Once the first live interview started, the GMs mostly held forth, while she sat there like a decorative plant, wearing a hat with a silly-looking dog on it. She started to slip it off her head, but Mr. Brayton looked alarmed, and she remembered that her presence here was very much about merchandising.
There was a lot of talk about the historical significance of the game, and she contributed the requisite “Yes, it was a very exciting evening” sorts of remarks when it seemed to be indicated.
“So,” the sports network host said heartily. “You had a few hiccups out there tonight, Jill.”
Really? That was his take on the game? “I was trying to heighten the drama,” she said. “Everyone likes a redemption story.”
“You have a reputation for excellent command,” he said. “What happened?”
Well, someone wasn’t a fan, was he? “Just one of those nights, I guess,” she said. “I’m hoping for better results next time.” Although, all things being equal, she could live with no hits and no runs, any day of the week.
“Do you think it’s possible that you’re simply not going to be able to compete at this level?” he asked.
If people were hate-watching this, he was giving them a lot of material. “It probably makes sense to try one or two more starts, before I throw in the towel,” she said.
“Yes, but—” he said.
“We’ll have to see what happens,” she said. Was it always going to be like this? Because it was very tiresome. “In the meantime, the team won, and that’s what matters in the end, right?”
Both GMs were already jumping in to defend the results of her—admittedly rocky—start, but it was a relief when the interview ended. Right after that, the tablecloth with the ESPN logo was removed, and replaced by one that featured MLB Network—and she had to go through the same song and dance again. And then again, with another network. And another. And another.
When the television interviews were finally over, there were still so many people waiting for autographs, that it was going to seem really rude if she did nothing but wave and disappear into the dugout.
She glanced at Jeremiah, who nodded, with one quick tap on his watch, to indicate that they would be on the clock. So, she walked over to the railing where a rambunctious crowd was holding things for her to sign, and taking photos with so many unexpected flashes that she could barely see well enough to be able to tell exactly where—or what—she was autographing.
“Hi,” she said. “Thanks for coming out tonight. We really appreciate it.”
Once again, it was too crowded for her to make it at all personal. Just swift encounters, where she signed her name, and added her uniform number—and then tried not to smear the fresh autographs when she handed the items back to the people who thrust them at her.
Off to one side, Jeremiah gave her a small “wrap it up” signal with his right hand.
“I’m sorry, but they need me downstairs,” she said to the still too-big crowd, and motioned towards a little clump of hesitant children. “So, could you all maybe let these guys through, before I have to go?”
Once she had signed about fifteen more autographs, Jeremiah began to usher her away to the dugout tunnel—and more interviews.
God, she was tired. And grimy. And starving.
But, once they were inside the makeshift media room, she was gracious and cheerful, and fielded questions for another forty-five minutes or so. For years, she had been annoyed when she saw athletes be abrupt and surly in post-game interviews—but now, she was starting to understand why it happened so often. In most cases, they were probably just too worn out to think clearly.
The shower in her dressing room finally was working, although the water temperature didn’t get past tepid. It was still nice to get cleaned up and put on regular clothes, and go find her mother and everyone.
There were lots of hugs, and handshakes, and solid claps on the back from the more gruff members of her father’s unit. Keith and one of the other guys had convinced a nearby Applebee’s to stay open much later than usual—and since the manager had put in four years in the Air Force, she was very pro-veteran, and her staff also seemed perfectly happy to work longer shifts for one night.
When they finally got back to the motel, it was very late, and she was nearly staggering. Her phones had an exhausting number of messages, and she ignored almost all of them—although the GIF Greg had sent of her spitting was pretty funny. Horrible, but funny.
Her mother must have been as tired as she was, because she turned out the light without reading first, which was pretty much unprecedented.
“Quite a night,” her mother said, as they lay in the two double beds, in the dark.
“There were a lot of people,” Jill said.
“There certainly were,” her mother agreed.
It was quiet for a moment.
“Want to hear a secret?” her mother asked.
For sure, because secrets were fun. Jill sat up partway. “Definitely, yeah.”
“I told your grandmother that, yes, the spitting was awful,” her mother said. “But, to be honest, it made me proud.”
Jill sat up all the way. “Did someone put something in your drink?”
