Once Terence brought her upstairs, she only got to say a fast hello to her mother and Theo before she was introduced to another series of strangers—including the friendly looking retired couple who were going to serve as her host family. After that, she had to do a few more interviews with print and online reporters, and by the time they were able to leave the ballpark, it was so late that the only place they could find that was still open was an all-night diner.
Her father had always ordered whatever a diner was offering as the daily special, and she had gotten into the habit, too. Which, tonight, meant meatloaf with mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes, carrots and peas, fresh cornbread, and Jell-O or pudding for dessert. All she had to do was add a dinner salad and a glass of milk, and she was reasonably good to go. Also, Theo gave her his coleslaw, and her mother shared some of the roast turkey from her open-faced sandwich.
“You think they’re ever just going to let you, you know, play baseball?” Theo asked.
It didn’t seem that way, did it? Jill shrugged. “They have to give me some space tomorrow. You can’t mess with someone when they’re pitching.” Although she had already been warned that an MLB camera crew was going to be following her around all day for a documentary or some damn thing.
“They’re fairly convincing about wanting you to succeed,” her mother said. “But, I guess it’s going to take a little while for them to figure out how to do that.”
And no, her mother had not been happy about the lack of a working shower or bathroom in her changing room.
When they got to the motel, she was tired enough to want to flop facedown onto the bed, without even changing into a sleeping T-shirt or anything. But, she took a shower, and hand-washed her compression shorts and shirt and underwear, first. Then, she let herself fall onto her bed, already half-asleep, barely managing to grunt her assent when her mother asked if it would be okay if she read for a while before turning out the light.
A light she never noticed, once she closed her eyes, and for all she knew, her mother read until dawn.
In the morning, they had breakfast at a nearby Denny’s, before driving over to the stadium, where she was going to have a fitting with the tailor at eleven-thirty.
Once the word had got out that she would be starting that night, they began to get messages from people who were going to drive up for the game, including her father’s sister and husband, and their family friend Keith, who had been deployed with her father, and was planning to show up with people from their National Guard unit. Her maternal grandmother lived in Chicago, but was going to fly in to see her play later in the season, maybe when the team went to play Staten Island or Brooklyn in New York City, and her paternal grandparents, who had retired to Arizona, had similar plans. Greg immediately offered to drive Lauren and some of their other friends up, but since she knew it would mean Lauren would have to miss physical therapy, and that she wouldn’t be able to spend any time with them at all, she asked if they could come when the team played the Connecticut Tigers or the Lowell Spinners, later in the season.
Having so many people in the stands was going to add some pressure, but it would also be nice to have extra support. Among other things, the damn game was going to be televised on ESPN—which ranked much higher on the pressure scale.
Her dressing room was still a work in progress, but when she walked in, a plumber and a couple of carpenters were in the shower area, toiling away.
“A few more hours,” one of them said. “Should be done by then.”
She nodded, gathering up the uniforms and issued gear in her locker to take to her fitting session. No one seemed to know where to do it, and finally, she ended up in a small conference room, where someone or other pushed the table against the wall, to make more room.
The tailor was a burly older man, who was unshaven and had an unlit cigar in his mouth. He was introduced as Russo, with no further elaboration, so she decided to fall back on her traditional strategy, and call him “sir.” He mumbled to himself, as he pinned and taped various seams in place, starting with the home and road uniforms. For a man with thick hands, he had a deft touch, pausing every so often to say “Throw” or “Field,” and she would pantomime the motions, and he would reposition some of the pins, to adjust the fit.
And she possibly did a triple take, when she realized that he was using the cigar as a pin cushion.
Since the Hall of Fame was going to whisk away tonight’s jersey, as soon as she took it off, Nicky brought out an extra one for him to alter.
“How ’bout the fleeces and workout clothes?” Russo asked. “And the BP jersey?”
She hesitated, not wanting him to have to do crazy amounts of work.
“Spit it out, girlie,” he said.
“The hoodie’s fine,” she said. “But, maybe the fleece could be a little more fitted. Mostly, people won’t see the BP jersey, but maybe we could do one of the T-shirts, and those incredibly baggy shorts? I look like a yahoo in them.”
He lifted a scruffy eyebrow. “We?”
“You,” she said. “Sir.”
He nodded, and motioned for her to put on the workout clothes. So, she stepped behind the open door to a storage closet they were using as a changing room.
“Not exactly one of those skirts who’s gonna be walking ’round in a sports bra all day,” he said.
