The Super Ladies

by Petrone, Susan

  Also by Susan Petrone

  Forty years old, divorced, with two sons on the verge of adolescence and an ex-husband who considers visitation to be optional, Brenda Haversham isn’t having a whole lot of fun. She’s also no longer qualified for the work she loves, so she’s working in a cubicle instead while trying to make ends meet.

  Brenda is short on money, short on connection with her kids, and short on any kind of social life. The only thing Brenda has in abundance is her anger. And that turns out to be her greatest asset.

  When she was a kid, Brenda’s father taught her how to throw a good fastball. That wasn’t of much use to a girl, but it is enough to astound onlookers at a “test your speed” pitching cage before a Cleveland Indians game. The more Brenda pictures her ex-husband’s face on the other end, the harder she throws. And when someone videos her performance and puts it up online, Brenda becomes an Internet sensation – and then more than that.

  Soon, the Indians come calling and Brenda finds her life taking a turn in a new direction. She finds herself standing on the mound as the first woman player in Major League history – and dealing with everything that comes with it. The money is great and the endorsement deals are even better. The fury of “traditionalists,” not so much. And the conflicting emotions of her teammates are even harder to manage.

  Meanwhile, Brenda’s home life is evolving faster than she can keep up, redefining her role as a mother, a friend, and even a lover.

  As the season winds down Brenda will find out if she has what it takes to be a winner – at both baseball and life.

  A funny, poignant, and endearing debut from a writer of rare warmth and humanity, Throw Like a Woman is a 95-mile-an-hour heater of a novel.

  Here is an excerpt:

  Brenda had worked as a graphic designer before the boys were born, but with an outdated skill set after twelve years out of the workforce, she had taken the first job she could find, as a data entry operator for an insurance company. Most of the people she worked with were kids just out of college or women like her who had recently re-entered the workforce. The next day at work, she got a cryptic email from Robin. It merely read: “OMG, now you’re famous” and had a link to Cleveland.com. When she clicked on the link, she was surprised to see her photo—going into her windup in the pitching cage—as the photo of the day.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.

  Her coworker, Derek, from the next cubicle poked his head around the wall and asked what was up. Derek was in his mid-thirties and still dressed like a hipster, with skinny pants and square black glasses. They sometimes chatted and commiserated about divorce over lunch.

  “Nothing,” she replied, clicking the window closed.

  “Nice picture in the paper today, by the way. I put up a copy of it in the kitchen,” Derek said.

  “Excuse me,” Brenda said. “I’m going to get lunch.” She grabbed her cell phone and went outside to one of the two picnic tables set up on the grassy strip between the parking lot and their two-story industrial park building.

  Robin was number four on speed dial. “My ass looks positively huge,” was the first thing Brenda said when Robin answered.

  “Aren’t you glad we aren’t on speaker phone?” Robin replied. “And no, it doesn’t. You look fine. Did you see it says you had the highest speed recorded so far this season?” She paused for dramatic effect. “Or last season. That’s impressive.”

  “I guess so,” Brenda said. She had been sitting on the picnic table but now got up and starting pacing back and forth between the two tables. “It’s just weird to be singled out for throwing a ball. It’s fun and all, but it’s still just a game. Oh, and did I tell you that Andy’s Little League coach plays baseball in a Roy Hobbs league and wants me to pitch?”

  “Cool. When’s your first game?”

  “I’m not sure I’m going to do it. They play on Thursday nights, way over in Westlake. So it’d be forty minutes each way on a work night, plus I’d have to find someone to keep an eye on the boys . . .”

  “Are you making excuses because you really don’t want to or are you just looking for someone to tell you it’s okay to do it?” Ever since college, Robin had had a knack for honing in on the heart of someone’s true feelings. Brenda figured that’s probably why she had gone into art therapy.

  “I’ll admit, I kind of do want to play. When we all played softball together, back before we had kids, I had fun. Granted, I couldn’t hit . . .”

  “But you had that rocket arm out in left center. And it was fun. Why not do it again?”

  “You and Dan and Ed and I were all on the same team and we played against people we knew. That’s what made it fun. I don’t know anyone in this league.”

  “You’ll get to know them.”

  “And it’s all men.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Remember, you’re a single woman now.”

  “I’m not ready to date anyone. And I certainly wouldn’t start dating anyone I played ball with.”

  “More excuses?”

  “What’s that line about not peeing where you sleep?”

  Robin laughed. “You know you’re going to do this, right?”

  “Yeah, I just needed you to talk me into it.” After she hung up with Robin, Brenda called Carl to tell him she wanted to play ball.

  A few nights later, Brenda played her first game with the Lake Erie Lightning. Jon was happy about it. He was very big on things being even and fair, and Brenda’s joining the Lightning balanced out the family member-to-team ratio. Andy wasn’t as supportive. When Brenda told the boys at dinner where she’d be every Thursday night, he was aghast.

  “Why do you want to do that?” he asked. “You’ll be the only girl.”

  “So what?” Jon said before Brenda could even open her mouth.

