Marcus sighed. “It doesn’t come naturally.” He closed out the app, clicked off the iPad, and stuck it next to his armrest. “You seem to be very good at them.”
“I have to work at it, but yeah,” she said. “I like languages. And I want to work for an NGO someday, so it might come in handy.”
“Doing what?” he asked.
Good question. “I’m not sure,” she said. “For my Senior Project, I designed an organization that was supposed to help a small community become self-sustaining. So, I had to figure out things like clean water, food production, access to health care, a literacy program, products and services that could create income, and”— She must sound incredibly naïve and idealistic, and she felt her face flushing in the darkness. “Well, you know, stuff like that. I made up a Third World country, but I might rather work here somewhere, in a city, or a rural area, or something.”
He laughed softly. “Would I be wrong if I said you sound more enthusiastic about that, than you ever do about baseball?”
No. He would not be. “It was fun,” she said. “My friend Lauren is really into science, and the environmental impact of things, so she did her project about my community, too, but she was the one who was creating the technology we would use for the water supply and our crops and sanitation and all of that.”
“I hope you got As,” he said.
A pluses, in fact. “You know, we’re going to need a good primary care doctor to open a practice there,” she said.
Marcus laughed. “I’m sure you are. Seriously, though. What about baseball?”
Was she ever going to find a satisfactory answer to that question? “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I’ll play, until I don’t play.”
“Meaning what?” he asked.
She tried to think of an explanation that would make sense—to both of them. “When I’m actually pitching, I love it,” she said. “And I like the practicing, and the thinking, and trying to perfect things, and the team, but—”
“But, if you were a guy, you wouldn’t be here right now; you’d be getting ready to go away to school,” he said.
She nodded.
Marcus glanced over at her. “Uneasy lies the head.”
Maybe Danny was right, and they did need fewer intellectuals on the team. “Something like that, yeah,” she said.
Or, maybe, precisely like that.
CHAPTER 21
“What about you?” she asked. “What are you going to do about med school?”
“I can’t hit,” Marcus said.
Jill didn’t want to say the wrong thing, so she stopped for a moment to think. During BP, she and the other pitchers always got tense when he was in the batting cage, because they wanted his hitting to sound the way Scott’s did. “Well,” she said, “I think—”
He raised a hand to cut her off. “Please don’t insult my intelligence by telling me that you disagree.”
“You never have time to work on hitting, because you’re so focused on us,” she said. “I mean, when you’re having meetings with Sawyer and a pitcher, Scott and the other guys are somewhere hitting off a tee.”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t hit in the SEC, either. Couldn’t catch up to the good fastballs, and forget about breaking stuff. But, most of our pitchers were head cases, and I could handle that, so they kept me busy.”
“You wouldn’t have gotten drafted, if you weren’t a great player,” she said.
“I was a great player in high school,” he said. “But, I’m a solid catcher, and I can work with”—he glanced sideways at her—“complicated pitchers, so I’m a nice organizational guy for them. And for me, it’s an interesting summer, before I have to buckle down and focus on school again.”
Organizational guy. Roster filler. Marginal prospect. The terrible descriptions no minor league player ever wanted to hear—even though the overwhelming majority of them fell into the category. “I’d be happy to throw you curveballs all day long, if you think it would help,” she said.
He laughed quietly. “First of all, I’m not about to let you throw your arm out. But, the truth is, I don’t think I can hit Avila’s, so believe me, I wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near yours.”
Avila was a rarely used bullpen guy, whose knuckle curve didn’t have much more than a little wrinkle.
“But thank you,” he said.
They rode in silence for a few minutes. It was raining now, and Jill found herself hoping that Stan, the driver, was super alert, and that the bus tires were in good shape.
“I figured out freshman year that I wasn’t the player I’d hoped I was, so it was a good surprise when the Pirates took me, but—” He let out his breath. “My girlfriend has made it clear that she wants me to fail, and—well, I have to say that that’s really been bothering me lately.”