No, it wasn’t who she was. She might put on a tank top, now and then, when it was hot, maybe, but she had always erred on the side of being reserved. She had private moments of being vain about her body—she was, after all, pretty damn fit—but, that didn’t necessarily mean that she wanted to waltz around for one and all to see. “No, sir,” she said. “I think that’s a safe assumption on your part.”
“Ain’t no harm in it, but I don’t think it’s no more respectful than players goin’ shirtless on the field,” he said. “The ballfield’s a temple.”
She was a charter member of the Church of Baseball herself. “Yes, sir,” she said. “It is.”
Somewhat to her surprise, he smiled. “You got those military kid manners, don’t you?”
She never thought of herself as being a “military kid”—her father had had an active business restoring old houses, and only served in the Guard part-time—but, in certain ways, it was true. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I probably do.”
“I’m really sorry about your dad,” he said.
She nodded. “Thank you, sir. It’s—well, we never stop missing him.”
“He’d be mighty proud of you,” Russo said, around a mouthful of straight pins, as he worked on the shorts.
“I hope so, sir,” she said. Assumed so—but, at some level, it was all just theory now. “My mother says a lot of people from his unit are driving up tonight.”
Russo nodded. “Good for them. Doesn’t surprise me none, though. Did some time in the service myself, back in the day.”
Which didn’t surprise her. People in the military had a certain way of holding themselves, even years later.
He studied her T-shirt. “You want ’em sleeveless, or capped sleeves?”
She had no idea. “What do you think?” she asked.
“You got pretty nice guns,” he said. “But, capped’ll be aces for you.”
“Okay, then. Rock on, sir,” she said.
He didn’t seem to know what to make of that, but began measuring and pinning the sleeves.
“Are you coming to the game tonight, Mr. Russo?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Well, I don’t rightly know. Have to admit, the wife and me don’t mosey on out to the yard too much.”
There was something very charming about his rough edges. “I’d like it, if you came,” she said. “Could I ask them to put aside a couple of tickets for you?”
“Think we could probably spring for ’em,” he said.
True, minor league prices weren’t exactly through the roof, but— “I’d rather have them be comps from me,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, and half-smiled. “Give me a chance to see how the uniform hangs.”
As good a reason as any.
Once the fittings were finished, she went down to her dressing room—and the work crew left long enough for her to gather up a BP cap and non-gamer glove, and change into the right clothes for team stretch. After which, Jeremiah and his intern—whatever his name was—brought her down to the GM’s office, where the MLB documentary team was waiting. Having two cameramen, a producer, and a stand-up reporter follow her around was probably a necessary evil—and it wasn’t as though she had been given the option to decline, so she nodded and smiled as though she thought it was a great idea.
They were harder to ignore during PFP—Pitchers’ Fielding Practice—because she was awkward and clumsy on a few of the plays, and got more than one coaching criticism of her footwork and approach to the ball. A downside of teaching herself how to do so many aspects of baseball was that she had picked up some bad habits.
She heard one of the other pitchers say, “Man, she sucks,” and someone else—Jonesy, maybe?—said, “Give it a rest already.” She could only hope that the directional microphones weren’t sensitive enough to have picked that up.
She wasn’t sensitive enough for it to have bothered her, of course. She had barely even noticed.
When PFP was over, she was supposed to meet inside with Sawyer and Marcus about tonight’s game. The TV people started to follow them into the clubhouse, but Marcus raised his hand.
“I’m sorry, you have to leave my pitcher alone now,” he said. “We have game prep to do.”
The producer held up the media pass hanging from a lanyard around his neck. “We’re All-Access.”
“I appreciate that,” Marcus said, “but the clubhouse is closed to the media right now. We need to get our work done.”
“I’ll just shoot for a few minutes,” one of the cameramen said. “Then, we’ll get out of your hair.”
Marcus shook his head. “No. Take it up with media relations. My pitcher needs to focus.”
The MLB producer looked at her, as though she might overrule him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t argue with my catcher.”
So, they were able to escape into the clubhouse, unescorted.
“Thank you, Mother,” she said—and meant it.
He frowned. “I really don’t like being called ‘Mother.’”
“What do you prefer?” she asked.
“Marcus,” he said.
Duly noted. “Thank you for running interference, Marcus,” she said.
He waved that off. “Come on, we’ll pull some chairs over to your locker.”
Except for Nicky, who was cleaning someone’s cleats, the room was deserted, since BP had started and everyone else was out on the field.
