A black guy in chinos and a Lacoste shirt came over, with his hand out. He was one of the people to whom she’d been introduced when she first arrived, but at this point, that was all a blur.
“I’m Jeremiah,” he said. “Media relations. We met earlier.”
Right. “Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’ve been introduced to so many people today that I’m having a little trouble remembering names.”
“Understandable,” he said, and gestured towards a younger white guy wearing beige cargo pants and a Retrievers T-shirt. “This is Paul, my intern.”
“Hi,” Paul said, seeming to think that he was being quite covert about checking her out—except for the part where it was hard to miss.
Jeremiah had an ex-jock build, whereas Paul had unkempt brown hair and glasses, and looked like a college guy who probably never did anything more athletic than play the occasional intramural Frisbee game with a beer in his free hand.
“We should sit down when you can, to talk about our overall approach, your social media presence, and any concerns you have,” Jeremiah said.
This probably wasn’t going to be the right time to say that her primary goal on social media was to keep as low a profile as possible. “My mother might want to join us for that,” she said.
“We’ve actually already met with your mother,” he said, very blandly.
“Were you bowled over by her uncontrollable excitement?” Jill asked.
Jeremiah smiled, without elaborating.
That was a big no.
“At least one of us is always going to be with you, when you’re interacting with fans,” he said. “We’re hoping to keep things from getting out of hand.”
“I’m supposed to sign autographs, right?” she said.
Jeremiah looked puzzled. “Do you mind signing?”
“No,” she said quickly. “But, that’s a lot of people over there, and—well, the game starts pretty soon.”
Jeremiah nodded. “Got it. Don’t worry about it. Just sign until one of us intercedes, so that you can get to where you need to be. You can let us know when to step in.”
Jesus, she had handlers now. What was next, an actual entourage?
Most of the kids in the stands seemed to be extremely excited to see her, but others were only chirping mindlessly for her to give them a ball. Which made her flash on being at a Pawtucket Red Sox game with her father, when she was about seven, and him giving her a “Don’t be that kid” speech, since he wasn’t a fan of what he called “ball grubbing.”
Over the years, she had been at minor league games where she saw quite a few children—and some adults—eagerly amassing a stack of baseballs, most of which she assumed they never looked at again, once they brought them home. Her father had always said that getting a ball in the stands should be special, and the one she kept on her desk at home was a foul ball he’d snagged one-handed for her at Fenway Park once, when she was maybe ten years old.
Although, of course, she also had a milk crate full of baseballs from important games she’d pitched over the years, starting in Little League, to AAU, to high school and the local travel teams, which she’d saved and carefully marked, if she’d pitched a no-hitter or had an unusually high number of strikeouts or something. She had actually thrown two perfect games in her life—one in Little League, and one in AAU—although several others had been spoiled by things like errors, or passed balls on strikeouts, with the batter ending up safe at first. Which, even in Little League, was a pretty freakish achievement, so she was going to have to keep those two baseballs as nice amateur memories, because a pitcher throwing a perfect game in the pros was considerably less likely than getting struck by lightning. No-hitters weren’t exactly common, either, but perfect games—twenty-seven up, twenty-seven down, not a single mistake—were kind of the Holy Grail of pitching. In fact, as far as she knew, in the entire history of Major League Baseball, it had only happened a couple of dozen times, out of more than two hundred thousand games. It happened even less frequently in the minors.
When she went over to the stands, too many of the people wanted autographs and selfies, and since the latter was entirely not her thing, she had to remind herself to smile graciously and—with luck—convincingly. There were also professional photographers and videographers all over the place, but she did her best not to let them make her feel self-conscious—even when they were right on top of her.
Some of the fans were pushing and shoving, which made a few security guards move closer, and she was aware that Jeremiah and Paul had, too. People were probably only being enthusiastic—but, it was disturbing, especially when adults elbowed children out of the way—or when their damn hands flailed out violently in her direction, and came close to hitting her.
“Game time, everyone, sorry,” Jeremiah said, and then he deftly guided her away.
