They were harder to ignore during PFP—Pitchers’ Fielding Practice—because she was awkward and clumsy on a few of the plays, and got more than one coaching criticism of her footwork and approach to the ball. A downside of teaching herself how to do so many aspects of baseball was that she had picked up some bad habits.
She heard one of the other pitchers say, “Man, she sucks,” and someone else—Jonesy, maybe?—said, “Give it a rest already.” She could only hope that the directional microphones weren’t sensitive enough to have picked that up.
She wasn’t sensitive enough for it to have bothered her, of course. She had barely even noticed.
When PFP was over, she was supposed to meet inside with Sawyer and Marcus about tonight’s game. The TV people started to follow them into the clubhouse, but Marcus raised his hand.
“I’m sorry, you have to leave my pitcher alone now,” he said. “We have game prep to do.”
The producer held up the media pass hanging from a lanyard around his neck. “We’re All-Access.”
“I appreciate that,” Marcus said, “but the clubhouse is closed to the media right now. We need to get our work done.”
“I’ll just shoot for a few minutes,” one of the cameramen said. “Then, we’ll get out of your hair.”
Marcus shook his head. “No. Take it up with media relations. My pitcher needs to focus.”
The MLB producer looked at her, as though she might overrule him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t argue with my catcher.”
So, they were able to escape into the clubhouse, unescorted.
“Thank you, Mother,” she said—and meant it.
He frowned. “I really don’t like being called ‘Mother.’”
“What do you prefer?” she asked.
“Marcus,” he said.
Duly noted. “Thank you for running interference, Marcus,” she said.
He waved that off. “Come on, we’ll pull some chairs over to your locker.”
Except for Nicky, who was cleaning someone’s cleats, the room was deserted, since BP had started and everyone else was out on the field.
Overnight, she had been set up with a locker—complete with a “Cafferty” nameplate—three down from Marcus, with Shosuke on her left and a pitcher named Suarez on her right.
The clubbies were earning their tip money, because they had put new toiletries on the top shelf, and tonight’s game jersey was already hanging up. She glanced at it, and saw that Russo was a speedy seamstress—or whatever the male form of the word was—because it had already been altered with neat, gently curved seams.
She would do most of her changing in her dressing room, but there was no reason why she couldn’t finish up with the top layers in here. If any of the guys had a problem with that, so be it.
Sawyer turned out to be a stats guy, and had detailed notes and spray charts for her to examine, as well as videos of hitters on his iPad.
“It’s so early in the season that we don’t have much information yet, but this is a start,” he said.
It looked comprehensive to her—which was another reminder of how little she knew.
“I haven’t gotten to see you throw yet,” Sawyer said. “You feel good about your two-seamer and your four-seamer?”
Her fastballs. She nodded, since that seemed to be the right answer.
“We’re going to think long-term, and build you up, brick by brick. So, I don’t want to see anything but fastballs in the first inning,” he said. “Maybe the entire outing.”
She tried not to look utterly appalled.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I know you work off the change and the hook, but we’re starting a process here, you get what I’m saying?”
She wasn’t at all on board with this, but nodding still felt like the smartest option.
“This isn’t high school,” he said. “You won’t be overmatching anyone, sitting around eighty-nine, ninety-one. What I’m looking for is movement, and how you change speeds.”
She nodded yet again—since it was the only thing she seemed to know how to do.
Marcus mostly listened, and took notes on his iPad, while Sawyer talked about pitching mostly being about real estate, wherein all that really mattered was location, location, and more location.
“If you’ve got command, you don’t need anything else,” Sawyer said. “Capisce?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
When the strategy session was over and Sawyer went off to the coaches’ communal office, she looked at Marcus.
“Is this really a good idea?” she asked. “I feel like I’m going to be going out there with my hands tied.”
“We’ll move the ball around, and switch up the two and the four, so we can throw off their timing,” he said. “And then, every inning, we’ll reevaluate. But, he’s right—it’ll give him the purest view of your pitching, and he’ll know where we need to work the most.”
Going on national television without her two best weapons made her feel sick with despair, but yes, in the big picture, it probably made sense. It was still hard not to be afraid that her first matchup with professional hitters, using a pedestrian set of fastballs, could lead to disaster.
Terence was putting out the pre-game spread now, which looked like fruit, a big cooler filled with bottles of water and Gatorade, potato chips, granola bars, several loaves of bread, and other stuff. She was going to need to eat at some point—for the fuel—but, she wasn’t hungry.
“What would you usually be doing, a few hours before game time, on days you start?” Marcus asked. “Do you have a routine?”
“Sixth and seventh period, and then homework,” she said.
He laughed. “Right.” Then, he shook his head. “Why on earth didn’t you go to college? Be in a hard-core program, and work against solid DI hitters?”
A question that never became any easier to answer. “I didn’t think I was going to go in the third round,” she said. “I assumed someone would take me much later than that, and then I could just turn it down.”
He looked at her curiously. “You mean, you did it for the money?”
