A Season of Daring Greatly

by Ellen Emerson White

  “Does anyone have a baseball question?” Adler asked, from the back of the room. “If not, I think it’s time to call it a night.”

  There was a brief silence, a few murmurs, and then a couple of people managed to come up with questions that involved the game. Then, the PR guy took over, and she was able to escape.

  Adler waited for her at the door, and they walked towards the clubhouse together.

  “You doing okay, Cafferty?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Liked what I saw out there tonight,” he said. “It’s good to see grit in a ballplayer.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said.

  The corner of his mouth noticeably jerked up for a second. “Sorry about the shower situation, but the boys are going to be antsy to get on the bus, anyway.”

  Since it had been an even longer press conference than usual.

  The post-game spread had been pretty much demolished, which didn’t thrill her, because by now, she was hungry. But, when she got on the bus, wearing her Penn State polo, Marcus motioned for her to sit next to him, and handed her a Gatorade and a Styrofoam takeout box with two pieces of now-cold pizza inside, as well as some napkins and an apple.

  “No juice box?” she asked.

  He just looked at her.

  Sometimes, he really was humor-challenged. “Thank you, Marcus,” she said.

  He nodded. “That’s better.”

  The first thing she did when she got back to the motel room was to take a very long and hot shower. She felt sweaty, and tired, and a lot achier than she usually was after a start. So, before she dug into her now-much-more-cold pizza, she took a couple of Advil.

  Sofia, who was lying down on her bed and skimming through a thick file folder, noticed immediately. “Are you all right?”

  “I threw hard tonight,” Jill said. “I can feel it.”

  Sofia looked alert. “Are your shoulder and elbow okay?”

  “Yeah,” Jill said. “My muscles are just tired, in general.” And achy as hell.

  “We’ll work on that tomorrow,” Sofia said. “Try not to read half the night, for once, okay? You don’t get enough sleep.”

  Not lately, no. But, she was hoping that the more worn-out she was, the less likely she would be to have violent nightmares on any given night. She had bad dreams at home, too, but it wasn’t nearly as dislocating, when she was in her own bed, and she could pat Maggie until she felt better.

  She missed Maggie. She missed everyone, of course—but it was too quiet and lonely, without Maggie.

  People who knew her well had sent texts and left voice mails with some version of “Antediluvian cretins?!” in it. She was too exhausted to call anyone—even her family, but sent a number of reassuring texts back, before putting her phone away.

  It was harder to fall asleep than she expected—and even more difficult to stay asleep. So, she ended up streaming three Gilmore Girls episodes on her iPad, under the covers and with earbuds on, to try and disturb Sofia as little as possible.

  When it was time to get up, she felt very lethargic, but made it down to the motel’s free hot breakfast buffet, before they shut down. Most of her teammates were already in there, and judging from the huge piles of food on their plates, they had been keeping the kitchen staff very busy.

  Once she was at the ballpark, she got extensive treatment from Sofia, including about fifteen minutes of ultrasound on her shoulder and elbow. After that, she did a light workout with free weights and a medicine ball, and then some jogging in the outfield, as well as running up and down the steps in every single section of the stadium. Some of the guys were bitching that they had had much better facilities in college than they now had as pros, and it was probably true, but everything seemed fine to her.

  She did a meet-and-greet on the concourse, with about a hundred Little Leaguers and softball players, almost all of whom wanted autographs and to have their photos taken with her. Since the guys were milling around, waiting to take BP, she waved at Scott to come join her, and he brought Hector and Diaz and Schwartzman with him.

  Hector surprised her by being especially at ease with the kids—relaxed and funny, and so unruffled by the general clamor, that she wondered if he might end up as a really good middle school teacher someday. Scott was mostly goofy, and made faces in front of the cameras, which cracked the kids up, while Schwartzman was more inclined to be brusque and say, “Here, kid,” after signing each autograph, and quickly turning to the next one. Diaz was as shy and quiet as ever, and responded to each child with nothing more than a soft “Gracias,” no matter what they said to him.