She was probably supposed to be embracing this fame thing—but, the whole scene had made her dizzy, and it was hard to catch her breath. Christ, was she really going have to deal with this kind of thing for the rest of her life? Was there anything smart about doing that? Especially, on purpose.
“We’re going to work on some strategies,” Jeremiah said, watching her. “Figure out a sort of hit-and-run technique, so you can have more control.”
She nodded. “Yes, that would be good. Thank you.”
The dugout felt like a haven, albeit one filled with strangers. But, she had barely stepped inside, when it was time to turn around and line up on the first base side for the national anthem.
She took her cap off, and gripped her father’s dog tag with her right hand, holding it over her heart. Paying respect to the flag, and all that it meant, was not a challenge for her—ever. Once the performance was over—the singer wasn’t half bad, although he was shaky on the high notes—she gave the dog tag one last squeeze, and then put it back inside the compression shirt she was wearing under her jersey.
Most of the guys who weren’t playing were already standing on the top step of the dugout, leaning against the railing, but she didn’t feel quite ready to do that yet, and picked a spot in the middle of the bench instead, which wasn’t blatantly isolated, but wasn’t really close to anyone else, either.
Of course, now that she was sitting down, she wanted some Gatorade, but felt shy about getting up to help herself to a cup from the big orange dispenser. So, she stayed where she was, trying to look relaxed. Which would have been easier, if she hadn’t left her sunglasses inside.
There was a baseball game going on. She could watch it. Except that she was so tense that it was hard to focus.
A small white plastic bucket full of bubble gum was resting on the concrete shelf above the bench, and even though she wasn’t a gum chewer, she helped herself to a couple of pieces. She could blow some bubbles, maybe. But, for now, she just held the pieces in her hand, finding even the decision about whether to unwrap them kind of overwhelming.
After a few minutes—there seemed to be at least one runner on base, although she wasn’t sure how he had gotten there—someone sat down about a foot away from her. She looked over to see Sofia, the trainer. She was probably in her late twenties, and at least ten inches shorter than Jill was, with short black hair, and a body type that was somewhere between athletic and chunky.
“Oh,” Jill said, and shoved the gum into one of her back pockets. “Are you my designated friend?”
Sofia scowled. “I am an extremely competent trainer. I hate it that they hired me because I’m a woman.”
That was reasonable. “I hate it that there’s all this fuss about me being a woman, when I really just want to go and”—she gestured towards the visiting team’s dugout—“strike all of the sons of bitches out.”
“Can you strike all of the sons of bitches out?” Sofia asked, sounding more curious than anything else.
Well, that was the crux of the entire matter, wasn’t it. “I’m pretty sure I can strike some of them out,” Jill said. “But, I think there’s also probably going to be a considerable learning curve.”
Now, Sofia looked at her with what appeared to be genuine interest. “Well, okay,” she said, and then turned her attention to the field.
They watched the rest of the inning in friendly silence, and then, as the team came off the field, Sofia got up to meet the starting pitcher at the other end of the dugout. The energy in the dugout was more of a “Don’t worry, we’ll get ’em back” mood, than an “All right!” celebratory one.
So, she checked the scoreboard, and saw that they were down 2–0. She had no idea how that had happened, but it was only the first, and two runs was no big deal.
The center fielder sat down near her, setting his glove on the bench with a thump. He was quite good-looking, in a sleek, polished way, with black hair and improbably gorgeous teeth. He nodded at her, before gulping down some Gatorade.
Okay, she would be brave, and try to engage him in conversation. He was her teammate, right? “Hola!” she said.
He grinned at her with those beautiful teeth. “90272,” he said.
She looked at him blankly.
“I’m from the Palisades,” he said.
Which meant absolutely nothing to her.
“California,” he said.
Well, it wasn’t as though there weren’t plenty of people in California who spoke Spanish. “Okay,” she said. “Hello, then.”
He grinned again. “Hi, I’m Hector.” He indicated the cooler. “May I get you some Gatorade?”
She would love some—but, she could certainly pour it herself. “No, thanks, I’m fine,” she said. There would be few things more awkward than having guys on the team wait on her.
