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Del hauled his equipment bag out of the back seat of his rental and set out for the clubhouse, his Adidas sandals slapping against his heels as he crossed the pavement. He nodded to the girl at the door and turned down the hall toward the locker room. Inside he stopped and browsed the walls for his nameplate. Last year he’d been in the far corner, near the toilets with the rest of the first-timers. He’d been upgraded this spring to the second cluster of lockers in the middle of the room.
“Del-tone,” Henderson sang, as Del dropped his bag in front of his stall.
“What’s that?” Del asked.
“Can’t call you Rook no more,” the veteran outfielder said. “My boy is growing up.”
They embraced briefly, Henderson thumping Del hard on the back before pulling away.
“You look white, white boy. Thought you went to Hawaii.”
“That’s been three months ago. I haven’t seen the sun since.”
“Shit, boy. Y’all need to move south. You should come down to Georgia and work out with me.”
“Yeah? Where abouts?”
“Chez Hendu, man. I got a regulation infield laid out in my backyard, you know. Got a mile loop cleared out for running on my ranch. This boy stays in shape.”
“Ranch?” Del kicked off his sandals and sat down on the stool in front of his locker. “What, you got cows and stuff?”
“Yeah, I said ranch. What, you think a black man ain’t never had a ranch before? I got cows. Four of ’em. Milked ’em myself, too. Got me five horses, and some ostriches. It’s a hundred acres o’ hard work.”
“Who’s watching your ranch now?”
“Got me a white boy to keep it up while I’m away. Keep him in a little shack out back.”
“For real?”
Henderson laughed. “No, man. He stays down the street with his ol’ lady. I’m just messin’ wit’ you. He is white, though. Some kinda sweet justice in there somehow.”
Del lifted his golf shirt above his head and tossed it onto the top shelf of his locker as Henderson, half dressed, turned back to his.
“You just get here today?” Del asked.
“Yesterday. Around noon. Came in and got the formalities out of the way. Doc Stone already felt his way ’round my nuts. It’s your turn this morning.”
“That’s always my favorite part.”
“Go on down and get it over with. Breston’s in there now. Should be done any minute. Been a little too long, if you ask me. Must be havin’ a good time.”
Del changed into shorts and a tech warmup shirt, stepped back into his sandals, and reported to the trainer’s room for his physical. Dr. Adam Stone, in his fifth season as the team physician, was quick but thorough in his exam, pushing, prodding, and probing as he made small talk completely incongruous with such activities. The metal table chilled Del through his undershorts as Dr. Stone tapped away at his laptop. At last the doctor nodded toward him and said, “You can get dressed.”
Del pulled his shorts on and slipped his toes through his sandals, then looked back for the okay to leave. “We all set, Doc?”
“We’re good here. You can go give your sample now.”
“Now?”
“Yes, we’re doing them with the physicals this year.”
“I just went before I left. Can I wait?”
Dr. Stone drew Del closer to his stool with a quick twitch of his index finger. “Technically, Del,” he said in a low voice, “you can wait. But think about this for a minute. If word gets out that you postponed your test, after what came up this winter ...”
Del swallowed hard, his tongue flat against the roof of his mouth. “I got nothing to hide, Doc.”
“I’m sure you don’t. So go on down and get this out of the way. I’ll buzz down there and let them know you’re coming.”
Del paused outside the door to catch his suddenly thin breath. No one from the club had called him all winter, but plainly they’d been discussing his offseason headlines among themselves. Did they know anything he didn’t? He’d heard so little since the initial clamor had died down he wasn’t even sure where things stood. Were the rumors he’d be suspended legitimate or complete horseshit as he’d assumed? Wouldn’t someone have told him by now if there was something to fear?
In the coaches’ office a tall, sinewy fellow in a crew cut leaned back in a leather arm chair, reading USA Today. A second man, stockier with moppy, white hair, sat on a couch at the far end of the room, pecking away at his phone.
“Tanner, right?” the first man asked. He folded his paper and pulled a clipboard balancing on the arm of the chair toward him.
Del nodded.
“Chaz,” he said, extending his hand. “That’s Gary.” He nodded at his partner, who didn’t look up.
Del looked around the room, which he’d only been in once before, last spring before he’d made the team. It was about half the size of the players’ lounge. Two leather couches and three chairs were arranged around the perimeter. A long folding table had been erected along the side wall, one half loaded with plastic cups, and the other testing supplies.
“You ready?”
“Not sure. I already went once this morning. Forgot about this part.”
“Grab a drink, if you like.”
Del knelt down and lifted the lid of the plastic cooler by the wall. He pulled an orange Gatorade from the ice and sat on the couch nearest the desk. Chaz offered him the sports section from his paper. Glancing at the first page, Del twisted the cap off his drink and took a long pull, draining nearly half the bottle before halting to let a burp escape into his cupped hand. He took another short swig and opened the newspaper. The baseball notes mainly reported late signings from other camps. The first injury of the spring had hit the Orioles, who speculated their starting center fielder might be lost up to three months after breaking his wrist in a one-car wreck en route to training camp. Most of the rest of the news didn’t amount to much. Three guys on three different teams claimed to be in the best shape of their lives. All were in their walk years. He skipped over the basketball and hockey stories and came to the end of the sports news in under ten minutes.