  During BP, Brumley—who had something of a lantern jaw, anyway, but looked even more hangdog than usual—slunk up next to her in the outfield.

  “Sorry I almost fucked up your W last night,” he said.

  She shook her head—even though it was true. “You got out of the inning just fine,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said, sounding grim. “I’m real proud of myself.”

  The poor guy’s ERA was in double-digits—and she had no idea what to say. He was a late-round senior sign out of Oklahoma, and so far, he seemed to be in way over his head. “It’s baseball,” she said. “There are always going to be ups and downs, right?”

  He shrugged, looked glum, and went back to where he’d been standing before.

  The next day, there was a luncheon for local veterans on the picnic deck, and after working out—which often felt like a grind, lately—she was more than happy to be brought up to meet them. It was mostly Vietnam-era veterans, with some from Desert Storm, Iraq, and Afghanistan sprinkled in, too. They might not all have been thrilled about the idea of a woman playing in the minors, but because of her father—she assumed—they were friendly and respectful and seemed to be pleased to meet her. And at least she knew enough to say “Thank you” and “Welcome home,” although there were actually veterans who got annoyed by being thanked, and would only give a gruff “Just doing my job, ma’am” response.

  She was particularly drawn to the four female veterans in the group, but she talked to each person individually, spending enough time with them so that Martinez, the hitting coach, finally came over as visitors’ BP was about to start, and said, “Hey, Cafferty, do you still play for us?”

  It wasn’t as though she was lounging around in front of video games or something—but, he had a point. “I do, sir,” she said. “I’ll be right there, sir.”

  So, after some quick good-byes and more handshaking, she hustled to the clubhouse to get her glove, and joined the other pitchers in the outfield. She stood between Shosuke—who gave her his customary smile and small bow—and Andrew, who was about six-five, and had a distinctly courtly way about him. And he threw some impressive heat.

  “Line drive?” Shosuke asked her, his pronunciation somewhat halting, as he pointed to a ball Scott had just hammered into right field.

  She grinned at him. “A smoking line drive,” she said, and made a whooshing movement with her arm, to indicate speed.

  He grinned back. “Smoking,” he said, and then ranged off to his left to catch a fly ball.

  She glanced over at Andrew, who she could tell wanted to move elsewhere, but was much too polite to do so. “So. I gather that I owe you a thank you,” she said.

  Andrew looked anywhere but at her. “I got three outs against the bottom part of the order,” he said, finally. “Nothing special. You did the heavy lifting.”

  “I’m glad you closed the game out, but I was actually thanking you for taking my side in the clubhouse the other day,” she said.

  He had such short, light blond hair that it was easy to see his blush go all the way up into it.

  “It was really nice of you,” she said. Not necessary—but, nice.

  He shrugged, looking as though he might jump out of his skin any second now.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t keep bringing it up,” she said. “I just wanted to thank you once.”

  “I didn’t wa
nt to”—he frowned—“diminish your agency, but I was raised to believe that a gentleman doesn’t stand by, when a woman is treated with disrespect.”

  Agency? Golly. “Did you major in women’s studies?” she asked.

  Instead of blushing this time, he went pale. “No,” he said. “Economics. But, my cousin did, and she’s—talkative—during the holidays.”

  And Andrew must have been listening. “I hope you didn’t get hurt, when you—you know,” she said.

  Andrew’s smile was—not to her surprise—bashful. “I was very angry,” he said. “But, that didn’t make me forget to protect my arm.”

  Second nature for pitchers, of course.

  “I’m sorry about what those guys did during the game,” he said.

  The feminine protection shower. “If that’s the worst thing fans do this season, I’ll count myself lucky,” she said.

  “Well, the way you’re handling it is impressive. I know I couldn’t do it.” He glanced over. “I’ve heard people say some terrible things.”

