Game Day: Fifth Inning. “You can’t, you can’t, you can’t . . . Do softball instead, and you’ll be great.”
How many times have I heard those statements, while in my head I held on to the conviction Yes, I can . . . Just watch me . . . I’m not taking the easy path; I’m taking the one I love.
That’s what I’m thinking as I get ready to pitch the bottom of the fifth inning: I am not too small; I am not the wrong gender. I can get another win in men’s professional baseball.
I pick up the ball behind the mound and toss it into my mitt. They say negative self-talk is bad, but it fuels me. I think about what one of the Silver Bullets starting pitchers did last June. Pamela Davis pitched the fifth inning for the Class AA Jacksonville (Florida) Suns against the Australian Olympic men’s team. The press reported, “She is believed to be the first woman to pitch for a major league farm club under the current structure of the minor leagues.”
My reaction had been, that’s not real, one inning of exhibition baseball. It’s just one more notation of a woman who made a brief appearance in men’s professional baseball and moved on. I was lucky to not sign with the Silver Bullets. The season they invited me to camp turned out to be their final one after Coors Beer pulled the money plug. I also think about how my local high school refused to have me play, and how God always put into my life people who were willing to help at the perfect time—Rolland Esslinger, Charlie Phillips, Jim Pigott . . . Then Mike Veeck took a chance on me, and now owner Jim Wadley and the Dukes are behind me. I want this win bad.
Warming up on the mound. I feel confident. My stuff is still moving really well. We’re leading 2–0, our team is jacked, and so am I. But I also know this RedHawks team just needs a little momentum, and it will make me pay. Just keep pitching smart, I tell myself. Stay focused, and quit thinking about anything else until this game is over.
Forry Wells digs in at the batter’s box. First pitch is a fastball outside, which he fouls off into the stands, igniting a scramble among the fans to capture the prize, the ball. Strike one. The ump throws me a new ball, and I grab hold of it and feel the seams. The new ball feels good and isn’t too glossy. Forry takes my next pitch, a fastball inside, for a ball. I try a curveball that cuts sharply to the outside of the plate. Wells swings and connects, but not with the barrel of the bat, and so a towering fly goes to middle right field. “Here we go, Ila,” says an infielder. “One down, one down.”
With Ruben Santana up, I fall behind in the count and end up walking him. I was nibbling at the plate instead of going after him. Motherfucker, Idiot. Maybe by cursing like this I am being like Dad, and that fuels me to shut him up by pitching well. Oh, cut the psychology, Ila.
The walk brings manager George Mitterwald to the mound, along with Javier. With the tying run coming to the plate, I spot one of our pitchers in the bullpen taking off his jacket and starting to stretch. Shit, one mistake and I’m out of here.
George wants to know how I’m feeling. “I feel great,” I reply. You are going to go down scratching to stay in this game and help win it, I say to myself. No way am I coming out.
George looks at Javier. “What happened with that last batter? Do you agree that everything is still looking good?”
Javier says that everything does still look good.
George looks back at me. “Ila, you’re better than that. You cannot walk someone with a two-run lead. Make them hit the ball.”
“I fucked up,” I say. “I get it.”
David Francisco, the RedHawks’ number seven hitter, steps up to the plate and hits my first pitch for a long fly ball to center.
On the mound, I’m still talking to myself, One more out to go, Ila. Man on first, and the number eight hitter up. But Smith is a good hitter. Whatever you do, stay ahead, or you’re gonna get smacked. Think about it and be smart.
Cory Smith finds the hole between short and third for a single to left field. The crowd stirs, and I can see George and my coaches getting antsy, directing the fielders to reposition a little more back. Two outs, runners with speed on first and second—concentrate on the batter. Chad Akers is up again. I tell Briller at third that I have that side if Akers bunts. With two outs, that’s unlikely, but Chad is fast and the infield is back, so it’s a possibility. The scouting report shows him hitting to the left side. (Earlier he singled between third and short, and grounded out to short.) So we all shift in that direction. He’s also a first-pitch hitter. I throw a screwball away, and he hits a sharp two-hopper to Brito at short, who underhands it to Switzenberg for the force out at second. No runs, one hit, no errors, two left on base.
As I head back to the dugout, I pass Maury Wills, the Fargo-Moorhead first base coach, who looks me in the eye and says, “Nice inning, Ila.”
His words catch me off guard. I look up, smile, and say, “Thanks.”