“Well, let me know,” he said, and focused out at the field.
At the next half inning, the pitching coach, Sawyer, walked down to the section of the bench where she was sitting. So far, she hadn’t done anything more than say hello to him, but she remembered his being a journeyman middle reliever in the big leagues for quite a few years. Now, he was bald, in his late forties, and appeared to have gimpy knees.
“Are you watching their hitters?” he asked.
It hadn’t even occurred to her to do that—which was embarrassing. Especially since she was starting tomorrow, God help her. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t.”
He frowned. “I shouldn’t have to tell you to do it. You should want to.”
She had now officially established herself as someone who wasn’t willing to do the work. She nodded. “I apologize. I think I’m kind of—disoriented.” She looked at him uncertainly. “Should I be charting pitches?” Which starters usually did the day before their next outing—partially as a way to learn the other team’s tendencies at the plate, but also to help stay focused. Writing down what every pitch was, where it was—and what the outcome was. Sometimes, they charted from the stands, and sometimes, from the dugout.
“Not tonight,” he said. “Suarez is doing it. Where you’re concerned, the routine is all fu—screwed up. So, we’ll just have to roll with things.”
About which, the man did not sound happy.
She felt like a tourist in a staggeringly foreign country. “I really am sorry, sir, but where would be the best place for me to be?” she asked.
For the first time, he looked more sympathetic than irritated. “It’s still baseball, Cafferty,” he said. “And we’re supposed to treat you like—look, you have to tune out all of the static. Focus on baseball.”
That might be the best advice she got all season—from anyone. Possibly the best advice she would get in her entire career.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll do that, sir.”
She located an open section and ventured up to the dugout railing, which was padded, and therefore, a nice place to lean. The guys on either side of her nodded, and she nodded back. Unfortunately, when people in the stands saw her, a bunch of them started yelling her name and taking pictures and all, and she really wanted to go back to the comparative safety of the bench.
“Don’t do that,” a guy she’d heard people call Nathan, who was further down the railing, said. “They’ll lose interest soon enough.”
“Or, at least, they’ll lose their voices,” someone else said, and most of them laughed.
There were a lot of “Can I have a ball?” and “Jill, throw me a ball!” requests being shouted in her direction, and she shrugged apologetically at them, without turning all of the way around. They actually weren’t supposed to toss baseballs into the stands during the game, which made it easier to refuse.
“You’re a mean girl,” Owen said, also along the railing.
She was going to tell him to shut up—except, that remark had been kind of funny, so she shrugged at him, too.
The guy to her left nodded to her, and she returned the nod. He was about six-four and appeared to be biracial, with the thick sort of lower body that usually indicated a power pitcher.
“Pitcher?” she asked.
He nodded again, and held out his hand. “I’m Jonesy.”
“Jill,” she said, and shook it.
“Do my best to remember that,” he said, and then winked at her. “Although the guys will probably call you Caffy or Jilly or something.”
Since baseball nicknames were often pretty basic. The truly delightful names, like a guy who had once played in the Red Sox farm system who had been known as “Pork Chop” Pough, weren’t nearly common enough. That had been her father’s all-time favorite baseball name, although he’d liked Harry “The Hat” Walker, too. But, she could live with “Caffy,” since it was almost certainly better than some of the other likely possibilities.
If he was a bullpen guy, he would be down there already, unless— “Closer or starter?” she asked.
“Starter,” he said. “I went last night.”
Good, that meant she could maybe pick his brain.
“Can’t believe they’re making you pitch tomorrow,” he said. “It’s like throwing a baby into the water to see if it can swim.”
She didn’t entirely disagree, but she shrugged.
“It’s probably better than Wednesday, though,” he said. “That’s getaway night, and we’d be stuck waiting for you to finish up with ESPN and all.”
She couldn’t hear any rancor in his voice—probably because he was just stating the simple, accurate truth.
The other downside to pitching on Wednesday, it occurred to her, would have been a rushed, possibly tearful, farewell to her family—while the team sat around waiting for her to get on the bus already.
“How are they?” she asked, indicating the hitter at the plate, but meaning the entire team.