  She had learned an astonishing number of words used to describe—and denigrate—female genitalia, starting back when it had first become clear that she really did know how to pitch. The words were rarely shouted; more often, a person muttered, or even loudly whispered, them when she was in earshot. And, of course, sometimes they were written on her damn wall. It went without saying that almost all of the offenders were male. But, sometimes, women—or other high school girls—were the ones calling her a slut or whatever, which was always extra disturbing.

  “I’m sorry they do that,” he said. “It must hurt your feelings.”

  Actually, it did. She nodded, reaching out to catch a bouncing drive and flick it back towards the infield. “It makes me sad, that people feel as though they need to act that way. I don’t really see the point.”

  He nodded, too—and possibly even shuddered. “I don’t understand it, either.”

  Shosuke came loping cheerfully back with Javy—they’d been wrestling a little—and she taught both Andrew and Javy “Kon’nichiwa,” and they all passed the rest of batting practice trying to teach one another simple phrases in three languages, while occasionally ambling off a few steps to field a ball.

  There were worse ways to spend an hour on a summer day.

  Around six o’clock, it started raining, and the tarp was pulled onto the field. This was the last time they were going to be in Williamsport this season, and so, it was a game the league really wanted them to play, if possible. They sat around in the dugout for a while, waiting, and then ended up going back to the clubhouse—to sit around some more. None of the starting players—especially Eduardo, who was pitching—were sure how much to eat, or when to eat, and there was a fair amount of grumbling and complaining.

  Left to her own devices, she would have been fine with sitting at her locker and reading, but it felt antisocial. Scott waved her over to the table where he and Hector and a few other guys were playing cards, so she joined in. Except that she didn’t know how to play Hearts, their current game, or Crazy Eights, or Spades—and when they tried to explain the various rules, she was almost immediately lost.

  “Did you have a deprived childhood?” Scott asked.

  “Well, we gambled heavily on poker, of course,” she said, “but that was about it.”

  Dimitri shook his head. “No poker before a game—it’s too hardcore, and people get pissed off.”

  Since he had been in the minors for about seven years, as a rule, they all took just about everything he said as baseball gospel.

  “I bet you and your family spent a lot of time reciting poetry, and admiring art,” Hector said.

  This, coming from Mr. Privileged Palisades himself? “We rarely recited it,” she said. “Mostly, we read the poems quietly to ourselves.”

  Hector grinned at her, and she couldn’t help thinking that if he used hair product, he used it damn well. “‘What do the simple folk do?’” he asked.

  A Hollywood kid, with parents in the business, would be reliably good with musical references, wouldn’t he? “We dance,” she said. “We sing. We feel a deep connection with Mother Earth.”

  Hector was amused, and she could see Marcus smiling, as he stared down at film of opposing hitters on his tablet.

  “C’mon already, what are we gonna play?” Danny asked impatiently.

  “What do you know?” Scott asked her.

  She had never cared for cards or board games. “Not much,” she said. “War. Old Maid. Go Fish. That kind of thing.”

  None of her teammates who were listening seemed to know whether to laugh—or be deeply embarrassed for her.

  “Go Fish, it is,” Scott said, shuffled the cards, and began dealing.

  Six of them played several hands, with increasing numbers of players gathering around to make unsolicited—and snarky—comments. Somewhere along the way, she motioned for Shosuke to pull an extra chair over next to hers, so she could teach him how to play—which was easy, since he knew most of the English words for numbers, and really only had to memorize the words for aces, kings, queens, and jacks. Learning “Go Fish!” was no challenge at all, since half the team yelled it out every time someone requested a particular set of cards and was turned down. She got Diaz and Ramón to join the throng, and she and Raffy took turns teaching them the game, too.

  “You’re going down, Pretty Boy,” she said to Hector, who was sitting across the table from her.

  “I’m not pretty, Ladybug,” Hector said. “I’m dashing. Crisp, black hair, dazzling smile—a classic Lothario.”

