safe assumption on your part.”
“Ain’t no harm in it, but I don’t think it’s no more respectful than players goin’ shirtless on the field,” he said. “The ballfield’s a temple.”
She was a charter member of the Church of Baseball herself. “Yes, sir,” she said. “It is.”
Somewhat to her surprise, he smiled. “You got those military kid manners, don’t you?”
She never thought of herself as being a “military kid”—her father had had an active business restoring old houses, and only served in the Guard part-time—but, in certain ways, it was true. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I probably do.”
“I’m really sorry about your dad,” he said.
She nodded. “Thank you, sir. It’s—well, we never stop missing him.”
“He’d be mighty
proud of you,” Russo said, around a mouthful of straight pins, as he worked on the shorts.
“I hope so, sir,” she said. Assumed so—but, at some level, it was all just theory now. “My mother says a lot of people from his unit are driving up tonight.”
Russo nodded. “Good for them. Doesn’t surprise me none, though. Did some time in the service myself, back in the day.”
Which didn’t surprise her. People in the military had a certain way of holding themselves, even years later.
He studied her T-shirt. “You want ’em sleeveless, or capped sleeves?”
She had no idea. “What do you think?” she asked.
“You got pretty nice guns,” he said. “But, capped’ll be aces for you.”
“Okay, then. Rock on, sir,” she said.
He didn’t seem to know what to make of that, but began measuring and pinning the sleeves.
“Are you coming to the game tonight, Mr. Russo?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Well, I don’t rightly know. Have to admit, the wife and me don’t mosey on out to the yard too much.”
There was something very charming about his rough edges. “I’d like it, if you came,” she said. “Could I ask them to put aside a couple of tickets for you?”
“Think we could probably spring for ’em,” he said.
True, minor league prices weren’t exactly through the roof, but— “I’d rather have them be comps from me,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, and half-smiled. “Give me a chance to see how the uniform hangs.”
As good a reason as any.
Once the fittings were finished, she went down to her dressing room—and the work crew left long enough for her to gather up a BP cap and non-gamer glove, and change into the right clothes for team stretch. After which, Jeremiah and his intern—whatever his name was—brought her down to the GM’s office, where the MLB documentary team was waiting. Having two cameramen, a producer, and a stand-up reporter follow her around was probably a necessary evil—and it wasn’t as though she had been given the option to decline, so she nodded and smiled as though she thought it was a great idea.
A Season of Daring Greatly Page 13