Well, maybe I am changing some minds. I take a seat on the bench and think back to what it was like when I first got to Duluth.
June 26, 1997. During the short flight from Minneapolis–St. Paul, I had looked out of the plane window at a placid landscape of forests and water. I was coming from the Saints, a classy organization from the top all the way down. Now I was starting over. What would this club be like? Would I fit in? Where would I live? But hey, I still had a job in baseball.
After landing in Duluth I headed toward baggage claim, wondering how I would get to the stadium—life at this level of baseball tends to be one foot in front of the other, with little planning. But Jim Wadley, the club’s owner, and Bob Gustafson, the general manager, were there to meet me. They grabbed my bags and put them in the car, and we were off in a hurry—the game was about to start and they wanted me there. Mr. Wadley was a trim, white-haired man, well but casually dressed (he owned the Mr. Big & Tall clothing store in Norwalk, California), outgoing, and talkative. He was interested in baseball and history. He told me that he liked to be called “Jim,” and that he was happy to have me in Duluth, and I felt it.
The Dukes’ ballpark is a real throwback. The façade of the stadium is built of old bricks that had once paved nearby streets. From the top of the stands you can see Lake Superior and the loading docks of the wonderfully named Duluth, Missabe, and Iron Range Railway. Wade Stadium was a collaboration between the Works Progress Administration and the City of Duluth. Grandma would have been eleven years old when the Wade opened in 1941. Maybe she had walked those brick-paved streets.
Wade Stadium is a pitcher’s ballpark, with lots of foul territory and 340 feet down each foul line. Even better, the wind usually blows in off the lake. Great, I thought when I first saw it. This is more up my alley. But because of the lake’s proximity, games are sometimes delayed or even called when the fog rolls in. And when the wind kicks up, it can freeze you to the bone. During my weeks with the Saints, I wore foot and hand warmers whenever we played in Duluth. In early May the field had been covered with snow, the sunken dugouts buried in it.
By the time we pulled onto the field that served as the parking lot, the game had already started. I hustled into the merchandise store to get my uniform—the only one available was number three—and then to the umpires’ locker room to change. I felt anxious about how things were starting out. I had hoped to arrive well before game time so I could mingle with my teammates. Now I would have to go through the clubhouse to get to the field, and I hesitated, all suited up in my number-three uniform, until Jim Wadley said, “They’re expecting you. Go on in.”
I opened the door to the back of the clubhouse. The showers and bathrooms were there, then a wide doorway opened to the lockers alongside the walls, with benches in front of the lockers, a whirlpool, and trainer’s table off to the side, and finally an office right before the stairs down to the dugout. Just as I was about to creep down the stairs, a guy came out of the shower room. I felt like a kid caught stealing, and my face probably showed it. I stopped and said over my shoulder, “Sorry, man. There’s no other way to get to the bullpen.”
Remembering to make eye contact when I meet someone, I turned around. He came up close, a towel wrapped around his waist, looking like he was going to rip off my head. He was about my height but must have outweighed me by fifty pounds.
“What the fuck? You think you can just come on in here, like this is your place without putting in your time? You’re a fuckin’ rookie. I could have been naked, and my wife would have been really pissed off. How would I explain that to her? You tell me.”
Not knowing that this guy had no wife, I pondered the question.
“Sorry . . .” I said, but he cut me off with a huge laugh, wrapped his arm around my neck and gave me a shake, while a couple of guys in the background giggled nervously.
“I’m just fucking with you,” he said. Then he pulled back, eyed my uniform, and said, “Welcome, Babe.”
That’s how I met Tony, one of my fellow pitchers. It took me a minute get it. My uniform number was three, so apparently my nickname was no longer “Shorty”; it was now to be “Babe,” for Babe Ruth, who had worn the same number.
I smiled back at him. “Wow, that’s a step up from ‘bitch.’ Sounds good.”
I escaped into the dugout, grateful that most of the Dukes were on the field, and introduced myself to George Mitterwald, my new manager, and Mike Cuellar, the pitching coach. Both were friendly. As I stepped onto the field to head for the bullpen, the crowd erupted with applause and began to chant, “Ila, Ila, Ila!”
Great, no chance of being invisible here. As I jogged to the bullpen, I saw the pitchers on the bench there, watching me closely. I figured they were likely to give me hell for getting applause just for going to the bullpen. Think of something witty to say, I told myself, but nothing came to mind. I went up to each of them, looked them in the eye, shook their hands, sat down and waited for someone to speak. Everyone was nice; everyone smiled, but then, silence, which made me more nervous. Uh-oh, I thought. They have no clue they can joke around with me.
