They were going to fly from Pittsburgh to Albany—by way of Philadelphia—and then rent a car and drive to Pomeroy from there. Before they left, at the team’s request, she was interviewed from the living room of the suite by all of the major national morning shows, as well as a couple of local ones, and she went out of her way not to be controversial. And to look wide-awake. And not to feel like an utter idiot.
It was almost two-thirty when they drove up to the stadium, which had that old-fashioned minor league look, with a redbrick façade and a quaint, small-town atmosphere. There was a large statue of a beaming dog dressed in a team uniform out in front, which was probably a likeness of the Pomeroy Retrievers mascot.
“That’s a big dog,” Theo said.
“They use an actual golden retriever to fetch bats, I think,” Jill said.
Her mother paused in the act of parking to turn and look at her. “Seriously?”
Jill nodded. “As far as I know.”
“Do the hitters get upset about the teeth marks?” her mother asked.
Good question. “I hope so,” Jill said. Since, after all, what made a pitcher happier than fretful hitters?
There were ESPN and other television trucks parked out in front, but luckily, they weren’t prepared for her to arrive, because she was barely filmed as they walked by. In fact, an amusingly high number of them didn’t even notice her.
When they went inside the entrance to the main offices, there was the usual round of introductions, and she forgot most of the names within seconds. The GM said to call him Richard—he was one of those crewneck sweater went-to-law-school-instead-of-playing-baseball guys—although she stuck with “sir” or “Mr. Brayton.” The assistant GM, a very friendly woman in her late forties or early fifties, introduced herself as “Indira,” but Jill was, of course, more comfortable with “ma’am” or “Mrs. Doshi.” In rapid succession, she met a series of other front office people, stadium employees, and an interchangeable group of interns. To her relief, all of this was closed to the press, but a team photographer clicked away pretty much nonstop, standing closer than she wanted, while she gamely smiled through a stream of grip-and-grin photos.
Once it was time for actual baseball stuff, her mother and Theo left to go check into the motel, although they were planning to come back for the game. She would stay at the motel with them as long as they were in town, before moving in with her host family, to whom she was going to be introduced later, according to Mrs. Doshi, who also seemed to run the travel and logistics aspects of the team’s operations.
Mr. Brayton—Richard—brought her downstairs, through several corridors that felt more like musty tunnels, where the clubhouse, coaches’ offices, equipment room, training area, and weight room were. Since she was with the general manager, people were polite, if not wildly enthusiastic, about meeting her.
The clubhouse was mostly deserted, except for two young guys, one of whom was hanging clean uniforms in players’ open wooden lockers, while the other was putting sandwich makings, snacks, and drinks on a large folding table set up along the far wall. They both looked like they were in their early twenties, and one was pudgy with glasses and dark hair, while the other was a skinny pale guy with too many tattoos and an ineffective attempt at a mustache.
“These are our clubbies,” Mr. Brayton said. More formally known as clubhouse attendants, but she had never heard anyone refer to them that way. “Anything you need, they’ll get for you. Nicky, Terence, meet Jill.”
It developed that Nicky was the one with glasses, and Terence was the tattooed guy.
“Hi,” she said. “Just let me know how you handle clubhouse dues and everything.” As far as she knew, each player had to pay about ten dollars a day for food and other supplies, and then add hefty weekly tips on top of that.
They both nodded, without really looking at her, and she was relieved to have Mr. Brayton motion for her to follow him into the training area. There were only a couple of players around, getting worked on by the trainers—a very muscular man named Louis and a stocky woman named Sofia—and she assumed that most of the others were out on the field, taking BP or something. The two players nodded briefly at her, and she nodded back.
Out in the corridor, the franchise had converted a nearby small room—maybe a former office, or storage space—into a dressing room for her, although they hadn’t finished the tiny shower stall and bathroom she would be using. So, for a few days, they would either have to figure out a way for her to shower in the main locker room—privately—or she would just have to get cleaned up in the restroom the women who worked in the front office used. At most of the ballparks on the road, it was likely that she would have to use civilian restrooms.
“Well, let’s go see Benny, get you settled,” Mr. Brayton said.
Benny was Mr. Adler, the manager. She didn’t know much about him, other than that he had played for a couple of years in the majors, and had worked as a coach or manager at various levels of the minor leagues ever since.
“Benny has been in the game for a long time,” Mr. Brayton said, as they walked down the hallway. “You may find him abrupt, but he’s a good baseball man.”
Gruff, but lovable, ideally.
“Not a chatty person,” Mr. Brayton said. “Don’t take it personally.”
Which was good, because otherwise, she probably would have.