Jill was determined not to feel a private twinge of disappointment that he had a girlfriend, since it wasn’t as though they were ever going to date, or that she’d even vaguely considered the idea—but, okay, she felt a small painful jolt inside. “What makes you think that?” she asked.
“She didn’t want me to sign,” he said. “My plan was to go home and spend the summer working as an EMT, and then head up to Johns Hopkins in the fall. But, when I got drafted, I guess I couldn’t resist trying. So, there’s been a stream of ‘I can’t wait until you get this ridiculous baseball stuff out of your system’ and oh, my favorite one, ‘Why are you wasting your time?’”
The girlfriend certainly sounded like a treat. “Is she a hometown person, or did you meet her at college?” she asked.
“Vanderbilt,” he said. “We got together sophomore year. I mean, she’s great—she’s brilliant, she’s beautiful, she’s interesting. But, baseball has always been a real sore point for her.”
Even though it was something her boyfriend loved to do? “Is she going to come and see you play?” Jill asked.
Marcus shook his head. “I don’t think so. She got a fellowship to go to Italy on an archeological dig, so she’s over there right now. Then, she’ll be going to Yale to grad school.”
“Not medicine?” she asked.
“A doctorate in medieval studies,” he said.
So, she probably was brilliant.
The bus was pulling off the highway now, into a rest stop. Not everyone on the bus woke up, but the people who did—as ever—fumbled their way outside to go to the restrooms, get some food at Burger King, or both.
Jill wasn’t really hungry—again—but, seeing a Dunkin’ Donuts franchise inside gave her a happy little pang of familiarity, and she ordered a regular decaf and a couple of plain donuts. Donuts were big in Rhode Island. Allie’s was the best place in the state, but they were all pretty fond of Dunkin’ Donuts, too. Any donuts, for that matter.
They were still a few hours away from Pomeroy, so she downloaded the same Japanese language app Marcus was using, and they spent about an hour going over basic conversational phrases—as quietly as possible. Somewhere along the line, she gave him one of the doughnuts, and then, she managed to doze off for most of the last ninety minutes of the drive.
When she opened her eyes, she was mortified to realize that she had fallen asleep on his shoulder, and that it felt—cozy. Quickly, she sat up, hoping that no one—including Marcus—had noticed. He seemed to be asleep, but she couldn’t tell for sure.
In any case, she rubbed her face to try and wake up, and then started checking texts on her phone, being careful to keep a respectful few inches of space between them for the rest of the ride.
When they got to the stadium, it occurred to her that she had no idea how she was going to get to her host family’s house. Some of the guys on the team had cars, and she thought Sofia did, too, so maybe she could get a ride from someone.
But, it was a pleasant surprise to see Mrs. Wilkins standing in the parking lot, waiting for the bus to arrive, even though it was barely six-thirty in the morning. There were other host families there, too, and she wondered if it
was a requirement, when people took players in for the summer. Since the base pay was so low in the minor leagues, the front office had to assume that almost none of them had personal transportation.
Nicky, the clubbie, was there to unload the bus, which made her feel horribly pampered, but no one else seemed to be giving it a second thought.
“It’s okay that we don’t help you do this?” she asked, just to be sure.
He nodded, piling gear bags onto a metal cart with wheels. “When you come back to the field later, find me or Terence, and we’ll give you your key,” he said.
“What key?” she asked.
“The door to your, um, you know, room has a new lock,” he said.
Which brought her right back to a reality she had managed to put aside, mostly, while they were on the road. But, okay, now she had a lock. It was what it was, right?
“Stretch at two o’clock,” Adler said, to the team in general. “Go home and grab some rest.”
That was good, since everyone looked damn tired.
“Over here, Jill!” Mrs. Wilkins said.
Jill nodded, and waved back. “Anyone else need a ride?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dimitri said. “I’ve got plenty of room in my car, and Mother can take a few people, too.”
