The Dead Pull Hitter

by Alison Gordon

  My study was a mess. Stacks of magazines and newspapers covered the floor and my desk was hidden under more debris, which I carefully transferred to the couch. I had once returned from a road trip and not realized my place had been ransacked in my absence until I’d been home for three hours.

  Even with the mess, it was a beautiful room. I’d designed the renovations myself, turning an attic space into a large, bright studio with big windows and a skylight. One wall held bookcases, packed with mysteries and baseball books. Part of the opposite wall was mirrored and mounted with a short ballet barre. I had studied ballet seriously when I was younger, but puberty wiped out my ambitions. There isn’t much call for ballerinas who are five foot nine and have boobs. Besides, I wasn’t good enough. But I love to dance and still keep my hand, or toe, in as a way to keep a little bit fit. I loathe any other kind of exercise.

  My desk, next to the window, is an old oak harvest table that spent its early life in a convent. I emptied my briefcase and kicked Elwy off my chair. While I sorted my notes, he lay on his back in the middle of the floor, meowing pathetically, demanding attention.

  “Piss off, Elwy.”

  I was halfway down the basement stairs with my arms full of laundry when the phone rang again. Swearing, I stumbled back up the steps, leaving a trail of undies Hansel and Gretel could have followed. When I answered the phone, I was glad I’d hurried. It was Christopher Morris, my favourite magazine writer, calling from New York.

  “I’m coming to Toronto tomorrow. Can we get together for dinner? I need to pick your brain.”

  “The pennant race is now official, I guess. And you’ve been ignoring my fine boys all these years. Why should I help you?”

  “Because you are a kind and generous human being. And because I’m buying dinner.”

  “There’s a good reason. When do you get in?”

  “In time for the game. I’ll see you in the press box.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  I couldn’t. Christopher was one of the few sportswriters I admired without reservation. And, to tell the truth, I was flattered that he had called me.

  It quite made my day.

  Chapter 4

  I left for the ballpark at four, stopping at the corner store for cigarettes and to catch up on the gossip.

  My neighbourhood is undergoing gentrification, becoming impossibly trendy. I liked it the way it was, a nice mix of working-class WASPS who had lived in their houses for generations and immigrants, mainly Greek, who add some colour. When the wind is blowing down from the restaurants on Danforth Avenue, the street smells like one big shiskebob, and I buy my meat at a butcher’s with a whole sheep hanging in the window.

  Now we’re being invaded by yuppies and gays tearing the front porches off the old brick houses and putting up brass numbers under coach lights by their doors. Filipino and Swedish nannies walk blonde toddlers and designer dogs with kerchiefs around their necks. Real estate agents put enough crap through my door to insulate the attic with waste paper. There are more dumpsters on the street than fire hydrants, collecting the renovators’ debris. The health-food store on the corner has expanded into a mall.

  But they haven’t taken away the view at the end of my street. Beyond the park and the Don Valley Parkway, the downtown skyline looked like the emerald city of Oz in the late afternoon sun. I crossed the valley, once the easternmost boundary of civilized Toronto, past the Don Jail. As usual, there were film crew trucks parked outside the old stone wing; now used only as a stand-in for jails supposedly in New York or Boston.

  I avoided downtown by going down Parliament Street to the Gardiner Expressway, then west along the bottom of the city, past the gleaming bank towers and the CN Tower, the postcard view of Toronto.

  The stadium on the lakefront was all shut up in the middle of its empty parking lot, just one gate open for players and press. Inside, a huge corridor runs around the perimeter of the stadium, under the stands. It’s big enough for trucks to drive in, always cool and a little spooky. My high heels echoed as I walked past the Titan clubhouse and down the umpires’ tunnel to the field.

  I remembered the first time I took this walk, how nervous and excited I was and how strange it seemed. Now it’s as comfortable as my living room. And no wonder. I spend almost as much time there as I do at home.