God, no. She shook her head. “Of course not. It seemed like—a window of opportunity, and I guess I’d rather find out if I’m any good sooner, rather than later.”
He nodded.
“What about you?” she asked. “I mean, I know you went to Vanderbilt. Did you like it?”
“Very much,” he said. “I’m supposed to start med school in the fall, so I’m just going to see how the summer goes.”
“Where?” she asked.
“Johns Hopkins,” he said. “I almost went with Duke, but changed my mind.”
Top schools, which was precisely what she would have expected, although she might not have guessed that he wanted to be a doctor. She could probably do regular college on an extended schedule, even if it meant only attending fall sessions, and maybe some online credits. But, medical school would be less flexible, especially the very best medical schools. “Will they let you defer?” she asked. “If you decide to—”
A guy she didn’t know—Vince, maybe?—opened the main door. “Last group’s about to go in the cage, Mother,” he said. “You’d better come out, if you want to hit.”
“On my way.” Marcus glanced at her as he stood up. “Take some time to do whatever it is that you need to do to focus. And be sure to eat something, and stay hydrated. Don’t let the adrenaline make you think it’ll be enough to carry you through the game. Some guys crash out for an hour or two, so go for it, if that works for you.”
“Mother” was such a good nickname for him, that it was a shame not to be able to use it.
When in doubt, it always made sense to spend some time checking her phones. She went down to her changing room, where the plumber was still working. So, she sat on the floor in the hall, and found dozens of texts on the business phone, most of them from people she either barely knew, or had never met—all of which she decided to igno
re. On her private phone, there were mostly good luck messages, and she quickly sent texts back to a bunch of the people. Her mother had texted to let her know that she and Theo would be in the same seats at tonight’s game—which would make it much easier to find them, if she needed as much reassurance as she was afraid she might.
Since Lauren would be home from physical therapy—she still had to go three days a week—Jill texted her to ask if she was up for Skyping, and within seconds, Lauren had already initiated a call.
“Hey,” she said.
“Big night,” Lauren said. “Are you ready?”
Not so much. “I don’t think so,” Jill said. “They only want me to throw fastballs tonight. It’s like—I don’t know. One of those Food Network challenges, where you’re supposed to cook a great meal, but they only give you ridiculous ingredients.”
“They want you to win, though,” Lauren said, “right?”
Whoa, she hadn’t even thought of that. “What if they don’t?” she asked. “They could totally be setting me up to fail.”
Lauren looked dubious. “How likely is that?”
She didn’t know Sawyer at all—but, couldn’t imagine Marcus doing anything other than what he thought was best for his pitchers. “Yeah, you’re right,” Jill said. “It doesn’t matter so much if you win here, because they’re just trying to teach you how to play. But, God, I really don’t want to be awful on television.”
“You can’t let yourself think about that part,” Lauren said.
No, not if she wanted to succeed. Jill sighed. “Yeah, I know. How was PT?”
“Sitting here with my good friends Advil and ice,” Lauren said.
Status quo, then. “I’m sorry,” Jill said. “That stinks.”
“My left hip is getting stronger, they think. If I can just make it back to where I only use the cane, I’d be okay with that,” Lauren said. “I still have time, before orientation.”
Because she didn’t want to go off to Wesleyan in the wheelchair, if at all possible.
So, bitching about fastballs was pretty damn shortsighted, and—just maybe—selfish.
When they finally hung up, about twenty minutes later, she headed back to the clubhouse, since Marcus was right—she needed to make sure she ate something. What she really wanted was some yogurt, but the spread only had things like white bread, peanut butter, grape jelly, some bologna, sliced American cheese, condiments, oranges, and bananas. So, she went with Gatorade, peanut butter and jelly on a slice of bread that she folded in half, and a banana. She wasn’t even remotely hungry, but she managed to force it down—while the rest of the team pretty much swarmed the food table like locusts.
No one ever bothered a starting pitcher before a game, so she didn’t worry when none of them spoke to her. They were all too busy eating and checking their own phones, anyway.
She did say “Kon’nichiwa” to Shosuke, and introduced herself to her other neighbor, Suarez, whose first name turned out to be Javy, and whose English was rudimentary, and was really more Spanglish than anything else, but they could understand each other, and that was all that mattered.
The media was allowed in for a while, and they surrounded her locker with even more enthusiasm than the guys had attacked the pre-game spread. She tried very hard to be receptive—and not at all newsworthy.
It was a relief when she could escape down to the changing room, to start putting on her uniform. The workmen were gone, and the shower now appeared to be functional, but the lavatory and sink were still works in progress.
She dressed more carefully than she ever had for a game before, smoothing her socks in place, switching her red compression shirt for a dark blue one, and so on. Russo had done a beautiful job, and her uniform pants now fit, without being confining in any way. She fixed her hair last, making sure that the chignon was securely in place, and then putting on a little bit of mascara and lip gloss.
She was supposed to meet Sofia in the training room at six o’clock to get stretched out, and was startled to realize that she was about to be late. The afternoon had dragged, but now, time seemed to be moving all too quickly.