So, she headed over to where Mrs. Wilkins and her husband were waiting. She had only met him once in passing, so Mrs. Wilkins reintroduced her. They wanted her to call them Connie and Horace—but, that probably wasn’t going to come easily for her.
Mrs. Wilkins seemed to be perpetually chatty and outgoing, but she had no sense whatsoever of Mr. Wilkins, other than that he golfed, and that her mother liked it that he was a retired police officer, since she thought that upped the safety aspects of the host home considerably. So far, Jill hadn’t seen any evidence that fans—or reporters—were eager to find out where she was living and plague her—but, if they did, Mr. Wilkins would probably know how to handle it.
When they got to the house, Mr. Wilkins went back to bed, and Jill stood in the kitchen, holding her knapsack and the small plastic laundry bag she’d gotten at one of the motels, where she had packed—unsurprisingly—her laundry.
“Would you like some breakfast?” Mrs. Wilkins asked. “Or just to go to sleep?”
She was kind of hungry, but—“I’ll do that, if you don’t mind,” Jill said. “I’m pretty tired.”
“What time do you have to be back at the field?” Mrs. Wilkins asked.
“I’d like to get there around one, if that’s okay,” Jill said.
“Of course,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “I can have some lunch ready to go, if you want. Is there anything you don’t like?”
“No, I’m sure whatever you have will be—” Jill stopped, since that wasn’t true. “Well, actually, I don’t care for tuna fish.”
Mrs. Wilkins nodded, and pretended to write that down. “Got it!” she said, sounding very jolly.
After thanking her profusely for the replacement road trip care package, Jill made her way downstairs. There was some mail on one of the twin beds, including a priority package from her mother, which would be her polo shirts. It would be a relief to wear ones she liked, and maybe retire the Penn State shirt, although she could always keep it as a spare. Then again, it reminded her of that jerk Aaron Marshak—so, maybe she would just toss it.
There were some yogurts in the mini-fridge in her room, but she had to go upstairs to get a spoon.
Mrs. Wilkins was sitting at the table, drinking coffee—and reading what looked like a Bible. “It’s no trouble at all to fix you something,” she said.
Probably, but she would feel shy sitting there, and what if they didn’t have anything to talk about? It might just be painful and awkward. “Oh, I’m fine, thank you,” she said. “But, it’s very nice of you.”
Feeling lonely, sitting on a twin bed, eating a yogurt, wasn’t ideal, of course—but, it seemed better than feeling shy and self-conscious in front of someone she didn’t know.
Somehow, she felt more out of place and unfamiliar in someone’s home, than she had felt in the motels on the road trip. She was technically supposed to live here, and everything seemed so strange.
And God, did she miss Maggie. Daily. Nightly. Endlessly. Maggie almost always slept on Jill’s bed, and these days, Jill had to lift her up gently, since it was hard for her to jump up there by herself. Sometimes, Maggie was restless or had bad dreams, and once in a while, she seemed to be afraid of being up so high, even though she’d slept on their beds her entire life. When that happened, Jill would ease her onto a specially padded arthritis dog bed on the floor, and bring down a couple of pillows and a blanket, so she could sleep next to her.
Thinking about Maggie was just going to make her sad. In fact, thinking about anything related to home might make her cry, so she carefully set the priority mail box and a few cards from relatives on the desk, to open later. Besides, she had been up almost all night—she needed to try to get some sleep, if she wanted to be functional at the ballpark. At least she wasn’t pitching tonight, but she was scheduled to throw a side session and would need to have enough energy to do a good job.
So, she rinsed the spoon and the yogurt cup in the bathroom sink, and changed into a URI T-shirt and shorts. She would have to pretend that it was normal to go to bed in the morning—and it wasn’t like she hadn’t stayed up late lots of times. So, maybe all of this wasn’t as different as it seemed.
Maybe.