  There weren’t many players out yet. Slick Marshall and Dummy Doran, two of the coaches, were sitting in their usual spots on the bench gazing grumpily at the field. They nodded as I dropped my gear and joined them.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen. Lovely day.”

  Doran grunted.

  “Any injuries I should know about?”

  “I won’t bother you with the details of my hangover,” Marshall said. “I’ll play with the pain.”

  He stood up and moved heavily towards the clubhouse. Doran followed him.

  “Work to do,” he lied.

  As usual, they made me feel as welcome as the plague. Players started to straggle out of the clubhouse, styrofoam cups of coffee in hand. Some were more friendly.

  Sultan Sanchez, the designated hitter, sat next to me and patted my knee.

  “You lookin’ good, baby. What about you and me after the game?”

  “Sorry, Sultan. I’ve got to wash my hair.”

  This supposed seduction is a running gag I’m getting a bit tired of, but it’s easier to keep it going than to try to explain why it offends me. Sultan wouldn’t understand. In truth, I don’t think he understands why I keep saying no.

  Sultan’s a complicated man. He’s very handsome and very proud. He was born in the Dominican Republic either forty-two or forty-six years ago, depending on whom you believe, and is an enormous star at home. But he’s never been as rich and famous as he thinks he deserves in the majors. Sanchez sees it all as a racist, anti-Latin conspiracy, and it has made him bitter; but his only real problems have been timing and talent. When he started to play no one made big salaries. And all he can do is hit. Various teams have tried to put him in the field, disastrously. He is a born designated hitter.

  He is also lazy. Orca Elliott, the other designated hitter, at least goes through the pretence of taking infield practice every day. Sultan doesn’t bother. He holds court in the dugout or clubhouse, depending on the weather, and tries to get extra swings in the batting cage.

  During a game, he swaggers to the plate, where he either strikes out or hits a home run, the former more often than the latter these days. He also hits into double plays and never runs out a ground ball.

  This is probably his last season. Ted Ferguson, the owner of the team, sees him as a bad influence on the younger Latin players. He’s probably right. But still, there’s a certain charm to the man, and he’s still entertaining to watch. The fans love him.

  “Sultan, you’ve been through this kind of thing before. What advice do you have for the players who have never been in the playoffs or World Series? Is it really that different?”

  “Not for the Sultan,” he boomed. “I don’ know the meaning of the word pressure . . .”

  And me without my English-Spanish dictionary.

  “When I was with the Reds in the World Series I hit two home runs in one game. I should have been MVP . . .”

  And if you hadn’t been Latin you would have been.

  “But you know they’re not going to give no pretty car to Señor Sanchez from Santo Domingo.”

  I carry on these silent dialogues quite often. I can’t say them out loud if I want the players to go on talking to me, but it helps me hold on to whatever sanity I have left.

  I waited until he wound down the tales of past glory.

  “What about the kids? Alex Jones is a rookie. Archie Griffin. How are they going to handle all the crowds and media attention?”

  “Alejandro has been in the Caribbean World Series twice. You don’ think we get big crowds dow
n there? Man, those fans down there in the Dominican are crazy. They’re more crazy in Santo Domingo than even they are in New Jork. Alejandro can handle it. Don’ worry about a thing with Alejandro.”

  Other players had come onto the field as we were talking. Pitchers ran laps in the outfield; other players did stretching exercises, and a few began to play catch. The workday had begun, and Sanchez was getting antsy answering questions. He had to make his rounds and kibitz with everyone.

  It was a getting-up sort of time at the ballpark, unguarded and private. The players cherished it. They were secure in a corner of the world they understood. Whether it was a sandlot in rural Arkansas, a rocky diamond retrieved from the rubble of a New York ghetto, or the finest major-league park, it was their sanctuary. And no time was more precious than the hours before the game when the whole joint belonged to them.