“We’d like you to have your first start here in Pomeroy, before the team heads out on the road,” he said. “The front office is going to be flying in for it in the morning. Will you be ready for that?”
So, she could be pitching as soon as tomorrow? Whose bright idea was that? But, she nodded, trying to project confidence. At the moment, she felt ready for absolutely nothing whatsoever—except, possibly, blowing all of this off and heading straight to college as fast as her little legs could carry her.
A door just ahead of them was ajar, and Mr. Brayton knocked, getting a grunt in response. As they went in, the manager stood up from behind a desk covered with paperwork, folders, and a somewhat outdated laptop. He looked like he was in his mid-fifties, and had smoked at least seven trillion cigarettes in his life, and never once, even for a second, used sunscreen. There was a strong reek of tobacco in the office, with a slight overlay of beer and Big Macs.
“Benny, this is Jill Cafferty,” Mr. Brayton said. “I think you’re going to enjoy having her here.”
Mr. Adler maybe twitched, but at least he didn’t outright laugh. “Pleasure,” he said, and shook her hand.
They all stood there.
“The team’s really shaping up,” Mr. Brayton said heartily. “I think it’s going to be an exciting season.”
Jill and Mr. Adler both nodded, although she was pretty sure she was the only one who smiled.
“I know you have a lot to do to get ready for the game,” Mr. Brayton said, “so I’ll leave you to it. Jill, remember, my door is always open to you. Everyone here wants all of this to go as smoothly as possible, and for you to succeed. So, don’t ever forget that.”
Jill nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Once the GM was gone, Adler sat down, and gestured abruptly for her to sit in the folding chair on the other side of the desk.
“You got pristine little lungs?” he asked.
Well, she certainly hoped so.
“Brace yourself,” he said, and lit up a cigarette.
She coughed, ever so delicately, and he did something that was sort of like smiling.
“Ready to quit and go home yet?” he asked.
“I’m going to try and stick it out for another hour, sir,” she said. Possibly more true than funny. “But, after that, all bets are off.”
His mouth moved again. “ESPN and whatnot showing up already.”
“Sounds like a hootenanny,” she said.
He nodded, exhaling a big enough cloud of smoke to obscure what she suspected might be an amused expression. “I can throw you tomorrow, or Wednesday. Your call.”
“Actually, it’s your call, sir,” she said.
“I’d rather run you out there this weekend, on the road, give you a chance to get your sea legs,” he said. “But, not much we can do, with the circus in town.”
She maybe didn’t want to think about how big the circus was going to be.
“You’d have time to take a couple deep breaths, be able to get on the same page with the staff, and all of that,” he said. “Although the Power People are showing up in the morning, so—you get the drift?”
Yes. She was pitching tomorrow. So, she nodded.
Adler shrugged. “Hand we were dealt.”
Pretty much. And it wasn’t—remotely—ideal, but she would have to make it work. “Just for the record, sir?” she said. “I want to pitch, not be a dog and pony show.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, and paused. “Got a good report on your bullpen.”
That was a step in the right direction, then.
“You met Sawyer and Bannigan yet?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Pitching coach, and strength and conditioning guy,” he said. “You’ll sit down with them and the trainers, set up the program we want you doing, try to get you kicked off right.”
She nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
It wasn’t clear whether the conversation was over, and she started to get up, but then had the sense that he wasn’t finished yet and she sat back down.
He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then exhaled. “Think you’ll go to pieces, if I ask you a personal question?”
“Presbyterian,” she said.
His right eye maybe flickered, but that appeared to be the extent of his reaction.
It was entirely possible that levity was not his favorite thing—and that he was also weak on pop culture. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “Please ask whatever you want.”
He looked at her for a minute, and then nodded. “Okay. Are you gay?”
Well, that was direct. She blinked. “Excuse me, sir?”
“I guess the proper term is lesbian,” he said. “Are you a lesbian?”
She was going to have to spend an entire summer being coached by this prehistoric guy? Who was, in fact, corrupting her raised-on-fresh-sea-air lungs? “Is there a correct answer?” she asked.
He shook his head.
In which case, why ask such an invasive question? “As it happens, sir, I am not,” she said—possibly through her teeth. “But, I’m not sure why it would be relevant, either way.”
“I was hoping that you were,” he said.
“To adhere to a traditional cultural stereotype about female athletes?” she asked, trying very hard not to clench either fist.
He frowned, but then shook his head. “If you were gay, the boys would understand that. To be honest, it’d make them relax. Different energy.”
“Well, I’m terribly sorry that my heterosexual status is going to be inconvenient for everyone,” she said. “With luck, they’ll be able to cope.”
This time, Adler smiled. “You have a little bit of an edge, don’t you, Cafferty?”