Then here came Tony toward us.
“Why the hell is he coming out here?” someone said. “He’s a starter now.”
They tried to wave him back to the dugout, but he ignored them and sat himself down right next to me. Nodding toward the guys, he looked at me and asked, “Did you tell them your nickname?”
I smiled and shook my head.
“It’s Babe,” he announced. “You cannot call her anything else. It is Babe.”
Another guy wanted to know if Tony had told me his nicknames. No? Well, he was known as “Dickwood,” “Fatso,” and “Shorty.” Tony, officially listed at five feet eleven inches, was actually shorter than I was, at five feet nine. No longer would I be Shorty.
“No,” Tony replied, in stock ballplayer fashion, “but I told her your wife was good last night.”
A guy down the bench said, “Ila, watch out for Tony—he’s a little whore, even though he has a girlfriend.”
And so the banter went. One of the guys confided that his wife was upset about him being on the road with me, a woman.
“Well, just tell her I’m gay,” I told him, and we both laughed. We both knew his wife should worry not about me but about all the women lining up for the guys after games. Then the binoculars came out. We were way down the right-field line and there was no bullpen phone here, so I figured they were looking to pick up the opposing team’s signs. Finally one guy handed me the binoculars.
“What do you think of that girl right there?” he said, pointing out someone in the stands.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I am going after her. How much will you pay me if I sleep with her tonight?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I see how they all fall for you guys, and I don’t get it.”
“Hey, if you saw what I have, you would get it.”
While the guys on the bench were still laughing, I grabbed the binoculars and carefully scanned the stands. “Ah,” I said. “I found just the girl for you.”
“Where?”
I pointed above the visitors’ dugout. “There—five rows up and fourteen seats to the right.”
He grabbed the binoculars and looked. “Nice,” he said. “Now I know to never rely on you to do my scouting.”
The lady was about seventy years old and very overweight.
Over the season one guy in the bullpen kept his binoculars handy. We would lay bets as to which woman he would go with. It did not seem to matter to him that he was married—all during the game all he worried about was finding the hottest girl in the stands. I came to wonder why he had gotten married. I felt sorry for his wife.
Not all the antics were limited to our bullpen. I first met Bill Murray, the comic actor and the Saints co-owner, after I was sent to the Dukes. We were playing in St. Paul, and there was Bill, hanging out at the Italian restaurant near the visitors’ bullpen. I liked his look of a large, friendly, rumpled jokester, usually in a Hawaiian shirt. Murray had grown up in the Midwest, and maybe he found St. Paul a normalizing haven from Hollywood. He did seem to genuinely enjoy being with the club, sometimes taking batting practice and playing catch before the games. That night he was in his element, flicking spaghetti noodles and horsing around with the diners and us in the bullpen.
I began to relax, not expecting to be called in to pitch—down by three runs, we were hitting in the bottom of the eighth. Then we noticed pitching coach Mike Cuellar.
“What the hell is he doing?” one guy said, seeing him give an unfamiliar sign.
Mike would put his hand on his head to indicate he wanted the tall guy up. Or use a side arm signal, for the side-arm guy. He would point to his left arm for the other left-hander and to his right arm for the right-hander. Now he was doing this waving motion. No one in the bullpen knew this signal.
Finally one of our teammates, Al Barsoom, ran over, and said, “Ila, start warming up.”
As I was taking off my jacket, a guy asked, “What’s Mike signaling?”
Al replied, “He’s doing the hourglass sign with his hands to mean the girl.” Then he told me, “If our pitcher gets into trouble in the top of the ninth, you’re in.”
In the bottom of the eighth we went down one, two, three—and suddenly here came Mike’s hourglass sign. Geez, I thought. Welcome to Duluth. I made the long jog to the mound, not knowing anyone on the field and feeling lost. Javier Rodriguez, our starting catcher, came out and asked what pitches I had.
“Two-seam fastball, four-seam fastball, curveball, and screwball,” I said. “I’m working on a slider, but it sucks.”
“All right,” Javier said. “Shake me off. You call the pitches, because George and I don’t know your stuff yet. As soon as we do, George will call the pitches, so enjoy this while it lasts.” (George Mitterwald had been a pro catcher for eleven years and had his own ideas about what pitches to throw when.)