  Later, the stands would fill with strangers, some friendly, others hostile, all filled with passionate and noisy expectations. Now it was peaceful, and no one demanded anything of anyone except indulgence in rituals as old as the game itself.

  The few outsiders, the reporters and groundskeepers, are tolerated because, in our own way, we’re family. Annoying in-laws, perhaps, but family nonetheless.

  It’s my favourite time at the ballpark, too. Even horrible Titan Field has its charms. It’s a jerry-rigged affair, tacked on to the end of an existing football stadium when Toronto got its franchise. It has artificial turf, which I loathe, and half the seats in the place are bad. But I’ve seen a lot of games here and I’ll miss it when it’s torn down and replaced by something up to date.

  A ball bounced off my foot.

  “Heads up, Hank!”

  “Okay, I’m awake!” I walked over and picked up the ball. Moose Greer waved a glove at me, motioning for the throw. He was playing catch with Toby King, an obnoxious little chirper who covered sports for a local television station. King was a Personality, from his blow-dried hair to the soles of his Adidas. In between, he was wearing a shirt with the logo of the Argonaut football team, a sweater supplied by a local tennis tournament, and a jacket compliments of Super Bowl XVII. I wondered where he got his underwear, but not enough to do any intimate research.

  “Yo, King! Who said you could use my glove?”

  “Sorry, Sultan. Do you have plans for it in the next ten minutes? Maybe you’re going to take some ground balls? I’d pay to see that.”

  “You just take good care of it, midget.”

  King saluted him, laughing. I walked over to meet Steve Thorson, who was just coming off the field.

  “Got a minute?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m doing a piece on post-season pressure.”

  “Sure. Let’s do it inside.”

  I feared I was going to get the wise-veteran song and dance when all I wanted was a couple of quotes. But at least I’d caught him in a good mood. Some days he won’t talk at all.

  I followed him into the clubhouse, which is nothing like the image most people have of a locker room. There aren’t even any lockers. Each player has a wooden cubicle about three feet wide, with hooks for his clothes and shelves for his hair drier, jock-itch powder, cologne, and other necessities of the sporting life.

  You can tell a lot about a player by his locker. Some are neat and bare. Others are crammed with junk. Some guys decorate their lockers with everything from lewd pin-ups to plaster statues of saints. Thorson is halfway in between. He had some extraneous stuff—a fishing rod, a football, a few boxes of fan mail. He’d also replaced his name in the slot on top of the cubicle with a hand-lettered sign reading “The Boss.”

  He sat in a director’s chair with his name on the back, a present from his wife, while I pulled up a stool from the next one over. I didn’t even have to ask the questions.

  “The playoffs and World Series are times that test the true strength of a man. Some rise to the pressure. Others get crushed by it. For me, it’s when I feel the most alive.”

  Anyone who hasn’t been there can’t know it, I bet.

  “If you’ve never been there before, you won’t know what can happen. That’s why it’s an adventure. Every player wonders, will I excel or will I fail? Will I be the hero or the goat? Will my winter be long and cold or a time to remember happy things?”

  Will I get a mess of new endorsements and bonuses?

  I shouldn’t be cynical. He was giving me good stuff. We talked, he talked, for twenty minutes. Just before we wrapped up I remembered the notebook I’d promised Jake for Sunday.

  “One more thing. What’s the situation with Sam Craven?”

  His face closed right up.

  “There is no situation. We’re through.”

  “Your contract with him isn’t up, is it?”

  “He’s fired. I’ve got someone else. End of comment.”

  “Who’s your new agent?”

  “End of comment. Period. That’s it. None of your business. The interview is over.”

  I opened my mouth to speak.

  “Go away,” he said. I went.

  I ran into Archie—Mark—Griffin in the hall with Flakey Patterson.

  “Kate, this is great. You’ve got to see this.”

  Griffin handed me a piece of paper. It looked like a press release, except it was hand-printed. At the top of the page was a rubber-stamped impression of the logo Flakey had designed for himself: a flamingo standing on its right leg, clutching a baseball in its left claw. The heading was in red.