“You looked like a baseball player,” her mother said. “You looked—it was suddenly so real. And—I was incredibly proud.”
She had known her mother, obviously, for her entire life—but, sometimes, she felt as though she didn’t know her at all. “Whoa, head trip,” Jill said. “So, you want me to keep spitting.”
“I want you never to do that again, ever in your life, for any reason,” her mother said without hesitating. “But, frankly, in that situation, it was quite cool.”
So, wonders did not, in fact, ever cease. “I sort of feel like we’re living in a really bizarre alternate dimension,” Jill said.
Her mother laughed. “Believe me, I do, too,” she said.
In the morning, they had continental breakfast in the wan little motel dining room. The food wasn’t anything special, but Jill had never been picky, and had no trouble at all filling up on muffins and cereal and orange juice and hot chocolate.
The plan was to check out, and then drive over to her host family’s house. Her mother wanted to make sure that she was settled in, before she and Theo drove back to Rhode Island. None of them really spoke, and Jill was already feeling homesick—and hoping like hell that she wasn’t going to cry.
It was a little white ranch house, with dark green shutters, and a small, well-kept yard. Mrs. Wilkins must have been waiting eagerly, because she came out to the front stoop to greet them before they had even gotten out of the car. She seemed to be an effusive sort, because she had a forceful embrace for each of them—and it was faintly embarrassing that they all flinched.
“Come in, come in,” Mrs. Wilkins said, using two hands to drag Jill’s gear bag out of the car—she was short, and quite round, with grey hair—and lugging it towards the house. “I have coffee and snacks waiting.”
Jill and Theo carried the other bags, while her mother brought in the groceries they had picked up at a nearby Hannaford supermarket—lots of Greek yogurt, apples, a few boxes of Chex cereal, and some Gatorade, among other things. Mrs. Wilkins bustled about, packing everything away in what appeared to be about thirty seconds, and then ushered them around the house.
“I’m so sorry my hubby isn’t here,” she said. “You just can’t get that man off the golf course!”
Jill and Theo and her mother all nodded and smiled. Which they did a lot during the next fifteen minutes, because Mrs. Wilkins was—chatty.
It was the sort of house that had lots of tchotchkes on tables and shelves, scented candles everywhere, and wall hangings and plaques with inspirational sayings—including words like “Love” and “Joy” and “Sunshine” and “Blessings”—stitched or painted on them. There were more than a few crosses and devotional items, too.
“They really love the Lord,” Theo whispered to her at one point.
Jill nodded. It certainly seemed that way.
After showing them the kitchen, the dining room, and a combination living room and den, Mrs. Wilkins led them downstairs to a finished basement, which had a bedroom with two twin beds, and a small bathroom—which included a shower. There was also a laundry room, and a room full of tools and supplies, which seemed to be used for woodworking and crafts. Then, she hustled them back up to the dining room, where tea, coffee, and homemade cookies were waiting. Delicious cookies, as it turned out, and really top-notch coffee.
“Horace and I are so excited about having Jill here,” Mrs. Wilkins said, passing around cream and sugar. “We’ve had other ballplayers stay with us, of course, but this is really something special.”
“You have a lovely home,” Jill’s mother said. “And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that she’ll have such a supportive place to stay this season.”
Jill could tell that Theo was dying to check his phone, but he seemed to be sublimating the urge by putting away cookie after cookie.
Even though the conversation was stilted, Jill was in no hurry to have it end. But, she was supposed to be at the stadium early, to meet with Sawyer to assess last night’s start, to sit down with the trainers to set up her workout regimen, and then with Jeremiah, to talk about whether the team really did want her to start being active on Twitter and such.
Mrs. Wilkins stayed inside—tactfully, no doubt—while Jill walked out to the car with her mother and Theo. She was feeling tearful, and could tell that her mother was, too.
“She seems like a very nice woman,” her mother said. “I think you’re going to do fine there.”
Jill nodded, because, really, what else could she do?
“Anything you need,” her mother said, “anything at all, you just let me know.”
Jill nodded, feeling an extremely large lump in her throat.
“Enjoy this,” her mother whispered, when they hugged good-bye. “It’s a good and exciting thing.”