Overnight, she had been set up with a locker—complete with a “Cafferty” nameplate—three down from Marcus, with Shosuke on her left and a pitcher named Suarez on her right.
The clubbies were earning their tip money, because they had put new toiletries on the top shelf, and tonight’s game jersey was already hanging up. She glanced at it, and saw that Russo was a speedy seamstress—or whatever the male form of the word was—because it had already been altered with neat, gently curved seams.
She would do most of her changing in her dressing room, but there was no reason why she couldn’t finish up with the top layers in here. If any of the guys had a problem with that, so be it.
Sawyer turned out to be a stats guy, and had detailed notes and spray charts for her to examine, as well as videos of hitters on his iPad.
“It’s so early in the season that we don’t have much information yet, but this is a start,” he said.
It looked comprehensive to her—which was another reminder of how little she knew.
“I haven’t gotten to see you throw yet,” Sawyer said. “You feel good about your two-seamer and your four-seamer?”
Her fastballs. She nodded, since that seemed to be the right answer.
“We’re going to think long-term, and build you up, brick by brick. So, I don’t want to see anything but fastballs in the first inning,” he said. “Maybe the entire outing.”
She tried not to look utterly appalled.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I know you work off the change and the hook, but we’re starting a process here, you get what I’m saying?”
She wasn’t at all on board with this, but nodding still felt like the smartest option.
“This isn’t high school,” he said. “You won’t be overmatching anyone, sitting around eighty-nine, ninety-one. What I’m looking for is movement, and how you change speeds.”
She nodded yet again—since it was the only thing she seemed to know how to do.
Marcus mostly listened, and took notes on his iPad, while Sawyer talked about pitching mostly being about real estate, wherein all that really mattered was location, location, and more location.
“If you’ve got command, you don’t need anything else,” Sawyer said. “Capisce?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.”
When the strategy session was over and Sawyer went off to the coaches’ communal office, she looked at Marcus.
“Is this really a good idea?” she asked. “I feel like I’m going to be going out there with my hands tied.”
“We’ll move the ball around, and switch up the two and the four, so we can throw off their timing,” he said. “And then, every inning, we’ll reevaluate. But, he’s right—it’ll give him the purest view of your pitching, and he’ll know where we need to work the most.”
Going on national television without her two best weapons made her feel sick with despair, but yes, in the big picture, it probably made sense. It was still hard not to be afraid that her first matchup with professional hitters, using a pedestrian set of fastballs, could lead to disaster.
Terence was putting out the pre-game spread now, which looked like fruit, a big cooler filled with bottles of water and Gatorade, potato chips, granola bars, several loaves of bread, and other stuff. She was going to need to eat at some point—for the fuel—but, she wasn’t hungry.
“What would you usually be doing, a few hours before game time, on days you start?” Marcus asked. “Do you have a routine?”
“Sixth and seventh period, and then homework,” she said.
He laughed. “Right.” Then, he shook his head. “Why on earth didn’t you go to college? Be in a hard-core program, and work against solid DI hitters?”
A question that never became any easier to answer. “I didn’t think I was going to go in the third round,” she said. “I assumed someone would take me much later than that, and then I could just turn it down.”
He looked at her curiously. “You mean, you did it for the money?”
God, no. She shook her head. “Of course not. It seemed like—a window of opportunity, and I guess I’d rather find out if I’m any good sooner, rather than later.”
He nodded.
“What about you?” she asked. “I mean, I know you went to Vanderbilt. Did you like it?”
“Very much,” he said. “I’m supposed to start med school in the fall, so I’m just going to see how the summer goes.”
“Where?” she asked.
“Johns Hopkins,” he said. “I almost went with Duke, but changed my mind.”
Top schools, which was precisely what she would have expected, although she might not have guessed that he wanted to be a doctor. She could probably do regular college on an extended schedule, even if it meant only attending fall sessions, and maybe some online credits. But, medical school would be less flexible, especially the very best medical schools. “Will they let you defer?” she asked. “If you decide to—”
A guy she didn’t know—Vince, maybe?—opened the main door. “Last group’s about to go in the cage, Mother,” he said. “You’d better come out, if you want to hit.”
“On my way.” Marcus glanced at her as he stood up. “Take some time to do whatever it is that you need to do to focus. And be sure to eat something, and stay hydrated. Don’t let the adrenaline make you think it’ll be enough to carry you through the game. Some guys crash out for an hour or two, so go for it, if that works for you.”
“Mother” was such a good nickname for him, that it was a shame not to be able to use it.