  “FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: PATTERSON VOWS TO WIN.”

  “What now, Flakey?”

  He smiled enigmatically and made the child’s sign of silence, locking his lips and throwing away an imaginary key. I went back to his release.

  “Phil Patterson, the left-handed genius of the Toronto Titans pitching staff, has taken dramatic action to ensure the team’s clinching of the American League Eastern Division Championship.

  “He has vowed to keep silent and maintain a partial fast until the crown is won. He will consume nothing but Gatorade, which he needs to balance electrolytes in his body.

  “In a statement released yesterday, Patterson said, ‘There is a sinister plot to keep the Titans from our destiny, and it is time for the lefthanders to take charge. Behind my inspirational leadership, the Toronto Titans will not be left behind. We will be left on top.’

  “In addition to his usual arsenal of magic pitches and mind-boggling mantras, Patterson has received a powerful talisman from a faithful fan.

  “‘Although I am opposed to maiming of animals for human folly, I am proud to carry this amulet,’ he said. ‘It is the left hind foot of a rare and holy Himalayan hare, dead of natural causes after a long life as the companion of a Buddhist monk. I will go nowhere without it.’

  “After the Titans clinch their division, Patterson will break his fast with imported champagne.”

  “Nice, Flakey, really nice,” I said, folding the paper and slipping it into my pocket. “I’ll use this in my notebook.”

  He made a steeple of his fingers and bowed.

  Chapter 5

  The press floor was a circus. Every two-bit newspaper and radio station in Ontario had someone covering the last week of the season. Winners attract attention, and the Titans had become the home team for an entire province, even the country. Major papers from Halifax to Vancouver were phoning in requests for credentials. The big-shot baseball writers from the States were starting to arrive. It was the only pennant race left in the league. The Oakland A’s had won the Western Division Championship the previous week.

  I wolfed down some lasagna and salad with a couple of reporters from Ottawa and a runner for the NBC television crew, then escaped to the relative peace of the press box. There was permanent space assigned to each of the regulars in the front row. Mine was right behind home plate, with Moose Greer t
o my left and Bill Sanderson from the World on my right.

  The stadium was buzzing well before game time. The corporate boxes just below me were full of high rollers eating cold cuts and drinking Scotch. In the stands the common folk were eating bad hot dogs, drinking flat beer and having at least as much fun.

  The festive mood lasted until the second pitch of the game, a home run for the Red Sox leadoff hitter. There were enough Boston fans in the park to raise a little ruckus, a joyful and gloating noise. The Red Sox were out of the race, but it didn’t stop them from wanting to be spoilers.

  Things never got better that chilly night. The Red Sox had a 4–0 lead by the time the Titans came to bat (and went down in order). Doc Dudley, the Titan starter, was gone by the third. The usually reliable fielders made three errors. To make things worse, the out-of-town scoreboard showed that the Yankees were beating the Indians. I began writing my story for the first edition, keeping one eye on the game. Watching them blow it made me bad-tempered.

  So did writing the first-edition story. On Friday’s early deadline it had to be in as soon as the game was over, so there was no chance for analysis, no telling what plays will be key. So I stuck to descriptions of how each team had scored their runs. Some hacks write that kind of stuff for a living, but it’s nothing but space filler for me, to be replaced later by something with more colour and bite.

  When the last out was made—Sultan Sanchez’s third strikeout of the game with men on base—I sent the story to the home computer over the phone and checked to make sure it had arrived intact. I promised the night editor my next story, with quotes, by midnight.

  That only gave me an hour, but when I got to the clubhouse it was locked. Angry reporters were arguing with the security guard, an amiable retiree who took the abuse stolidly.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It seems that Mr. O’Brien is giving one of his fatherly pep talks,” said Toby King. “The team is evidently in need of inspiration, so we’re shut out.”