“Okay. He’s a physical specimen in a way that you won’t ever be,” Marcus said. “And he probably has more talent than anyone on the staff—although I think Andrew’s upside is a little under the radar.”
All of which pretty well matched her own observations.
“You’re never going to be the most gifted player on the field again,” he said. “You wouldn’t have been in Division I, either, for the most part. And the reality is that most of the players are going to be much physically stronger than you are, and many of the pitchers will throw harder, and quite a few of them are going to be more talented, too.”
Well, she could always count on him to be a straight shooter.
“But,” he said, “you have intellect, and courage, and command. Play your own game, and don’t worry about what anyone else is doing. That is what’s going to give you a shot at making it. Comparing yourself to anyone else will just drive you crazy.”
Easier said than done, but it did have the ring of truth, so she nodded.
“You can’t let a guy like that get inside your head,” he said. “I mean, you’ve pretty much gone off the rails since he showed up, and you can’t allow that to happen. You’re going to run into a lot of players just like him, the higher up you go.”
Of course, it begged the question of whether she wanted to be in a profession where she was going to have to deal with people like that on a regular basis.
They both watched, as Caleb strutted around, damn near demanding congratulatory high fives from people, although some of the ones he received in return were more enthusiastic than others.
Marcus shook his head. “When I first saw him the other day, I said, ‘Hello, Caleb, it’s good to have you here.’ Do you know what he said to me?’
Probably nothing that friendly.
Marcus put on a cocky, disdainful expression—which was really quite a good imitation of Caleb’s typical look. “Hey, Grimes, aren’t you glad you don’t have to try and bat against me anymore?’”
Ouch. “He’s a delight,” she said.
Marcus nodded. “I could definitely have done without that.”
“But, he’ll be able to get away with being—brash—as long as he backs it up on the field,” she said.
“True of most pro athletes, I think,” he said.
No doubt.
“All things considered, you’re an astonishingly polished pitcher, but you need to do a lot of work on this,” he said, tapping his own forehead.
So, now she was a head case? “It’s not that easy,” she said, defensively.
Marcus shrugged. “Did you expect it to be?”
Well— “No,” she said. “But, it’s so much more—I don’t know—relentless, than I thought it would be. Sometimes, it’s—daunting.”
“Jill, I have complete faith in you,” he said.
God, she hoped so. “Do you really?” she asked. “I mean, genuinely?”
He looked her right in the eye. “One thousand percent,” he said.
Which was one of the nicest things he could have possibly said to her. “Just for the record,” she said. “I’m very glad we know each other.”
“That one is mutual,” he said.
They both nodded, and then looked out at the field to watch the rest of the game.
Her next start was going to be in Hudson Valley, against the Tampa Bay affiliate, and, okay, she was maybe dreading getting back out there. Once she was in the outfield, doing some preliminary jogging and stretching, she tried to concentrate on clearing her mind. Focusing. Locking in. Trying to learn how to improve the weakest damn aspect of her game.
There was another standing-room-only crowd tonight, and it looked as though at least a couple of hundred media credentials had been issued—but, she wasn’t going to pay attention to that. Her last start didn’t have to govern this one. She’d had a bad game, that’s all. It wasn’t necessarily going to happen again.
She hoped.
Her pitches in the bullpen were okay. Not terrific, but not awful, either. With luck, she would be better, once the game started, but she could work with what she had. Everything was going to be fine.
She hoped.
After warming up, she was relieved to locate a sweet-looking little girl with no trouble, and paused to hand her the ball. The girl was so stunned that her eyes filled with tears, and Jill gave the kid a hug—because, really, how could she not?
“Enjoy the game,” she said, when she let go.
The little girl nodded, with a huge smile, even though her eyes were still very shiny.
As they continued to the dugout, none of them spoke, but Sawyer was shaking his head, and Marcus was looking amused.
In the top of the first, the guys scored a run, so, once again, she was starting off with the comfort of a lead, however small it was.