Theo’s hug was surprisingly intense, too, albeit clumsy. “If anyone bothers you, tell me,” he said, quietly enough so that their mother wouldn’t hear. “I’ll happily come back and take care of them.”
She thought of Theo as being his mother’s child, for the most part—but, some of her father was in there, too.
“And keep on spitting,” he said, more loudly. “I’m counting on you!”
The last thing she had said to him, when they dropped him off at MIT for the first time—all of them standing there, blinking hard—was “Don’t blow up the lab!” Jill nodded. “Every single game. Without fail.”
“That’s right, make us proud,” he said, and gave her a light smack on the head as he stepped away.
She watched them pull out of the driveway, her arms folded tightly across her chest. The same sort of parting would have happened if she’d gone away to Stanford, too. It was probably normal, even if it didn’t feel that way.
But, okay. She was officially on her own now, and even if she wanted to run down to the dark little basement bedroom and sob, that might not be the best way to start off being an adult. So, she took a deep breath, and made sure that she was smiling when she walked into the kitchen.
“Did they get off all right?” Mrs. Wilkins asked.
Jill nodded.
“How long a drive is it for them?” Mrs. Wilkins asked.
She actually wasn’t sure. “Maybe five hours? It depends on traffic, I guess,” she said.
“Well, they should do well, at this time of day,” Mrs. Wilkins said, and motioned towards the refrigerator. “The groceries are helpful. It gives me a sense of what you like to eat. But, it would be good if you made a list for me, too.”
Jill nodded. “Yes, ma’am, although I’m sure anything you have will be fine.” This all felt very awkward, and she shifted her weight. “Um, thank you, ma’am, for allowing me to stay here.”
Mrs. Wilkins beamed. “It’s our tenth year as a host family. We love having players in our home. What time do you need to be at the ballpark today?”
Logistics. Okay, that would be an easy topic. “One o’clock, although I’d like to get there just after twelve, if possible, to play it safe,” Jill said. In baseball, arriving on time was considered being late. “And we’re leaving on the bus right after the game. So, I guess I’ll be back here on—Wednesday, I think.”
It was mind-blowing that trips like that were going to be her new normal.
They stood there, smiling at each other—uncomfortably, in Jill’s case.
“Why don’t you get settled downstairs, and packed for the trip, and then I’ll fix a quick lunch and give you a ride over,” Mrs. Wilkins said.
The stadium was about two miles away—so, while she could walk, it would be kind of arduous, carrying her knapsack and travel gear bag. “If it isn’t any—” she started.
“No trouble at all,” Mrs. Wilkins said.
The basement steps were wooden, and she tried not to clomp too noisily as she walked down. Something she would need to keep in mind, on nights when she got back late from games, so that she wouldn’t wake them up.
The bedroom was simple, and very plain. Two extra-long twin beds, a dresser, two small bedside tables, a student-sized desk and chair, and a medium flat-screen television on top of the dresser, with a remote control next to it. There was also a dorm-sized refrigerator, which would come in handy, and an Xbox setup, which she was unlikely ever even to turn on.
The house had Wi-Fi, and she had already been given the password, which was a relief. It would make Skype and FaceTime—both of which she expected to use constantly—a lot easier, for one thing. There was a closet, which was empty, except for a row of white plastic hangers. The desk and bedside tables each had a lamp, and the floor was covered with thick, greenish-blue carpet. The windows had what looked like homemade white curtains, and while there wasn’t a lot of light, it wasn’t impossibly gloomy.
The walls had an inexpensively framed poster of PNC Park, a large map of the greater Albany/Troy area, and a poster that had yellow flowers and a Scripture quote on it: “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, Colossians 3:23.”
There was also a Bible with a plain black cover on the bedside table. She wanted to put it away in a drawer, but was afraid of offending Mrs. Wilkins. Were she and her husband proselytizing, or did they think that baseball players were routinely observant Christians?
Which, probably, a fair number of them were. She had heard that lots of major league teams had Sunday chapel meetings—and there were plenty of athletes who started off every single interview by thanking God. Minor league teams were probably similar.
She peeked inside a drawer, and found a copy of the New Testament and a paperback of Daily Devotions for Athletes. So, she stuck the Bible in there, too, and closed it.
So far, her first official hour of adulthood was kind of weird.