And, right on cue, the umpire showed up.
“You all plan on breaking up this little tea party anytime soon?” he asked.
“Not until someone serves the cucumber sandwiches,” Dimitri said.
The umpire, however, was not amused. “Did you see her spit?” he asked her manager.
Adler nodded. “I did. It was pretty awful.”
“Disgusting,” Geoff said, and grinned.
“I damn near ran her, right then and there,” the umpire said.
He couldn’t throw her out of the game for spitting, could he? At least, not as long as she didn’t spit on him.
Which, at the moment, she was considering.
Now, the infield umpire came over. “Was the game called, and nobody told me?”
Everyone was just hilarious tonight. She gritted her teeth.
“We were talking about her spitting,” the home plate umpire said.
“Oh, that was gross,” the other umpire said, looking very amused. “Never expected to see that. I almost lost my dinner.”
Were they kidding? “I’m a professional baseball player,” Jill said. Was she? “Or, anyway, theoretically. And spitting is a time-honored tradition.”
“Please be quiet, Cafferty,” Adler said, and then turned to the home plate umpire with a bland smile. “Calling things pretty tight this evening, Joseph.”
The home plate umpire shrugged. “Not my fault. Tell her to throw strikes.”
She wasn’t going to spit again, but it was so tempting.
Adler nodded. “I suggested that, but maybe it would be nice to have a zone bigger than a postage stamp.”
“Tell her to throw strikes,” the umpire said gruffly, and scowled at her. “Spit again, and you’re out of here.”
Yeah, fine, whatever. She gave him a very terse nod.
“Throw strikes,” Adler said, and went back to the dugout.
Well, what incredibly helpful advice. If only she had thought of that.
Bases loaded. In the very first inning, of her very first game.
And the front office was probably trying to figure out whether they could nullify her contract somehow. Maybe a morals clause—or a decorum clause, if there was such a thing.
The next batter was looking quite happy to be facing a rattled and sublimely incompetent pitcher. It was hard to be offended, since she would feel exactly the same way, if she were in his position.
She paused to check the bases—the loaded bases—and several of her teammates promptly spit, and laughed. Because baseball players were nothing, if not reliably goofy.
She managed to throw a strike—a good one, sneaky fast, right on the inside corner—so, the batter swung at the next pitch, and sent a sharp grounder up the middle, which she didn’t manage to get anywhere near.
Terrific. That meant two runs, and she was a complete—except the shy second baseman streaked over, flicked it backhanded from his glove to Raffy without missing a beat—and that was the third out.
What a great play! And he’d made it look easy.
She was so relieved that she intercepted him on his way off the field and couldn’t stop herself from giving him a truly heartfelt hug.
He looked horrified, and extricated himself, speaking so rapidly in Spanish that she only managed to catch a few phrases, most of which were along the lines of “Holy Mother of God!”
So, she backed away from him, raising her hands apologetically—but, still, that had been a big league play. She was practically in love with him, for making that play. Deeply in love.
It felt as though a huge weight had lifted from her shoulders, and she suddenly felt so cheerful, that she almost wanted to bounce into the dugout.
She paused in front of Adler, waiting for his reaction.
He looked at her for a few seconds, with about eight expressions moving across his face, before settling on a small frown.
“Don’t hug the infielders,” he said. “They hate that.”
Seemed that way, yeah. “I won’t, sir,” she said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Good.” He motioned towards Sawyer. “See if you can teach her something, Dave, before she has to go back out there.”
Was it her imagination, or did Sawyer look pessimistic about that?
The dugout was pretty boisterous, with a lot of guys giving Diaz high fives and fist bumps, but since she hadn’t exactly earned any of her own, there was something of an awkward silence as she made her way to the bench. But, really, what could any of them say after a debut inning like that?
Looked like she was going to need to set the tone. “So,” she said, as she picked up a towel to wipe off her face. “I have a no-hitter going. How about that?”
Most of them laughed—even some of the ones who really didn’t want her here—and she felt a little more weight leave her shoulders.
Then, in almost perfect unison, at least eight of them spit on the dugout floor.
“It was a glorious moment,” she said. “Play of the Day, no doubt.”
There were some more laughs, and then, guys started going about the business of getting Gatorade, putting on batting helmets, and the like.
She sat down next to Marcus, who looked a lot more hot and tired than players usually did after half an inning.
“I got four grey hairs during that,” she said. “How about you?”
“More like forty,” he said.
Usually, she just slipped a jacket over her left arm between innings, but Sofia came over with a moist hot pack, swiftly strapping it around her shoulder with a thick ACE bandage.
“How’s the arm feel?” she asked.
“Inept,” Jill said. “Confused. Uncertain.”
Sofia looked taken aback. “Are any of those things painful?” she asked, after a pause.
“It’s a little death of the soul—but, physically, no,” Jill said.
Now, Sofia was the one who looked tired. “I think you would have been a lot happier at Stanford.”
No doubt. “I’m incredibly happy,” Jill said, and gestured towards Marcus. “I’m sitting here with my new bestest pal in the entire world, and I’m on television, and—really, could I ask for anything more?”