He glanced over. “What have you picked up?”
She could stutter and fumble—or be honest. “Not much,” she said. “I was too busy being incapacitated by anxiety.”
He was either going to laugh—or give her an odd look, and she was relieved when he went with the former. “That kid Scott,” he gestured towards left field, “kept saying that you weren’t really a diva princess, and that you were pretty fun in Pittsburgh—but, not too many of us were buying it.”
She had a terrible feeling that either Diva or Princess were potential nicknames. So, maybe she should redirect, although this was going to be based more on the rhythm of the game, than any savvy observations. “They’re swinging at a lot of first pitches,” she said.
“You got that right. That kid”—Jonesy waved vaguely at the mound—“has had trouble finding the plate all night, and they’re still swinging.” He shook his head. “Every pitcher in the world is lucky that hitters are as dumb as rocks.”
Well, yeah, that was pretty much the gospel, among pitchers.
“No idea what you’ve really got,” he said. “But, except for one or two guys, you can be pretty far off the black, and they’ll still bite at it.”
It was a hell of a lot easier to get hitters out, if they were helping with the process. “Thanks,” she said.
Jonesy shrugged. “Mother’ll take good care of you. That guy was born to sit behind the dish. Too bad he can’t hit worth a damn.”
For Marcus’s sake, she hoped that that wasn’t true.
She spent the next few innings at the railing, with Jonesy making the occasional “Walked right up the ladder with that guy” or “That one doesn’t like you coming inside” remarks, all of which she carefully filed away.
The third baseman on her team, some guy named Geoff, hit a solo shot in the fifth, and she high-fived him along with everyone else. It was his first home run as a pro, and he was very excited. So much so that he high-fived her right back without missing a beat.
She finally located her mother and Theo sitting in two box seats behind home plate, when she turned around to look at the crowded stands between innings. Theo was using his phone, of course, but he gave her a thumbs-up, and nudged her mother, who waved. She tipped her cap ever so slightly at them, and then went back to leaning against the railing.
They were losing, eight to three, but no one seemed to be terribly devastated about it, except for that night’s starting pitcher, who had left the game during the fourth, and returned from the clubhouse in the seventh. He was sitting by himself, unhappily expressionless, with a big ice pack strapped to his shoulder.
Hector, who was lounging against the railing on her right side, shook his head. “I may not speak Spanish,” he said, “but most of our gardeners are Japanese, so at least I can say a few things to that poor guy.”
She glanced back at the miserable pitcher, who was staring straight ahead at nothing. “Can you teach me a couple of phrases? And what’s his name?”
“Shosuke,” Hector said. “I would have figured he would know some English, but he can barely say hello.”
So, he was probably feeling even more lost and off-kilter than she was. Especially after giving up six runs, in what was probably his first start. And he looked really young, too. “That must be”—She stopped. “You have multiple gardeners?”
Hector nodded cheerfully.
So, he came from extreme wealth—in a zip code that must be near the famous 90210. “That explains the fabulous dental work,” she said.
Hector nodded again, and smiled a very toothy smile.
“Anyway,” she said. “About Shosuke?”
“I don’t know much,” he said, “but I can teach you a couple of things. Kon’nichiwa is hello.”
She pronounced the word quietly to herself a few times, to try and commit it to memory.
“And sayonara is good-bye,” he said.
That one, she already knew.
“Arigatō is ‘thank you,’” he said. “But, sometimes they say dōmo arigatō, which could be for emphasis? I’m not sure.”
She repeated those words, too.
“And, well, that’s about it, sorry,” Hector said. “Mother Grimes”—he gestured towards Marcus, who was down at the far end of the dugout, conferring with a relief pitcher, who had come into the game the inning before—“has been using some apps to try and learn enough to communicate with the guy. So, he’ll probably end up being the expert around here.”
Somehow, that didn’t surprise her at all.
When the half inning was over, and they had all gone back out to the field for the top of the eighth, she moved to sit near Shosuke, who was quite skinny, and looked to be maybe twenty years old.
“Kon’nichiwa,” she said, tentatively.