Apparently so.
“Good,” he said—again, unexpectedly. “You’re going to need it.” He stubbed the cigarette out. “Let’s take a walk.”
She followed him to the clubhouse, where batting practice had just ended, and players—some fully clothed, some not—were gathered around, making sandwiches from the pre-game spread, playing cards, bent over their phones, and just generally hanging out.
Adler let out a sharp whistle, and everyone who didn’t have on headphones or earbuds looked up, with the others reacting more slowly.
“This is Cafferty,” he said. “Act right, or I’ll bounce your heads like Ping-Pong balls. Got it?”
Some of the guys looked agreeable, some unfriendly—and some had blank expressions, so she could tell that quite a few of the players on the team spoke very limited English.
“Be nice to me, or he will dribble your heads,” she said—at least, she hoped that was what she said—in Spanish, moving her hand as though she was bouncing a basketball. “Very hard.”
Several of the Latino guys laughed, and exchanged muttered remarks.
“You’re full of surprises, Cafferty,” Adler said, and looked at Sofia and an older Hispanic guy—maybe a coach? “How’d she do?”
Sofia shrugged affirmatively, and the older guy pursed his lips, and she could tell he wasn’t even close to being on the “it’s so great to have a female player here!” bandwagon. “Not bad,” he said finally.
“That’ll be useful,” Adler said, and motioned towards the overweight clubbie. “Nicky, get her set up with gear.”
And with that, pretty much everyone went back to whatever they had been doing, although it was a relief to recognize Scott, the Competitive Balance Round pick, putting together a thick sandwich.
“See you out there, Caffy!” he said cheerfully.
“You bet, CB,” she said. With luck, she was going to have one friend here, at least.
Nicky waved shyly for her to follow him to a room where equipment was stored.
“Um, they had us set aside stuff for you,” he said. “But, they’re bringing in, like, a tailor tomorrow?”
Fittings and alterations. “Great, thank you,” she said, glad to see that, once again, she had been given number twenty-eight. “Did anyone else want the number?”
“One guy, yeah. Schwartzman,” he said, avoiding her eyes.
And probably already not a fan of hers, if he’d had to give up his favorite number.
“Senior sign,” he said. “So, um, you know.”
No clout, in other words. Some animals were more equal than other animals. Well, she would figure out a way to make it up to him. Buy him a steak when they were on the road, or something.
There was a surprising amount of gear. First, he handed out home and road uniforms, as well as a batting practice version, and three different caps. Sometimes, there would be one-time-only jerseys for theme nights at the ballpark, which would usually get auctioned off after the game. She was also given two pairs of long shorts—which were going to be much too baggy—a couple of high-tech, moisture-wicking, dri-FIT, hypercool workout shirts, two more on-field team T-shirts, sanitary socks, stirrups, a belt, a pair of shower shoes, a light windbreaker/warm-up jacket, a thicker jacket, and a Pirates fleece, as well as a Pirates hoodie. Everything else, except for one of the T-shirts, was Pomeroy-specific issue, with PR and cartoon dog logos.
Once Nicky had checked through the entire pile, he handed her an inventory sheet to sign, since everything would ultimately be returned whenever she left the team—for whatever reasons—and reissued to another player.
A player who probably wasn’t going to be thrilled about the alterations.
“We, um, have extras stocked,” Nicky said, still not making eye contact. “Because I think the Hall of Fame, and like, the big club, will be taking some of it after you play. But, I have to keep track on the sheet, okay?”
She nodded. “Absolutely. I’ll be careful not to lose anything.”
“Do you have—cleats?” he asked.
That was a serious question? Wow. She nodded.
“And—turf shoes?” he asked.
She nodded.
“You only wear team stuff at the ballpark,” he said. “Or you get fined?”
She nodded a fourth time. She had been surprised to hear that they weren’t even supposed to wear their caps when they were out in the world, but she assumed that it was to help players keep a lower profile—and maybe not disgrace the team if they did anything stupid in public.
“Well, so, um, yeah,” Nicky said, and looked in the direction of the clubhouse.
Eager to leave, then. “Thanks. I’ll see you later,” she said.
He gestured towards the gear. “Unless you, uh, need me to carry this stuff for you?”
Because—lugging a small pile of clothes all the way across the hall was going to be hard. “Well, it does look very heavy,” she said.
He looked at her uncertainly, but then moved to pick the stack up.
She had always thought that baseball people were a happy, lighthearted lot—but, it really wasn’t seeming that way. “Sorry. I’m kidding,” she said.
“Oh.” He stepped back. “Okay. It’s cool. This is all just, you know, different.”
That, it was.