“Let’s do this,” he said, folding the paper and setting it on the couch beside him.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I need to get out there and loosen up. Let’s go.”
Chaz stood and led Del into the lavatory. “Wash up first,” he said. “No soap.”
Del turned the faucet and let the warm water run over his hands for half a minute. It felt good and the sound reassured him. A running tap was supposed to help, or so they said. He’d tried it once in the minors during a test and it hadn’t made any difference. Of course, he hadn’t slammed a full bottle of Gatorade that day.
“You can pick your cup,” Chaz said, after Del had dried his hands.
“What’s the difference?”
“There isn’t any. But you pick which one you use.”
“Why?”
“God knows.” Chaz pulled a pair of latex gloves out of a box on the counter and slid his fingers in. “It’s in the agreement. So you can’t claim I gave you a tainted one, I guess. Someone’s always looking for a loophole.”
Del tapped a specimen container with his forefinger. “That one.”
“It’s yours. If you’re ready to go, go ahead and unwrap it.”
Del fumbled with the cello wrap around the cup for a moment before tearing it open. He unscrewed the cap and peered inside. It looked nearly identical to the one he’d filled at the fertility clinic. Man, that seemed like a month ago.
“Look good?” Chaz asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well, you know the drill. We’re using the first stall on the end here. Lift your shirt up around your pits and drop your shorts down by your knees, spin around once, then let it fly.”
Del did as instructed. He stood in front of the toilet, holding the cup where the stream of urine would be if there were one to catch. But nothing came out.
“I can talk or hum if it helps. Some guys seem to like that.”
“Don’t talk.”
“Okay.”
“I need quiet.” Del closed his eyes and tried to conjure up the opening notes to “Cotton Eyed Joe.” Edsell once told him he sang it when he took his piss tests. When Del was desperate during his next test he tried it, under his breath. Since then, every time he was forced to pee on command he’d relied on the hillbilly minor league anthem to get him started. Halfway through the first verse he felt the urine trickle out. He opened his eyes and adjusted the cup to catch it.
“Nice work,” Chaz said when Del was done. “Cap that baby up.”
Danny Jorgens was lounging on the couch with a bottle of water on his knee when they returned to the outer room.
“How’d you pee, Del?” joked the veteran outfielder.
“Wet and yellow.” He set the cup on the table. Chaz opened a new container and poured half the sample into it.
“Am I good?” Del asked.
“Give me a minute.” Chaz dipped a pipette into the original container and extracted a few drops. “You have to sign your paperwork before you can go. I just have to do a couple of quick tests first.”
“Take a seat, Del.” Jorgens motioned toward the couch. “Might as well enjoy your time in the lounge. They got this place fixed up kinda sweet.”
“It’s not bad.”
“How’s your winter? That girl of yours go through with it?”
“Yeah. She’s stuck with me now.”
Jorgens laughed. “And you with her.”
“How’s your wife?”
“Probably happy as hell that I’m out of the house again. We were butting heads by Halloween.”
“Tanner,” Chaz interrupted. “You’re all set. I just need your autograph over here and you’re good to go.”
“Never gets old, does it?” kidded Jorgens, subject himself to weekly tests for more than two years now as a consequence of having scored positive for Deca Durabolin while playing for the Red Sox.
“I hate this,” Del said. “I’d rather strike out in front of fifty thousand people than have to pee in front of one.”
“Get used to it, kid.”
“I never will.”
“You might by the end of the year,” Jorgens said. “I got a hunch you’ll see more than your share of random tests this season.”
What did the rest of his teammates think, Del wondered as he loosened up on the field with Henderson. Undoubtedly they’d all seen the reports. Even those who had wintered down in Venezuela or the Dominican would have heard of the PED 11. He studied the faces of those stationed nearby as they limbered up their throwing arms. Al Tenney was razzed over his shaved dome. Saul Breston caught a ribbing for the new ink adorning both sides of his neck. Yet no one mentioned Del’s tumultuous offseason, even in passing. No, “hey, rough winter, man.” Nothing. Were they talking about it among themselves when he was out of range?
He followed the others off the field and back into the clubhouse before lunch. Most of the team was here now. The pitchers and catchers had been in camp for nearly a week already. The rest had trickled in throughout the morning, with a few notable exceptions. Hank Poteat’s wife was due to give birth any day and he’d been excused from reporting. Andy Cipher routinely showed up late, exercising his freedom to not report until March 1 if he so chose, though he never took it that far. And Wayne Creamer, who was two months short of arbitration eligibility, was holding out because he didn’t like the Twins’ offer.