When in doubt, it always made sense to spend some time checking her phones. She went down to her changing room, where the plumber was still working. So, she sat on the floor in the hall, and found dozens of texts on the business phone, most of them from people she either barely knew, or had never met—all of which she decided to ignore. On her private phone, there were mostly good luck messages, and she quickly sent texts back to a bunch of the people. Her mother had texted to let her know that she and Theo would be in the same seats at tonight’s game—which would make it much easier to find them, if she needed as much reassurance as she was afraid she might.
Since Lauren would be home from physical therapy—she still had to go three days a week—Jill texted her to ask if she was up for Skyping, and within seconds, Lauren had already initiated a call.
“Hey,” she said.
“Big night,” Lauren said. “Are you ready?”
Not so much. “I don’t think so,” Jill said. “They only want me to throw fastballs tonight. It’s like—I don’t know. One of those Food Network challenges, where you’re supposed to cook a great meal, but they only give you ridiculous ingredients.”
“They want you to win, though,” Lauren said, “right?”
Whoa, she hadn’t even thought of that. “What if they don’t?” she asked. “They could totally be setting me up to fail.”
Lauren looked dubious. “How likely is that?”
She didn’t know Sawyer at all—but, couldn’t imagine Marcus doing anything other than what he thought was best for his pitchers. “Yeah, you’re right,” Jill said. “It doesn’t matter so much if you win here, because they’re just trying to teach you how to play. But, God, I really don’t want to be awful on television.”
“You can’t let yourself think about that part,” Lauren said.
No, not if she wanted to succeed. Jill sighed. “Yeah, I know. How was PT?”
“Sitting here with my good friends Advil and ice,” Lauren said.
Status quo, then. “I’m sorry,” Jill said. “That stinks.”
“My left hip is getting stronger, they think. If I can just make it back to where I only use the cane, I’d be okay with that,” Lauren said. “I still have time, before orientation.”
Because she didn’t want to go off to Wesleyan in the wheelchair, if at all possible.
So, bitching about fastballs was pretty damn shortsighted, and—just maybe—selfish.
When they finally hung up, about twenty minutes later, she headed back to the clubhouse, since Marcus was right—she needed to make sure she ate something. What she really wanted was some yogurt, but the spread only had things like white bread, peanut butter, grape jelly, some bologna, sliced American cheese, condiments, oranges, and bananas. So, she went with Gatorade, peanut butter and jelly on a slice of bread that she folded in half, and a banana. She wasn’t even remotely hungry, but she managed to force it down—while the rest of the team pretty much swarmed the food table like locusts.
No one ever bothered a starting pitcher before a game, so she didn’t worry when none of them spoke to her. They were all too busy eating and checking their own phones, anyway.
She did say “Kon’nichiwa” to Shosuke, and introduced herself to her other neighbor, Suarez, whose first name turned out to be Javy, and whose English was rudimentary, and was really more Spanglish than anything else, but they could understand each other, and that was all that mattered.
The media was allowed in for a while, and they surrounded her locker with even more enthusiasm than the guys had attacked the pre-game spread. She tried very hard to be receptive—and not at all newsworthy.
It was a relief when she could escape down to the changing room, to start putting on her uniform. The workmen were gone, and the shower now appeared to be functional, but the lavatory and sink were still works in progress.
She dressed more carefully than she ever had for a game before, smoothing her socks in place, switching her red compression shirt for a dark blue one, and so on. Russo had done a beautiful job, and her uniform pants now fit, without being confining in any way. She fixed her hair last, making sure that the chignon was securely in place, and then putting on a little bit of mascara and lip gloss.
She was supposed to meet Sofia in the training room at six o’clock to get stretched out, and was startled to realize that she was about to be late. The afternoon had dragged, but now, time seemed to be moving all too quickly.
There were a few other players getting treatments—Louis was working on Dimitri’s lower back, Harvey Schwartzman was waiting to get his right ankle taped, and a backup outfielder named Nathan seemed to have a gimpy wrist. But, the atmosphere in the room was professional enough so that she didn’t mind lying on a table in her sports bra, while Sofia massaged and manipulated her left shoulder and arm.
“Excellent range of motion,” Sofia said.
Jill nodded, since she had spent many hours working on her flexibility.
After the stretching session, she pulled the compression shirt back on and went out to add her game jersey to the ensemble, tucking it in neatly and fastening her belt. She bounced a few times in her cleats, and then retied them, a bit more tightly.
Marcus was waiting near her locker, holding his catching gear. “Ready to head out?” he asked.
Jill nodded.
Game on.