A Season of Daring Greatly

by Ellen Emerson White

  Hundreds of fans were crowding along the grandstand by the field, shouting encouragement, or calling her name, or expressing—loudly—their general disgust about her being on the field at all, but she just walked straight ahead, taking steady, powerful steps.

  She was still holding the baseball she had used to warm up, and right before they got to the dugout, she veered over to the sidelines and handed it to an excited girl about nine years old, who was wearing a red cap and a softball jersey.

  “Here you go,” she said, smiled at her, and then kept walking.

  “You are a marketing department’s dream,” Marcus said softly.

  Which made her laugh again—which, in turn, helped release some more tension.

  Inside the dugout, her teammates seemed to be pretty charged up about having such a massive crowd on hand, as well as the game being nationally televised, but she concentrated on the way her hand felt inside her glove—familiar, comfortable, warm, safe—to the exclusion of pretty much everything else.

  “Remember something, okay?” Marcus said in a low voice.

  She looked over at him.

  “You are absolutely for real,” he said. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  She hadn’t known that that was what she needed to hear—but, it must have been, because she suddenly felt at ease—and eager. Ready to go out there and set them down.

  The public address system was giving out the starting lineups, and when the announcer finished up with, “And our starting pitcher tonight, number twenty-eight, Jill Cafferty,” the crowd’s response was so loud that it seemed to echo inside her chest, and make the entire ballpark shake.

  As they took the field, she was so nervous that her hands were shaking, but Scott gave her a thumbs-up as he trotted past her on his way out to left field, which helped. She headed to the mound in a crisp jog, reminding herself to breathe. Deeply, if possible.

  And her stomach was jumbled enough so that she was glad she had barely eaten half of a sandwich earlier.

  She looked down, trying to orient herself. Freshly raked dirt, the rubber, a plastic cleat cleaner, and a rosin bag. These were all soothingly familiar things, and of a much higher quality than she had ever used during a game. In high school, she had always brought along her own rosin bag and a supply of tongue depressors to clean mud and dirt from her cleats. The opposing pitchers would often sneer at her—and then, ask to borrow them.

  The mound seemed high. Very exposed. Granted, pitchers were inherently the center of attention, but it usually felt less overwhelming.

  No one seemed to be warming up, which was—oh, because they hadn’t done the national anthem yet.

  And it looked like the Retrievers were going to make a big production out of it, because a veritable flock of small children was running onto the field. They joined each player in groups of two or three—except that at least eight—no, more like ten—little girls were racing towards her.

  The children seemed to be from about four to eight years old, and based upon the wide range of ethnicities, Pomeroy was clearly aiming for diversity tonight. The little girls were very excited, all of them shouting her name and trying to stand next to her simultaneously. So, it was a challenge to corral them into a relatively orderly clump.

  The public address announcer was saying that the anthem was going to be sung by a Sergeant Pollard from the 10th Mountain Division, and asked for everyone to rise and remove their hats.

  “Okay,” Jill said to the little girls, who were still awfully agitated. “We all have to stand up straight and salute the flag.”

  Which led to a stream of “What flag?” and “Where is it?” questions, and she pointed out towards center field, above the wall. It seemed to take forever to get the girls lined up—she really needed a wrangler of some kind.

  Jill’s plan was to hold her glove in her left hand, and put her right hand near her heart, but a very small girl with pink-ribboned ponytails was reaching up to hold her hand—and at least three of the other girls said that they wanted to have their hands held, too, but unless she grew several more arms instantaneously, that wasn’t going to work.

  “Here,” Jill said, and arranged three of the girls on the rubber, well aware that her teammates were restless, and maybe even annoyed. “You guys stand here, and”—she looked to see which of the remaining children appeared to be the most uncontrollably eager—“maybe you could hold my glove,” she said to a tiny fidgety girl. Then, she scanned the others to check who looked disappointed. “And you,” she said to another little girl, “can hold my hat. And the rest of us will stand up nice and tall, and pay attention to the flag, while the sergeant sings.”