She felt her dog tag through her jersey, put on her cap, and picked up her glove. Then, after one last deep breath, she stepped out onto the field, and strode towards the mound.
Game on.
She was scraping some dirt off her cleats, when Scott came over to talk to her.
“Are you lost, son?” she asked, then pointed towards left. “The outfield is that way.”
“Try something new tonight,” he said.
Was there anyone anywhere who didn’t have an opinion about what she should be doing, and when, and how, and why she should be doing it? It was a struggle not to scowl at him.
“It’s a game,” Scott said. “So, forget the work part tonight. Just play. Each pitch isn’t going to change the world, you know.”
Well—it was a point of view. “Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”
“The game’s way better, when you enjoy yourself,” he said. “So, have fun.” Then, he clapped her lightly on the right shoulder, and trotted out towards his position.
Fun. Well, if she could manage that, it would be a nice change.
Marcus came out, and handed her a new baseball. “Focus on the glove,” he said.
She nodded, vaguely noticing that the public address system had started playing some music, although she didn’t ever pay much attention to the wacky stuff that happened between innings in minor league parks.
“I think tonight’s going to be a good one,” Marcus said. “So—” He stopped, also listening to the music. “Wait a minute, is that—?”
She listened, too. Yes, it was an old recording of “Thank Heaven for Little Girls,” and most of the crowd was laughing. Along with both dugouts, the media, and everyone on the field, including the umpires.
“Well, gosh,” Marcus said.
They stared at each other, and there really wasn’t anything to do but laugh. Then, Jill tipped her cap at the announcer’s box—where they must have been planning to do this for weeks—and Marcus went back behind the plate.
She wished her father was here for a thousand reasons—but, at the moment, the primary one was because he would have thought that having this song play was hilarious. She touched the dog tag fondly, and then threw her first warm-up pitch.
The song kept playing, and the fans were suddenly laughing harder, and when she looked at Marcus, he was, too—to the degree that he was having trouble staying in his catcher’s stance. They all seemed to be looking at the outfield, and she turned to see that Scott, Hector, and Schwartzman were all waltzing with imaginary partners—and that even Schwartzman looked somewhat graceful.
She watched them for a few seconds, with great amusement, and then continued her warm-up tosses, finishing just as the song ended.
Marcus fired down to second, and then walked out to the mound, intercepting Owen’s underhand throw before it got to her.
“How’s your focus?” he asked.
Not the sharpest it had ever been—but, she was certainly relaxed. “I think I need to strike out the side,” she said.
“That sounds like an excellent plan. And,” he grinned at her, “if you get the first two guys, you can freeze the third one with Uncle Charlie, and
I’ll take the heat from Sawyer.”
Well, okay, then. What other enticement could she ever possibly want?
The first guy went down swinging, on a four-seam fastball that was up and out of the zone. The next one was overeager, too, and she kept the ball low, getting him on a two-seamer that had the kind of late movement that made a pitcher’s heart sing.
The third hitter wasn’t quite as quick to chase, but the two-seamer was her magical friend tonight, and grabbing just enough black, so that she got two easy strikes. Going a little bit more outside would probably be the correct call, since he had to protect the plate now—but, they went with the curve. A great, vicious, ruthless curve. The guy started to swing—and then stared at the ball with his mouth hanging open, as it pretty much dropped out of sight for the third strike.
Three up, three down—and she was on her merry way back to the dugout.
Oh, yeah, she was bad.
So bad.
“Keep it up,” Sawyer said, as she passed him.
She nodded, waving Sofia off, and just putting her jacket on, instead, because—well—she really preferred it that way.
She set them down in order in the second, and again, in the third.
And then, the fourth. Nine strikeouts so far, and nothing even close to a runner reaching base.
No one said much to her, which was fine, because she liked to be able to hear herself think. She had no idea what the crowd was doing—and didn’t care, one way or the other. The same went for the damn media. Let them amuse themselves, or boo, or—whatever. It was their dimes.