“Unh-hunh,” Sofia said, and went to lean against the dugout railing and watch the game.
Some of the manic energy was fading away, and she looked at Marcus. “That inning was pretty abysmal.”
He nodded. “I would have said putrid—but, abysmal works.”
That was about the size of it, yeah.
Sawyer was, indeed, an avid details guy and sabermetrician, because he sat down on her other side with spray charts and diagrams and statistical models. He started giving her extensive advice, some of which she actually managed to take in.
Although, in the end, didn’t it all really come down to “throw some damn strikes”?
In their half of the first, the guys scored three runs—maybe the over-the-top hoopla was making the other pitcher nervous, too—and so, she went back out to the mound with a cushion, and the ability to breathe almost all the way down to her diaphragm.
A lazy pop-up to left, and then another walk, but a quick double play took care of that, and she did not hug Diaz, even though he caught Raffy’s toss, spun, leaped over the sliding runner, and threw to first with astonishing grace. The third inning was also relatively smooth—including her first strikeout, on the curve Sawyer had promised she could throw, if she had two outs and two strikes on a hitter. Then, since she was at sixty-three pitches, she was done for the night.
She went back to the quiet clubhouse with Sofia, where she was stretched and massaged and bundled up with ice, and then pedaled a stationary bike for a little while, before returning to the dugout to watch the rest of the game.
Which they won, six to four. She hadn’t helped much, but at least she hadn’t hurt the team, either.
She went out to the infield and lined up to high-five her teammates, including quite a few whose names she still didn’t know—and
several of them, including Owen and two relief pitchers, made a point of avoiding her hand entirely. Which was disappointing, but not exactly shocking.
At least half of the crowd was still in the stadium, and a line of police officers, security guards, and ushers had moved into a ring around home plate and up past the dugouts on either side. She couldn’t see her mother or Theo, or her aunt and uncle, but she was pretty sure that Keith and some of the other National Guard members were in a group up by the third base concourse.
The grounds crew had assembled a stand, with several chairs and a rectangular table—which was being covered by a cloth with the ESPN logo all over it, and television techies were snaking thick wires all over the place, and setting up lights and microphones. Jeremiah—and the intern sidekick whose name kept slipping her mind—were standing nearby, watching the preparations, and when Jeremiah looked over at her, she nodded, so he would know she was aware that she had Media Responsibilities.
“I was two for four,” Scott said, coming up next to her. “Think they’re waiting for me?”
If only. “Well, if you want, you can go out there and talk about how fabulous you think I am,” she said. “They would probably eat it up.”
He shrugged. “Fork over ten dollars, Three, and you have a deal.”
That would be pretty good bang for her buck.
Most of her teammates had escaped to the clubhouse, and there were only a few guys left in the dugout, including Hector and Dimitri—who both seemed to be enjoying the hell out of what was unfolding on the field, and Marcus, who was packing his catching gear into a Pirates bag.
It occurred to her that she probably looked a little bedraggled, so she used her hands to smooth her hair, put her cap on more neatly, and swiped on some lipstick from the tube in her back left pocket.
“Oh, no, you did not just do that,” Dimitri said.
Yes, she had, and yes, she carried it in her back pocket during games, so that it would be handy. Lip gloss, too, which she was now applying. “Television lights are tough,” she said. “I really don’t want to look too terrible.”
He studied her briefly. “You look all right. I mean, I’ve certainly seen worse.”
A tepid assessment—which about matched the way she had pitched tonight.
Scott laughed. “Really, dude? Way to go! That’s going to be a nice boost of confidence for her.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Dimitri said defensively. “She looks fine. I mean, are you all bent out of shape, Cafferty?”
“Well, I’m maybe feeling weepy,” she said, and gulped. “But, I’m trying to hold it together.”
Dimitri smiled nervously.
“Hey, if you ask me, you look hot,” Hector said. “Go get ’em, tiger!”
Okay, she liked that assessment much better.
The interview area seemed to be just about set up now, and Jeremiah came over.
“The networks want you first,” he said. “And both GMs are going to be up there with you. Then, we’ve agreed to a small presser with the rest of them, down in the main conference room.”
It sounded like all of that was going to take forever, but she nodded cooperatively.
“We’ll try to wrap it up pretty quickly, so you can go see your family,” he said, “but it’s a big night, you know?”
That was the rumor, yeah. So, she nodded again. “Sure, no problem,” she said. “But, this’ll die down soon, right? I mean, we’re not going to need a press conference after every game, are we?”
Jeremiah shrugged. “I honestly have no idea—we’re just feeling our way along. I assume it’ll mostly be on nights you pitch, and at every new venue, when the team is on the road.”
She had chosen this career, so it didn’t make sense to complain—even though she was tired, and hungry, and really wanted a shower.
But, yeah, the damn circus was in town—and the animals needed to be fed.
CHAPTER 15
Once the first live interview started, the GMs mostly held forth, while she sat there like a decorative plant, wearing a hat with a silly-looking dog on it. She started to slip it off her head, but Mr. Brayton looked alarmed, and she remembered that her presence here was very much about merchandising.