  The sergeant had a beautiful voice, and Jill was horrified to feel herself choking up a little.

  Or, okay, more than a little, as she got slammed with a wave of emotion she hadn’t expected, and was afraid she might burst into tears. So, it was a relief to be able to hold on to a small, hot hand. Clutch it, even.

  When the anthem was over, one girl wanted a hug, which made the other little girls decide that they wanted hugs, too—and it was a chaotic flurry of embraces. Some of the children who had been standing with other players also came over for hugs, and the mound was getting damn crowded.

  “Is it okay if I keep this?” the child who was holding her cap asked, before receiving her hug.

  Jill panicked for a second. “I’m sorry, I need it to pitch,” she said. “It’s a rule. But, maybe you could put it on my head for me, for good luck?”

  The little girl liked the sound of that, and Jill had to bend way down for her to be able to reach, and the girl gave her an enthusiastic hug—which made two of the other girls each want another hug. On top of which, she had to retrieve her glove from the girl who was proudly carrying it off the field, holding it like a prized possession.

  It was a relief to see Jeremiah, a couple of interns, and the staff sergeant coming over to hustle the remaining little girls and boys away.

  The field was finally clear of children, and she could see her teammates warming up, most of them looking amused as hell by everything that had just gone on.

  “Is there a game tonight?” Dimitri asked, from first base.

  Jill wasn’t sure whether to laugh—or cry already exhausted tears, but she went with a laugh. Christ almighty, she hadn’t even thrown a pitch yet, and she was wrecked.

  Marcus was waiting for her by the mound, holding a brand-new New York Penn League baseball. “You don’t see that every day,” he said.

  “Can I go home now?” she asked. “I’ve had it.”

  He smiled, but then looked serious. “You need to snap back in, okay? Just hit my glove, and make everything else go away.”

  She nodded.

  “Give me a few fastballs,” he said. “Nice and easy, let’s not show them that you have much.”

  She nodded again, and glanced down at the mound, which was covered with small sneaker and sandal prints. “My God, look at that,” she said.

  He looked down, too, and his smile widened. “Okay, but it’s still just me and my glove,” he said. “Let’s get the game started.”

  Yes. They were supposed to play baseball sometime this week.

  Her eight warm-up pitches were shaky and erratic, and not even close to the stuff she had had in the bullpen. Throwing felt—foreign. Was she going to turn out to be one of those poor sods who dazzled during practice, but fell apart once the game started?

  Marcus tossed the warm-up ball to the bat boy, who carefully put it in a yellow bucket, instead of the regular big white plastic one. Almost everything she touched tonight was going to be carefully collected, catalogued, and authenticated for charity auctions and the Hall of Fame and so forth. Then, he accepted a new ball from the grumpy umpire and threw it down to second base, where the shortstop—a wiry guy named Raffy—caught it, and went around the horn.

  Marcus came out to the mound, motioned for Geoff, the third baseman, to flip him the ball, and th
en put it in her hand. “That other one wasn’t any good,” he said. “But, this one is perfect.”

  She managed a faint smile.

  “Shut it all out, Jill,” he said. “You and me, playing catch.”

  Be nice, if it were that easy. But, she nodded.

  The home plate umpire came out halfway to the mound. “We going to play ball anytime soon?”

  Annoying an umpire did not tend to work out well for pitchers.

  “We’re ready to go, sir,” she said.

  “Took you long enough,” the umpire said, and went back to the plate, with Marcus right behind him.

  Jill pulled in a deep breath, trying to center herself somehow. None of this even resembled any start she could ever remember, and she felt as though her mind was bouncing in at least ten directions at once. But, if she was going to try to be a professional baseball player, she was going to have to do a lot better than that.

  The huge crowd, the noise, the yellowish tint of the stadium lights, the ESPN cameras, the large groups of people crammed into the photographers’ wells—none of that should matter at all. It was still just baseball. Sixty feet, six inches, with a catcher’s mitt facing her.