The bed was pretty comfortable, but the pillows were way too soft. They smelled different, too. Not bad, just—different.
She was really tired, but couldn’t seem to fall asleep, no matter how hard she tried. Everything felt too—foreign. Sounds, scents, the way the light came in around the edge of the curtains.
Not to belabor the point, but at home, she almost never had trouble falling asleep, and if she did, she could pat Maggie, or go downstairs and get a snack, or sit on the porch for a while or something. So, being here—and not being there—really sucked.
She closed her eyes and took some slow, deep breaths—which accomplished nothing whatsoever. Hector was such a California boy, that he was big on meditating, so she might need to get him to teach her how. For now, maybe she should give up on sleeping, and just read? And try to grab a pre-game nap somewhere?
She reached over to check her phone, and saw that it was almost eight, and her mother would definitely be up. So, she texted, “Is Maggie okay? I’m worried about her.” Within about five minutes, her mother had texted back a video of Maggie in the kitchen, her head in her bowl, and her tail waving, as she ate some breakfast.
Jill was relieved, but it made her miss home even more. Which her mother must have figured out, because her phone promptly rang.
“Just getting up?” her mother asked.
“No, we were on the bus all night, so I’m trying to sleep now, but—” She lowered her voice. “They’re really nice and all, but I don’t like it here.”
Her mother didn’t answer right away. “Is it them, specifically, or being with a host family, in general?”
“I don’t know,” Jill said. “Both, maybe? I don’t know.”
“They seem like awfully nice people,” her mother said. “And I’m sure they’re used to hosting players who feel a little shy.”
A little shy? “What if I decide I just hate all of this too much?” Jill said. “How long do I have to give it?”
There was another pause. “Longer than this,” her mother said.
“Yeah, but—” Except that her mother rarely spent that much time choosing her words, so it was fishy. “Have you been reading articles, about what to do when your kid calls up, and is all homesick and everything?” Jill asked.
Her mother laughed. “Yes, actually. In fact, I’m not supposed to share how much I miss you, so I am going to make a point of not doing that.”
Okay, maybe that was funny. “Oh, well played,” Jill said.
“I’m going
to try to help guide you towards creating problem-solving strategies, without telling you what to do in any way, even though it goes against the grain,” her mother said.
Yeah, that was funny, too. Jill smiled, in spite of herself. “So that I can feel the pride of, you know, making my own decisions, and being independent?”
“Yes,” her mother said. “Have you been reading articles, too?”
Just maybe, yeah. She felt better, until she hung up, and was sitting there again, by herself, looking around the empty room. Should she call back? Or call someone else? Or read until she fell asleep?
She picked the latter, and alternated between reading and nodding off, until it was time to get up, take a shower, and head over to the stadium.
Mrs. Wilkins had made roast beef sandwiches on homemade bread, served with chips that were also made by hand, and pickles and fresh lemonade—which were all delicious. Mr. Wilkins had just gotten home from a round of golf, and Jill bowed her head, while he said grace.
She said, “Yes, sir,” when he asked her if she had slept well—and pretty much told brief, stilted lies in response to any questions either of them asked, although she was telling the truth when she said that the sandwiches were really good. And those still-warm homemade potato chips had been fantastic.
It was a relief to get to the ballpark, except for the part where she had to deal with going into her dressing room. But, Terence appeared with her key, and went in with her, showing her the new locker, freshly issued workout and other gear, new Pirates shower shoes, a pair of pristine—and unfamiliar—turf shoes in her size, a row of unused toiletries lined up on the top shelf, and so on. The room had even been repainted, and was now light blue, and everything had been rearranged slightly, too.
“Um, looks good,” she said, when she realized that he was waiting for her reaction. “I mean, thank you. Great job!”
Terence grinned with one side of his mouth, with a rakish quality she hadn’t noticed before. “I’m totally embarrassed, too,” he said. “You don’t have to pretend you’re not.”
A Season of Daring Greatly Page 24