There was a lot of talk about the historical significance of the game, and she contributed the requisite “Yes, it was a very exciting evening” sorts of remarks when it seemed to be indicated.
“So,” the sports network host said heartily. “You had a few hiccups out there tonight, Jill.”
Really? That was his take on the game? “I was trying to heighten the drama,” she said. “Everyone likes a redemption story.”
“You have a reputation for excellent command,” he said. “What happened?”
Well, someone wasn’t a fan, was he? “Just one of those nights, I guess,” she said. “I’m hoping for better results next time.” Although, all things being equal, she could live with no hits and no runs, any day of the week.
“Do you think it’s possible that you’re simply not going to be able to compete at this level?” he asked.
If people were hate-watching this, he was giving them a lot of material. “It probably makes sense to try one or two more starts, before I throw in the towel,” she said.
“Yes, but—” he said.
“We’ll have to see what happens,” she said. Was it always going to be like this? Because it was very tiresome. “In the meantime, the team won, and that’s what matters in the end, right?”
Both GMs were already jumping in to defend the results of her—admittedly rocky—start, but it was a relief when the interview ended. Right after that, the tablecloth with the ESPN logo was removed, and replaced by one that featured MLB Network—and she had to go through the same song and dance again. And then again, with another network. And another. And another.
When the television interviews were finally over, there were still so many people waiting for autographs, that it was going to seem really rude if she did nothing but wave and disappear into the dugout.
She glanced at Jeremiah, who nodded, with one quick tap on his watch, to indicate that they would be on the clock. So, she walked over to the railing where a rambunctious crowd was holding things for her to sign, and taking photos with so many unexpected flashes that she could barely see well enough to be able to tell exactly where—or what—she was autographing.
“Hi,” she said. “Thanks for coming out tonight. We really appreciate it.”
Once again, it was too crowded for her to make it at all personal. Just swift encounters, where she signed her name, and added her uniform number—and then tried not to smear the fresh autographs when she handed the items back to the people who thrust them at her.
Off to one side, Jeremiah gave her a small “wrap it up” signal with his right hand.
“I’m sorry, but they need me downstairs,” she said to the still too-big crowd, and motioned towards a little clump of hesitant children. “So, could you all maybe let these guys through, before I have to go?”
Once she had signed about fifteen more autographs, Jeremiah began to usher her away to the dugout tunnel—and more interviews.
God, she was tired. And grimy. And starving.
But, once they were inside the makeshift media room, she was gracious and cheerful, and fielded questions for another forty-five minutes or so. For years, she had been annoyed when she saw athletes be abrupt and surly in post-game interviews—but now, she was starting to understand why it happened so often. In most cases, they were probably just too worn out to think clearly.
The shower in her dressing room finally was working, although the water temperature didn’t get past tepid. It was still nice to get cleaned up and put on regular clothes, and go find her mother and everyone.
There were lots of hugs, and handshakes, and solid claps on the back from the more gruff members of her father’s unit. Keith and one of the other guys had convinced a nearby Applebee’s to stay open much later than usual—and si
nce the manager had put in four years in the Air Force, she was very pro-veteran, and her staff also seemed perfectly happy to work longer shifts for one night.
When they finally got back to the motel, it was very late, and she was nearly staggering. Her phones had an exhausting number of messages, and she ignored almost all of them—although the GIF Greg had sent of her spitting was pretty funny. Horrible, but funny.
Her mother must have been as tired as she was, because she turned out the light without reading first, which was pretty much unprecedented.
“Quite a night,” her mother said, as they lay in the two double beds, in the dark.
“There were a lot of people,” Jill said.
“There certainly were,” her mother agreed.
It was quiet for a moment.
“Want to hear a secret?” her mother asked.
For sure, because secrets were fun. Jill sat up partway. “Definitely, yeah.”
“I told your grandmother that, yes, the spitting was awful,” her mother said. “But, to be honest, it made me proud.”
Jill sat up all the way. “Did someone put something in your drink?”
“You looked like a baseball player,” her mother said. “You looked—it was suddenly so real. And—I was incredibly proud.”
She had known her mother, obviously, for her entire life—but, sometimes, she felt as though she didn’t know her at all. “Whoa, head trip,” Jill said. “So, you want me to keep spitting.”
“I want you never to do that again, ever in your life, for any reason,” her mother said without hesitating. “But, frankly, in that situation, it was quite cool.”
So, wonders did not, in fact, ever cease. “I sort of feel like we’re living in a really bizarre alternate dimension,” Jill said.
Her mother laughed. “Believe me, I do, too,” she said.
In the morning, they had continental breakfast in the wan little motel dining room. The food wasn’t anything special, but Jill had never been picky, and had no trouble at all filling up on muffins and cereal and orange juice and hot chocolate.
The plan was to check out, and then drive over to her host family’s house. Her mother wanted to make sure that she was settled in, before she and Theo drove back to Rhode Island. None of them really spoke, and Jill was already feeling homesick—and hoping like hell that she wasn’t going to cry.
A Season of Daring Greatly Page 16