The first batter in the fifth grounded out to Raffy, who hurried his throw, but Dimitri reeled it in with no trouble. The second guy struck out on a changeup so deceptive that it actually surprised her a little.
She’d overwhelmed the next hitter back in the second inning, by coming in on his hands every single time—so, she was half-expecting him to try and lay down a bunt, which he did. But, she was ready, and dashed in to snatch it up.
Marcus pounced on it before she could. “Get out of the way!” he yelled, as he scooped the ball barehanded, and whipped it to first, beating the guy by two steps.
And, that was the fifth. Fifteen up, fifteen down.
Gosh. She didn’t get bellowed at very often. “Woof,” she said. Since they were, after all, Retrievers.
Marcus frowned at her, as he gathered up his mask. “How about ‘Thank you for the well-executed and timely play’?”
God, he could be insufferable. “Woof,” she said.
“Yeah, that’s about right,” Owen said, passing them on his way to the dugout. “Mother barks a lot.”
How rare to agree with Owen.
She got two quick outs in the sixth, and was getting ready to take down the third guy—except that Adler was heading out to the mound, which was the last thing she would have expected, especially when she was in a groove. But, she stepped off the rubber to wait, as Marcus came out to join them.
“So,” Adler said.
Jill nodded, wondering what she could possibly have been doing wrong—and then realized that Eduardo was standing by the bullpen gate, clearly warmed up and ready to come in. What in the hell was this about?
“Here’s the thing, Cafferty,” Adler said, after a minute. “Pittsburgh called in the fourth, and then in the fifth, and they just called again.”
Suddenly, she realized why he was out here. “Pitch count,” she said.
He nodded. “We could let you go the rest of the way, milk some more headlines and magazine covers—or maybe we could decide not to risk your arm.”
But, she was pitching a perfect game. She only needed ten more damn outs. She could get ten more outs. Were they really going to yank the Holy Grail away from her, when she almost had it in her hands?
“Is it worth arguing to stay in?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. But, I’m going to give you two choices. I pull you right now, and you lift your cap, and get some applause—or you can finish the inning, and not come back out for the seventh.”
That one was easy enough. “Then, go back to the dugout, sir,” she said. Immediately.
Adler smiled. “Yeah. That’s what I figured.”
She let herself stand there and take a few seconds to feel really disappointed, then shook it off, and focused on the signals Marcus was flashing her. Fastball, curve, whatever. She was fine with any of them.
The first two strikes were easy—and Marcus looked out at her, and she looked in at him. Then, he signaled for the four-seamer.
She had expected him to ask for the curve—and she wanted to throw the curve—but, he was right. The hitter was going to think he was calling for a curve, too.
So, she threw the fastball, and threw it well, and the guy swung and missed—and that was the inning.
Eighteen up—and eighteen down. Twelve strikeouts. Six perfect innings. Emphasis on the word perfect.
Marcus came out to the mound to meet her, and they headed for the dugout.
“You finally pitched tonight,” he said.
She nodded.
“I thought you might shake me off there,” he said.
It had certainly crossed her mind. “Mother knows best,” she said.
“Right,” he said, and glanced over at her. “Is that a swagger?”
Probably, yeah. “Think it suits me?” she asked.
“Well—it’s different,” he said.
Yeah. It was. She raised her cap at the little girl in the stands—who was still clutching her pre-game warm-up baseball—and then looked back at Marcus.
“Was I going to do it tonight?” she asked. Because, after all, baseball games were random, and a ball could have dropped into no-man’s-land, or she could have missed the plate, or—all kinds of things. But, still. Eighteen up, and eighteen down.
He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I think you were.”
So did she.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ELLEN EMERSON WHITE is the author of more than twenty books for children and young adults—including The President’s Daughter series—as well as several sports biographies. She lives in New York City, where she also works as a sports photographer and coaches a baseball team in East Harlem.
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Cover design and lettering © 2017 by Jenna Stempel
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This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
A SEASON OF DARING GREATLY. Copyright © 2017 by Ellen Emerson White. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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