  “I mean, it’s okay for you to play with us, but in a league? Come on. Why can’t you just play softball or something like a normal mom?” Andy asked, absentmindedly flopping the tines of his fork up and down in his mashed potatoes.

  “Andy, it’s something I want to do. It isn’t going to affect your life too much.”

  “Fine,” he replied, still slapping the mashed potatoes with his fork.

  “If I stink, I’ll quit. How’s that?” she added with a grin.

  “Fine.”

  “You won’t stink, Mom,” Jon said. “You’re really good. I heard Mr. Fleishman talking to Mr. Barrett at the Indians game. He said he never saw anything like it.”

  “Thank you, Jon.”

  “What are we supposed to do while you’re playing baseball?” Andy asked. “I’m not babysitting him.”

  “I don’t need you to babysit me,” Jon snapped.

  “After summer vacation starts, you can come to the games if you want. Until then, you’ll have dinner with Grandma. She said she’s looking forward to having you two all to herself on Thursday nights.”

  “The Roy Hobbs League plays way over on the west side. I’m not going there.”

  “Great. Then you’ll have more time to hang out with your grandma this summer.”

  On Thursday morning, Brenda reminded the boys that she was going straight to the game after work and that their grandmother was coming over to make dinner. She was so preoccupied getting her own gear together for the game that she didn’t even notice what time it was when Jon asked if she was going to walk down to the bus with them.

  “Of course,” she replied, and made a mental note to remember to put a ponytail holder and an extra pair of socks in her bag before she left. As she walked down the driveway with Andy and Jon, she asked, “Do you two have everything you need for the day? Homework? Lunch?”

  “Yep, got everything,” Jon said. Andy just nodded with a bored “Uh-huh.”

  “Grandma will be coming over around 5:00. Try not to set the house on f
ire between the time you get home from school and the time she gets here.”

  “We won’t,” Jon said.

  “And you’ll be playing baseball,” Andy said. He said “playing baseball” in a sarcastic, sing-songy voice. Brenda pretended not to notice.

  “You’ll do good,” Jon said. “I know it. Don’t be scared, okay? Coach always says ‘It’s just a game.’”

  “If it’s just a game, why do you cry every time you strike out?” Andy said.

  “Shut up. I do not!”

  “Come on, guys. Don’t start the day fighting,” Brenda said, keeping herself solidly in between the two boys in case Jon started throwing punches. They reached the end of the driveway and turned to walk to the corner. The school bus was due any minute.

  “Did you send in the registration form for the sports camp this summer?” Andy asked.

  Brenda paused, trying to keep the first words to pop into her mind—‘Oh crap’—from being the first words to pop out of her mouth. “I’m mailing it today,” she said, as though the form was completed, an unbounceable check written, and both sitting in an already addressed and stamped envelope.

  “The deadline’s tomorrow.”

  “It’ll get there.”

  “What happens if it doesn’t get there in time?” Jon asked. “I want to go to the camp.”

  “It’ll be fine. You’re both doing the sports camp.” Inwardly, she knew they had to do the sports camp because there was no way they were staying home alone all day every day all summer long. Last summer, Ed had still been in the house and she had been home. Now here it was, a year later, and life was completely different.

  Brenda gave Jon a big hug good-bye as the school bus came down the street. She reached for Andy but he pulled away, so she just patted him on the back. It was as though he had turned into a teenager overnight. When the boys got on the bus, Jon waved. Andy didn’t.

  Brenda went back to the house and grabbed the sports camp registration form, an envelope, and a stamp. She’d fill it out and mail it at lunch. She was going to have to write a rubber check for the registration and hope Ed’s child support payment wouldn’t be late. Writing bad checks didn’t seem like the most auspicious way to start the day.

  She didn’t tell anyone at work that she was playing baseball that night. Robin had said she wanted to go and watch, but Brenda asked her to wait a week or two, “Just until I establish myself a bit.”

  “Establish schmablish. I’ll be there for moral support, but I’ll act like I don’t know you.”

  Feeling like one raw, dangling nerve with a baseball glove attached, she arrived at the field after work. It was in a municipal park in a far west exurb that was seemingly able to spend more lavishly on one park than Brenda’s inner-ring suburb was able to spend on one of its schools. The park had four softball and two baseball fields, plus a picnic area, a playground, and a rubber-paved jogging track around the entire perimeter. It was a far cry from soggy old Quarry Park.

  She saw half a dozen guys in full baseball regalia—black baseball pants, socks pulled up, real spikes, and gray jerseys with gold lettering—standing by the cars at the end of the parking lot closest to the fields. A couple of the guys glanced over at her car when she pulled in. She didn’t see Carl, but she had parked clear at the other end of the lot. She moved the front seat back as far as it would go and put on her black sweatpants (she wondered if she’d have to invest in baseball pants as well as cleats or if she could get away with the sweats) and put her jersey on over her long-sleeved T-shirt. April night games could get very cold. She put on her sneakers and that was it. She was dressed. It was time to get out of the car.