  Which meant that there was no good reason to feel quite so sick to her stomach.

  The guy stepping up to the plate turned out to be one of those jittery types, with grating tics, and a bat that was never still, which annoyed her more than it normally would.

  It was strange to be throwing to a catcher who wasn’t familiar yet, but he was set up in a solid and reassuring way. And she already knew that he was a nice guy—and probably the closest thing she had to a friend on this team of near-strangers. So, it was stupid that she was standing here, feeling shy about throwing to him.

  But, the mound really did seem high. Had it been poorly constructed, maybe, or—she dragged in another deep breath.

  Should she get more rosin? No, she should throw the ball. That thing that pitchers were supposed to do.

  Marcus wanted a low, outside four-seamer. Okay. She certainly didn’t have the wherewithal to shake him off, or suggest something different. Besides, it seemed like a good call.

  She knew how to pitch. Had been practicing for years. She just had to do it. And, perhaps, sometime before midnight?

  Low and outside. Okay.

  Her set position didn’t feel quite right, but it was too late to start over—and just as she released the ball, she had the sinking certainty that it was slower and flatter than usual—and right down the middle.

  The batter must have been overjoyed to see that—and he smoked a violent line drive right back at her, so hard that she didn’t even have time to be scared before—thank God—her reflexes kicked in, and she got her glove up in time to snag it—a split second before it would have hit her in the face.

  Jesus!

  She stared at the ball for a second, her heart slamming around inside her chest, and then quickly whirled and threw it to Dimitri—who was walking towards the mound.

  He looked bemused, but caught the ball easily and tossed it back to her. “He’s already out,” he said, grinning.

  Oh. Right. It had been a line drive. “Well, I know that,” she said. “I just wanted to be sure that you did.”

  He laughed, and went back to his position.

  Her heart was still pounding, and she felt shaky, and scared, and—now, she saw Marcus heading out to talk to her.

  Ideally, the first words out of his mouth weren’t going to be, “Wow, you’re terrible.”

  “That was interesting,” he said.

  She could think of stronger words to describe it.

  “You throw a cookie like that to a good hitter,” he said, “and it’s going to end up somewhere in Canada.”

  Now, she felt even more anxious. “He’s not a good hitter?”

  Marcus shook his head. “Punch-and-Judy.”

  Even though he’d nearly taken her head off? This was a total disaster. She was way out of her league—in every sense.

  “Come on, Jill, calm down,” he said. “Try to get a breath past your bronchial tubes.”

  Her chest did feel constricted.

  He reached over to take the baseball out of her glove. “This ball has very bad mojo,” he said, and rolled it towards the bat boy. “Let’s get a better one.”

  Well, it couldn’t hurt. But, it was starting to feel as though it was going to be hard to find a baseball with good energy in it tonight.

  He turned towards the home plate umpire, motioned for a new baseball, and then handed it to her. “Ignore the carnival,” he said. “Just pitch. I saw you in the pen, so I know you know how.”

  All right. Okay. Right. Yeah. She nodded, took another too shallow breath, and stuck her glove under her arm, so she could rub a little of the shine off the new ball. It felt sort of like—a rock, or—an ice cube.

  Why in the hell hadn’t she just decided to go to college?

  CHAPTER 14

  The good news was that she had gotten the first out, at least.

  She was still shaky, but worked the next batter somewhat more competently. Low outside four-seamer, high inside two-seamer, in on the fists, out at the edge of the zone. But, he walked on four pitches—two of which she would have sworn were strikes. Damn good strikes, even. But, glaring at the umpire wasn’t going to help—and since Marcus had taken a few seconds to adjust one of his shin guards—with his lips moving—she assumed that he was expressing a strong opinion about the strike zone to the guy.

  The next batter looked supremely cocky, and when her first pitch was called a ball, he grinned out at her.

  “Move in a few steps,” he said. “Might be easier for you.”