His eyes lit up, and he rattled off a couple of rapid sentences.
She felt guilty about having to shake her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Japanese. I just—dōmo arigatō? And—sayonara?” She wouldn’t insult him by saying words like sushi and teriyaki.
He made a small bow in her direction. “Hel-lo,” he said, sounding very shy.
“Kon’nichiwa,” she said again.
He smiled. “Konbanwa,” he said, and pointed up at the sky.
So, that meant—night? Or maybe—good night? Or—the sky itself? She would have to look it up later—or ask Marcus. “Konbanwa,” she said, doing her best to mimic his pronunciation perfectly.
He nodded, and bowed again.
She held up a baseball glove, then raised her hands questioningly.
“Gurōbu,” he said.
She repeated that, and then said, “Glove,” which he repeated, with enough confidence to make her assume that it was a word he already knew.
By the end of the inning, they had moved up to the railing, so she could watch the hitters, and gone through “baseball,” “pitcher,” “foul ball,” “ground out” and “strikeout.” She wasn’t sure if she would remember any of the words, but he looked more at ease, and ironically enough, she felt as though she was really communicating with one of her teammates—even though they spoke different languages.
By the end of the game, almost the whole team was up at the railing, rooting for an unlikely comeback, but they ended up losing nine to six.
Jeremiah intercepted her as she was heading towards the clubhouse and her dressing room, and she ended up doing several brief stand-up interviews on the field, with local news affiliates, and a few national networks. A group of fans was clustered by the edge of the stands, and she signed at least fifty autographs before making her way down the tunnel.
It was frustrating that she didn’t have a shower yet, but since she hadn’t played, she could get away without taking one until she got to the motel. But, she did stop by the employee ladies’ room to wash up, before going to her dressing room to change. There was a small laundry bag neatly folded on her chair, which she assumed had been left by one of the clubbies. She wasn’t sure what to put in there, so she decided to leave them only her uniform, her sanitary socks, and her stirrup socks. She could hand-wash everything else easily enough in the motel sink. She also didn’t know what gear she could safely leave behind in her dressing room, but decided to bring everything but her turf shoes with her.
She hadn’t been able to look at either of her phones for hours, and dozens of messages had come in, most of which she ignored—especially the six or eight from just one agent, a very smarmy and persistent guy named Aaron Marshak, who had been trying to land her for about two years now. He had even once—rather creepily—sent flowers to her mother on Valentine’s Day, with the apparent assumption that the entire family would be charmed by his doing so.
Since it would only take a few minutes, she went ahead and sent quick texts back to people like Lauren and Greg and her relatives.
There was a hesitant knock on the door, and she opened it to find Terence, the clubbie with all of the tattoos.
“You all set?” he asked. “You need anything?”
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’m supposed to put my uniform in the bag, right?”
“Yeah. Put everything in there, after you hook it on to this laundry loop,” he said, handing her a white cloth contraption. “We mark the shirts and all with your number, to make sure you get back the right stuff.” He glanced in her locker. “Where are your cleats?”
She pointed to her gear bag.
“You need to leave those,” he said. “Nicky and I clean them.”
God, they had a terrible job.
“Stinks that you don’t have a shower yet,” Terence said. “But, there was a problem with the pipes. They’re supposed to have guys coming in here tonight, to work overtime on it.”
She nodded.
“There’s a tailor showing up tomorrow, too,” he said. “For, you know, alterations, I guess.”
She hoped it would be someone who worked quickly, since she really didn’t want to pitch in a baggy uniform. “I’d maybe like to go down one size in the pants,” she said. “If you have any smaller ones?”
He nodded. “You bet. We’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks,” she said. “And maybe tomorrow, you can walk me through how the dues work, and stuff like that.”
“Sure thing,” he said. “We have, um, you know, a post-game spread, if you’re hungry—but, I told Mr. Brayton I’d bring you up to see him right now. Since he’s with your family.”
In which case, details could wait. “That would be great, thank you,” she said.
Because, the truth was, she was not only very tired and ready to go crash out at the motel, but she could really use a hug.