  Hunh. Sounded like a direct quote. “Are you writing a screenplay in your spare time?” she asked.

  He hesitated. “No,” he said, a beat too late.

  Which was very funny.

  “We got too many smart fuckers on this team,” Danny said to Nathan, who was standing next to him. “We need a lot more dumb sonsabitches.”

  Scott looked up from his cards. “I’m a meathead, if that helps.”

  “A little, I guess,” Danny said.

  “Not enough,” Nathan said.

  It was her turn, and Jill looked at her cards—and the most likely opponent to query.

  “Not the fours!” Dimitri said, as she got ready to make her move. “You’re doomed, if you ask for fours!”

  She laughed, and asked Scott for fours, anyway—because she felt like it.

  He didn’t have any, of course, and most of the team shouted, “Go Fish!”

  This was a room full of people who played a game for a living. A high silliness quotient was to be expected.

  Bannigan—who had watched the card game for a while, before shaking his head and leaving the clubhouse—came back in. “Tarp’s coming off,” he said.

  And with that, the card game was over, as Scott declared himself the Supreme Winner—an unearned honor—and everyone who was starting tonight headed for their lockers to get their gear and go outside to warm up, or into the training room to get re-taped or whatever.

  Jill was surprised, when she got out to the dugout, right before the national anthem, that several hundred fans had waited around, even though the starting time had been delayed by almost two hours.

  “Getting their money’s worth,” Jonesy said.

  She nodded, although they might also just be die-hard baseball fans. But, the concession stands must have done some solid business during the delay.

  By the end of the second inning, the game showed every sign of being a blowout—in their favor—and Eduardo was having a reasonably solid night, giving up three runs on five hits and a couple of walks. Unfortunately, poor old Brumley came in with a purely mop-up role—and gave up another six runs, which made her feel awful for the guy. Danny was the next reliever up, and managed to calm things down, and Andrew blew fastballs past every single hitter he faced—the guy routinely sat around ninety-nine miles an hour—and they came away with the victory.

  At which point, it was almost midnight, and they ha
d a long bus ride home to Pomeroy.

  The post-game spread was mostly unsold items from the concession stands—hot dogs, hamburgers, and tired-looking french fries. The food was barely lukewarm, and she only got down about half a burger before giving up.

  “Hop aboard, Lion,” Adler said, when she went out to the bus, wearing her Penn State polo.

  Louis and Sofia were bent over some reports, and Jill looked around the bus, trying to decide where to sit. Luckily, the seat next to Marcus was open, and he lifted his messenger bag from it to make room.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “I’m not a good bus sleeper,” he said. “Will the iPad keep you awake?”

  She shook her head. “I’m going to try to sleep, but I don’t do very well, either.”

  Which put them in the minority, because before they even pulled out of the parking lot, it seemed as though at least half of the team and coaches were already out cold. Small screens flickered in some seats, but it was a safe bet that this was going to be a quiet ride.

  She wasn’t even drowsy, so she did some texting, and then popped onto Facebook for a while—where she used her mother’s maiden name, instead of Cafferty, and wasn’t friending anyone these days, other than people like Scott and Hector.

  It didn’t take long for the reading to bother her eyes, and she put her phone away. Jeremiah had been gently encouraging her to be more active on social media, and was hoping that she would start posting wry and charming things on Twitter or Instagram or whatever—but, it felt too much like invading her own privacy. He’d suggested that media relations could post things for her—and she had maybe been a tiny bit snappish when she indicated that nothing was ever to go out with her name on it, unless it came from her directly.

  Marcus was staring at his screen, but she could feel from his rigid posture that he was frustrated.

  “How’s it going?” she asked, keeping her voice quiet, so she wouldn’t bother anyone. She could hear the low, indistinct hum of a couple of other conversations nearby—along with a lot of snoring, and someone humming in a tuneless and annoying way. But, at least Reilly wasn’t playing his damn guitar.