  As she walked across the parking lot to the group of men in Lightning jerseys, she felt their eyes watching her. She glanced down at her billowing jersey. Carl had laughed when she asked if he had any small jerseys—they were all large or extra-large. She didn’t tuck it in—the elastic on the sweatpants was kind of old and it always made her look chunky if she tucked her shirt in. After two kids, she knew her stomach would never be flat again, but she still looked pretty good from the waist up. It was just her hips and thighs that made her feel like a parade balloon.

  When she reached her new teammates, she introduced herself, adding, “Carl Fleishman recruited me.” She tried to sound casual but confident, like she was an established baseball entity instead of a green rookie who hadn’t played ball with anyone over the age of twelve in more than a decade.

  “Right,” one of the guys said. “I saw your picture in the paper. Can you really throw eighty-two miles an hour?” He looked a bit older than most of the players. Maybe in his very early fifties with one of those goatees guys his age often grow to mask a double chin. Somewhere in her memory banks, Brenda remembered that was called a Vandyke and not a goatee because there was no separation between the moustache and the beard. That didn’t seem like an appropriate contribution to the conversation.

  “That’s what the speed clock said,” she replied, hoping she didn’t sound coy or like a jerk.

  The guy smiled and nodded. “I’m Gary. Nice to meet you.” Brenda shook hands all around. All of the guys said hello and mumbled some niceties, but she could tell most of them were skeptical. She tried to focus on learning her teammates’ names and not thinking about the fact that very soon she was going to have to pitch to real adult men who would be far less forgiving of bad pitches than Andy and Jon were.

  Gary asked her if she wanted to throw, so she warmed up with him, just playing an easy game of catch. It felt good. The baseball seemed to fit the size and shape of her hand better than a big, ungainly softball ever did.

  She heard someone yell “Hey Carl! Are we home or away today?” and recognized Carl’s compact, squareish form stretching over by the dugout as he called back, “Away.” Brenda gave a little half wave but focused on Gary’s throws. He kept chucking the ball hard, head-high, as though daring her to throw it back with equal force. After a few more throws, she told Gary her arm felt good and that she needed to talk to Carl. As she walked behind the line of other players playing catch, she heard a voice say in a stage whisper: “Well?” and heard Gary’s reply: “She’s got nothing,” and felt a tingle in her stomach, not from nerves, but from anger. She had something. She wasn’t sure yet what it was, but she knew it was something.

  She walked the last few steps to the dugout with a new focus, and when Carl introduced her to Bob, a hulking guy with a mocha brown complexion and a kind smile, she made sure to give a firmer grip to her handshake.

  “Bob’s the catcher because he has the youngest knees on the team,” Carl joked.

  “Just aged out of the open division this winter. Now I gotta play with the old guys. Looks like you and me are the babies on this team, Brenda,” Bob said.

  Brenda tried not to let his good nature ruin her newfound bad mood. They quickly went over the signs, then she trotted out to the mound and turned to face Bob, whose body dwarfed his catcher’s mitt, making her target look very small indeed.

  There were eleven other players on the team, and all of them now stopped to watch Brenda throw her first pitch as a member of the Lightning. They were standing along the first and third baselines or in the dugout, and they were all watching her. She tried not to look around, tried to focus only on the catcher’s mitt, looking for Ed’s face in its deep pocket. Bob held down one finger. Her right hand felt numb as she ran her fingers over the ball, as though the seams were a bastardized form of Braille that she was trying desperately to read. She knew what she had to do, knew she had to focus, but somehow her body wasn’t cooperating.

  Bob punched his hand into his glove once and shouted an encouraging, “Right in here, B!” She nodded, thought too much about what she was doing, and threw. After what seemed like five minutes, the ball hit the catcher’s mitt. She heard a couple of snorts from the other players.

  “What’s with the
Peggy Lee fastball?” Carl called. He looked a little worried. She was there on his word and didn’t want to make him look bad. Hell, she didn’t want to make herself look bad.

  Someone off to her left sang a snippet from “Is That All There Is?”

  “No, that’s not all there is,” she mumbled to herself. She could feel the anger starting to bubble a little more wildly inside her. She focused on it, feeling the anger rush through her body until she swore her toes were tingling with adrenaline.

  Bob held down two fingers and then three, both of which Brenda shook off. Then he held down all four fingers and wiggled them, which wasn’t even a sign they had talked about. Brenda shook her head. There were grumbles from the peanut gallery, as those watching started telling her to throw something.

  “Come on, Brenda. We don’t have much practice time,” Carl called.

  “Keep your jersey on, Carl,” Brenda mumbled. She looked down and kicked around some dirt on the mound. When she looked up, it was as though someone had suddenly flicked on the Christmas lights: the imaginary golden lines running from her hand to the catcher’s mitt were illuminated, and Ed’s smirking face now seemed to be floating in Bob’s mitt. He held down one finger. Brenda nodded. This time, she didn’t think, she just threw a screaming four-seamer. The thwump the ball made as it hit the catcher’s mitt was loud and sure. Brenda heard someone say, “HEL-lo!”