There were a few other players getting treatments—Louis was working on Dimitri’s lower back, Harvey Schwartzman was waiting to get his right ankle taped, and a backup outfielder named Nathan seemed to have a gimpy wrist. But, the atmosphere in the room was professional enough so that she didn’t mind lying on a table in her sports bra, while Sofia massaged and manipulated her left shoulder and arm.
“Excellent range of motion,” Sofia said.
Jill nodded, since she had spent many hours working on her flexibility.
After the stretching session, she pulled the compression shirt back on and went out to add her game jersey to the ensemble, tucking it in neatly and fastening her belt. She bounced a few times in her cleats, and then retied them, a bit more tightly.
Marcus was waiting near her locker, holding his catching gear. “Ready to head out?” he asked.
Jill nodded.
Game on.
CHAPTER 13
When they stepped out of the dugout, she couldn’t help being flustered by the extent of the massive media contingent, with cameras and reporters everywhere, as well as hundreds of fans taking pictures of their own. The stadium was packed, including at least a couple of thousand extra people who were standing room only.
“Just another game,” Marcus said.
Yeah, sure. “Is the Pope in town?” Jill asked.
He laughed. “That might actually draw slightly less attention.”
At the moment, it definitely seemed that way.
Sawyer joined them on their slow walk down the foul line to the outfield. The clicks and whirrs of the cameras seemed almost deafening, and it was hard to tune them out. Especially, of course, the MLB documentary team, which was right on their heels, with the videographers sometimes running ahead of them to catch a different angle. People were shouting questions—or requests—or jeers—in her direction, and she did her best to tune them all out.
So, she, naturally, didn’t notice things like the “Go Back to Softball!” and “Don’t Destroy America!” signs some people were holding.
“Poor America,” she said to Marcus, who looked amused.
“Normal warm-up,” Sawyer said, all business. “Assume we’ll refine it next time.”
So, she did pretty much what she had been doing before every start since ninth grade—jogging along the warning track, followed by some relaxed sprints, and then moving into a series of active stretches, trying to keep a smooth flow going.
Thousands of fans seemed to be screaming at her at once, and while a lot of them sounded supportive, it was hard not to zone in on the ones who were yelling things like “Go home, you bitch!” and “You don’t belong here!” But, she made a point of not looking at any of them, and kept her expression as blank and unconcerned as humanly possible.
Although she was so damn tense and self-conscious, that every move she made felt stiff and awkward.
“You okay, Jill?” Marcus asked.
Oh, yeah, she was awesome. But, she just nodded, and put on her glove, punching her fist into the pocket harder than was probably necessary.
After he strapped on his shin guards, they played catch, with him on the foul line, and her working her way out to about a hundred and fifty feet, and then back in.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Is it going to look bad if I pass out?” she asked.
Marcus smiled. “Do you want me to be gallant, and catch you—or let you slump gracefully into the grass?”
She wouldn’t have thought that anything could make her laugh right now—but, that actually did. “Just leave me there in a little heap,” she said. “The grounds crew can scoop me up later.”
As they walked into the bullpen, so many fans and photographers were leaning over the grandstand railings that she was afraid that a fair number of them might tumble right in on top of her. One scowling guy tossed a bee
r in her direction, and she had to jump back to keep from being splashed. Some security guards roughly hustled him away, and she wasn’t sorry to see even more security moving in to take positions by the railing.
The bullpen itself was crowded, with a few of their relief pitchers standing around to watch, along with Mr. Brayton, Mrs. Doshi, the Pittsburgh GM, the director of the Pirates’ minor league system, the minor league pitching coordinator, a video guy, and a couple of other people with radar guns.
Normally, she didn’t have much trouble locking in, but today, she was too damn aware of her heart beating, and it was hard to get her breath down past her upper chest. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, and then started with easy fastballs, slowly heating up, and as the ball really started cracking into Marcus’s glove, there were lots of oohs and aahs.
Sawyer stood next to her, his arms folded across his chest. Every so often, he would say something like “Keep it down” or “Paint the corners,” and she would nod and respond accordingly. He asked her to throw a few changeups, and moved away from her, watching her arm action intently. Then, he wrote something on his clipboard.
Somewhere up above them, a man yelled, “You suck, you—,” but it was cut off by the sound of a grunt, and what might have been a scuffle, and more security people and police officers showed up.
“Cafferty, focus!” Sawyer said. “Show me Uncle Charlie.”
She threw a god-damn beautiful curve—and Sawyer’s posture straightened. Just like in Pittsburgh, when she had her bullpen session, the observers who really understood baseball—which was a much smaller subset of the group than she would have expected—either looked startled, very alert, or a combination of both.
“A couple more,” Sawyer said. “Then, wrap it up with a few heaters.”
When she finished, a lot of the front office people patted her on the back or said complimentary things, none of which she was able to process, since she was just trying to get her heart rate down.
“Stick with the plan,” Sawyer said. “But, okay, now I get it about the curve. It’s all still a process, though, right?”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
A Season of Daring Greatly Page 14