First batter up got a base hit on a fastball away. Damn it, I thought. Focus. If I had paid attention in the bullpen, instead of fooling around with those binoculars, I would have known more about the guys coming to the plate. I told myself to calm down and just get a ground ball. No point throwing to first, because they were up by three, but I changed up my cadence to keep the runner honest for a potential double play. Next batter hit a grounder, and we turned two. Right on, two outs. One more, and I could breathe again.
Javier and Anthony Lewis, our first baseman, came over to the mound to say, “This guy’s a first-pitch hitter and will chase balls.”
I shook off Javier’s sign for a curve, then nodded at his second one for a screwball away. I threw it so it ended up in the dirt. Sure enough, he swung—another grounder. Out of the inning. The entire crowd was on its feet, clapping and chanting, “Ila, Ila, Ila!” as I came into the dugout, and that is how I met the rest of my new team. My fielders came up from behind and slapped me on the back.
“Good job,” Javier said. “Great pitch.”
I made my way to the bench, ducking to avoid the low roof, put on my jacket, and sat down. The bench inside the dugout was only eight feet long. There was also standing room in front of and below the bench, but you cannot see the game from there, so most of the guys liked to sit on a bucket in front of the dugout or stand, leaning against the fence. As our guys batted, I realized that if we came back I could get the win. Wow, what a great beginning that would be. My reverie was interrupted by the smell of smoke. At first I did not think anything of it until I saw flames creeping up my pants leg. As I smacked the flames out, I laughed, but the guys were loving it. They had pulled off that traditional initiation, quietly setting an unsuspecting rookie’s shoelaces on fire: my first hot foot.
We never did come back in that game, but when it was over the guys came in from the bullpen to say, “Good job, Babe,” before heading for the showers. Meanwhile I went outside to do an interview or two and to sign autographs. I was still there at eleven o’clock, when Jim Wadley came over to tell me that I would be staying at the Best Western Hotel until they found me a host family. The hotel was conveniently downtown, and I could easily catch a ride to the ballpark with a couple of the other players staying there. Beautiful—privacy. That night I slept through until one o’clock in the afternoon.
The rooms at the Best Western faced the parking lot, which was just off West Second, a busy street. The hotel was one story, so anyone coming and going was easily visible. I was afraid a stranger might show up at my door if it became known I was staying there. There were reasons for my fearfulness. While most of the mail I received was positive and included a return address, because the writer requested an autograph or a photo, others made it clear what they wanted by enclosing a condom or a bra. It was the letters with no return address that frightened me. As I recall, one said that someone needed to take me out—whether it’s a broken leg or an accident, he warned me to watch my back. Another writer said that women were bringing the game down. I received a few death threats and kept the worst ones in my duffel bag in case one of these characters acted on his threat; someone would know where to look for the culprit.
Meanwhile Dad kept asking whether I was getting any weird mail, and I told him no, as I did not want him to worry—or overreact and come up to Duluth. This was my battle; I just needed my parents to be smart back home in California, where people continued to call and stop by our house. Dad promised to ship the letters that had arrived and gave me the family’s new phone number he had to get. “Just be heads up,” he said. His attitude had changed. No longer was it “Suck it up.” Now it was “Be careful.”
“Dad,” I said, “the people who come after me now should be careful because of how you raised me. I am a machine and can handle anything.”
Dad and I were now equals. I told him to watch out for Mom and my sister and brothers.
Later that season I learned just how careful I needed to be. One day, after we arrived in Sioux City, like always I picked up my key from George Mitterwald and went to my hotel room. When I opened the door, two men were standing in front of the bed. I was lucky to catch them off guard. I slammed the door and ran to the front desk, my mind reeling: Why were two men in my room? Should I report this? Request security? Or just shut up and take care of it myself? The front desk clerk ran back to the room with me, but the men were gone. We looked outside but saw nobody. Then we searched the room for clues as to who these guys were. Nothing. The clerk wanted to check the security cameras, but I turned down the idea and just asked for another room. I did not want to create a stir with the club, afraid that if I gave them any reason to think I might threaten legal action or attracted any negative publicity, I would be gone. In the end I said nothing. But from then on, I always tried to take a room next to a teammate. Even if the media caught on and reported it, I figured I would be safer. Sometimes I asked a buddy to come into my hotel room with me while I checked under the bed, in the closet, in the bathroom. Sometimes I changed rooms during the middle of our stay. Before I went to sleep I always jammed a chair against the door. I wanted to give myself a chance to fight if I had to.