  Which she found far more infuriating than she should. And she had also forgotten to check the runner, who stole second so effortlessly that it was downright embarrassing.

  Her next pitch skidded into the dirt. Marcus was able to block it, so the damn runner didn’t take third—but, it was a close call. Too close.

  Marcus wanted the next one in on the hands, but it got away from her and hit the batter in the thigh.

  “Ow,” the guy said, and laughed. “That tickles.”

  She knew he was just trying to get a rise out of her—and, damn it, he was succeeding.

  The cleanup hitter was so eager to face her that he practically ran to the batter’s box. Could hardly wait to hit a three-run homer off her, apparently.

  Which seemed all too likely to happen.

  It was tempting to look up at the owner’s box, to see if the GMs had their heads in their hands, or anything similarly demoralizing—and even more tempting to scan the crowd for her mother and Theo. At the moment, she really wanted her mommy.

  Marcus trudged back out to the mound with yet another new baseball.

  Because the bad mojo was everywhere.

  “Is that son of a bitch ever going to call a strike?” she asked.

  Marcus shrugged. “He’s squeezing you, so what? Start pitching, Jill.”

  Which pissed her off enough so that her first pitch to the cleanup hitter was definitely at least ninety-three miles an hour, and she put it right on the black, where Marcus perfectly framed it—and the god-damn umpire called it a ball.

  She wasn’t going to get mad. It wasn’t going to help, if she got mad.

  And she wasn’t paying attention to anything other than the task at hand, of course, so she absolutely did not notice that most of the crowd sounded unhappy, frustrated, and disappointed. Or that the guys in the visiting dugout were laughing and taunting and catcalling.

  The two-seamer had some good late movement tonight, and the guy fouled it down the third base side. Marcus and Geoff both raced over there, and Geoff almost fell into the stands, but made a great, off-balance catch.

  “Two down,” he said, and flipped the ball to her. “Piece of cake, Cafferty.”

  Yep. She was almost out of the inning. Could go sit in the dugout, and put a towel over her head—or maybe dunk sa
id head into the Gatorade container for a while.

  Except for the part where she walked the next hitter on five pitches—three of which looked perfect to her. But, the bases were loaded now, and this was all on the verge of getting even uglier.

  What a totally awesome debut. A dream come true. Women everywhere must be feeling so proud and empowered.

  And here came Marcus again, starting to look a little weary.

  She bent to pick up the rosin bag, bounced it on the back of her right forearm a few times, and then—to her own amazement—spit violently into the dirt.

  Marcus blinked. “Did you just spit?”

  On national television, no less. “Weak moment,” she said grimly. And her mother must be cringing.

  “Nothing personal,” he said, “but it’s really not a good look for you, Jill.”

  Maybe not, but the urge had been truly irresistible. “Just give me the damn ball,” she said.

  Now—oh, hell—her manager was strolling out of the dugout. Not the pitching coach. The manager. Was he going to yank her out of the game, in the first inning? Jesus, what a debacle.

  She turned enough to glance at the bullpen, and no one was warming up yet—but, a couple of them had started moving around, and one guy was even stretching.

  Not a good sign.

  “This isn’t exactly a made-for-TV movie, is it?” Adler asked, once he had gotten to the mound.

  More like a horror show. She shook her head. “No, sir, I’m afraid not.”

  “Wouldn’t have pegged you to crack under the pressure, though,” he said.

  Neither would she—indicating that they had both severely misjudged her psyche. The infielders had all wandered over now, and were standing in a little cluster behind them. The second baseman, Diaz, spoke almost no English, but Raffy seemed to be translating for him.

  “You want me to pull the plug?” Adler asked. “You can hit the showers, call it a night, rethink your entire life?”

  God, no. She shook her head.

  “Well, then, maybe you should throw some strikes,” he said mildly.

  Easy for him to say. “I am throwing strikes,” she said. “That—” She couldn’t think of a non-profane word to use. “That person isn’t calling them.”