The press was here, too. Del had beaten them to the park and reached the sanctuary of the field before they’d filed into the locker room. But here they were now, milling around the clubhouse looking for tidbits to feed the readers back home. Del avoided making eye contact with any of them as he found his way back to his locker. He grabbed a hand towel from the top shelf and mopped his face and neck with it. When he turned to toss it toward the hamper he came eye to eye with Matt Friday, the Twins beat guy from the St. Paul Pioneer Press.
“Hey, Del.” Friday extended a digital recorder with his left hand. “Got a minute?”
“I’m on my way to lunch, Matt.”
“Come on, Del. We got a few minutes before they start serving.”
“All right,” Del sighed. “What do you need?”
“How’s it feel to be back out here?”
“It’s nice. I feel good. My elbow feels pretty good. It was a little sore by the end of last year, but that’s all cleared up.”
Two other news hawks materialized behind Friday, recorders at the ready. One Del recognized as Bob Hunter, a veteran columnist for the Minneapolis paper, the other looked barely old enough to have finished journalism school. The credential hanging from his neck said he was with the Fort Myers News-Press.
“How’s your stroke?”
“I was a little off this morning. Timing’s not quite there. It was coming along nice back home, but there’s no substitute for live pitching.”
“Have you, uh,” Friday stammered, “has the commissioner’s office contacted you about the allegations that came out this winter regarding your use of growth hormone?”
“No.”
“Have the Twins addressed it?”
“There’s nothing to address.”
The ranks of the newsmen swelled again as three more writers filled the gaps behind the original trio.
“So you deny using HGH?” Friday asked.
“I’ve got nothing to say about any of this. Now excuse me, I gotta go eat lunch.”
He stepped to Friday’s left to go around him, but the reporter slid into his path and the others shifted accordingly, penning him in.
“So you deny using HGH?” Friday was gathering strength from the presence of his yet-silent colleagues, a showman feeding off a crowd.
“Look, I passed every test I took last year. I just took another one this morning, and I’ll pass that one, too. You want to ask questions about baseball, fine. Otherwise, I’m done here, Matt.”
“Come on, Del. You and I and everyone here know those tests won’t detect growth hormone.”
“Yet you guys jumped on the rumors I failed three tests last year.” Del nudged past Friday, grazing the reporter’s chest with an extended elbow. “Which is it? Did I fail the tests or pass because they don’t work? Write whatever you want. You will anyway.”
“Now that’s not fair, Del. I’m trying to give you a chance to tell your side.”
“Sure you are. Come on, move, guys. I need to eat.”
“It’s nothing personal. I’m just trying to do my job.”
“What’s going on over here?” Jorgens interrupted.
“Just asking a few questions, is all,” Friday said.
“Doesn’t sound to me like you’re being all that respectful,” the veteran said.
“Look,” Bob Hunter cut in. “We’ve got some legitimate questions for Del. This is a big story and he’s dodged it all winter.”
“Dodged it how?” Del demanded. “I don’t remember you calling, Bob.”
“How could we? You changed your number. Your parents wouldn’t talk, and then they changed their number. The Twins didn’t even have a good number for you.”
“So that makes me guilty? Because I changed my phone number? Stop wasting my time on old news, guys. I’m hungry.”
“Why don’t you guys give him some space,” Jorgens said. “Take your witch hunt somewheres else.”
“Yeah, they all stick up for each other,” the Fort Myers reporter said. “Big shock. One user defending the other.”
The muscles in Jorgens’ oversized neck tightened. He pushed past Del and grabbed the writer by the front of his polo shirt.
“I don’t even know who the hell you are, kid.” Blood rushed into Jorgens’ face, setting his razor-burned skin off against his clenched teeth like a freshly bitten apple. “But if you ever want anyone in this locker to talk to you, I suggest you show a little more respect.”
“Sorry,” the cub reporter mumbled.
Del pawed Jorgens’ shoulder. “Danny, come on, let the kid go.”
Jorgens relaxed his grip and the writer’s shirt slipped from his fingers. “I don’t care what you write about me. My name’s been shit in this league for three years and there ain’t nothing you can say that will hurt my feelings anymore. But if Del says he didn’t use anything, that’s good enough for me. Why don’t you ladies back off and let us eat lunch in peace.”
Jorgens’ fiery glare melted the young journalist, who stepped back and collapsed on an empty stool. Del followed his teammate into the cafeteria, glancing back once inside to confirm they hadn’t been pursued.
“Thanks,” he said.
“No problem.”
“I really appreciate it. I’m not that good sometimes at stuff like that.”
“I just remember how much it stung when no one on the Sox ever even acknowledged me when I got nailed. Like I couldn’t have named ten guys in that locker who had used something themselves.”
“Really?” Del stopped short of the lunch line, preserving a buffer for their conversation.
“You ain’t alone, kid. Plenty others dabbled before you.”
“But I didn’t—”
Jorgens held up his right hand. As he shook his head the corners of his mouth curled into a smile. “Doesn’t matter to me either way, Del. I’m the last guy in this room’s got any right to judge.”