Next day I woke up, put on my jeans, running shoes, my Minnesota sweatshirt, and a beanie I got from Connie. I was hungry. I went to a 7-Eleven and bought a box of Honey Nut Cheerios—not enough money to buy milk. Back at the hotel, I filled my ice bucket with half of the box of cereal and water. Lunchtime came, and the other half was gone. I got by that day on three dollars. The Dukes proved to be sympathetic toward the survival of us players who made 750 dollars a month. After home games the vendors made sure we left the stadium with hamburgers or pizza and water or pop.
One of the pitchers on our team, Dave Glick, was also staying at the Best Western. Glick, as I came to call him, drove a truck, and offered me a ride to the stadium. During our drive to the ballpark, he told me that he was from California, too: Valencia, in the Santa Clarita Valley, about an hour-and-a-half drive from my home. I liked him right away. He was tall, with dark good looks, and very much his own man. These days you see lots of ballplayers with tattoos, but in 1997 Glick was the only one I knew who was tatted. He had them on his chest, shins, back, arms, all over. He told me that he hid them from management because they hated tattoos. In 1996 the Ogden Raptors had cut him because of them, even though he had gone 3-1 with a 3.41 ERA. After his time with the Dukes, he continued pitching for another ten years, making it into Double-A ball and then back into the independent leagues. David was a strikeout pitcher with a three-to-one ratio to walks and threw ninety-plus miles per hour. To me it seemed all wrong that he did not go farther. But Glick had not received a big signing bonus—he had been drafted by the Milwaukee Brewers in the forty-eighth round of the 1994 June amateur draft; the players who do get the big bonuses tend to get mulligans again and again.
When we got to the clubhouse, Glick said, “Aren’t you coming in?”
“Hell, no,” I replied.
He wanted to know why, so I explained that I was not here to change things up for the guys; I just wanted to play. Glick said that the guys already got that; they just wanted to get to know me.
“Uh-uh, not in that way.”
He laughed, and said, “No. This team is so relaxed. We like to joke around and have fun.”
“I do, too, but not when I am pitching. I need to focus.”
“The guys are going to joke with you to see if you take it, and there is no one here that will fault you for dishing it back. But they will if you don’t come back with something. Everyone here is part of the team. There is no rule about rookies having to do everything.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for the info—hope you’re right.”
“Hope you take my advice,” Glick said. “It will go a long ways.”
After changing in the concourse bathroom, I headed for the dugout, where I sat, waiting for someone to come out to play catch with. I looked out at the field—I loved the old red brick schoolhouse atmosphere of this ballpark—thankful I was playing here. Then the door to the clubhouse opened and one of my teammates said, “Ila, George wants to see you.”
George being the manager, I thought, What the frick have I done? I got ready to open the clubhouse door but first knocked on it, hard. I heard a knock back, and someone said, trying to sound like a girl, “Hello?”
I knocked again
“Open the door.”
I stepped through, and the guy pointed me toward George’s office. When I got there, I looked in but, of course, the manager was not there. Those little shits, I thought. All I need is a reporter coming in now, and it would be a drama. I turned around to ask, “Where’s George?” and saw one of the players approaching. He was six feet two inches tall, and I could see he was well endowed—he happened to be butt naked. Several clothes hangers hung from his penis, and he carried more hangers in his hand. In a serious manner, he asked me, “How many hangers do you think I can hang on my penis?”
Everyone around us watched.
“I have some underwear and clothes in the dugout, if you need some,” I said. Then I spotted Glick in the background looking at me, as if to say, I told you, push back. I saw one of the religious guys coming my way, possibly to my rescue, but stepped in front of him to face the outfielder.
“Give me a hanger, jackass.” I grabbed the remaining hangers from his hand and hung them on his penis. The answer to the number of hangers that fit was eleven. Trying to sound very scientific, I told him, “You must have been doing this way too often if you knew exactly how many hangers fit on your penis.”
He burst out laughing and walked away. When we got out to the field he gave me a huge hug and said, “You’re an awesome sport.” From that point on, he was one of my protectors. He still liked to walk around naked in the locker room—he was quite proud of what God gave him—but that was the end of his trying to get under my skin.
As I headed down the stairs toward the dugout, I turned, grinned at the guys in the locker room, and said, “I found George.”
When Glick came onto the field, he was all smiles.
“You passed,” he said. “The guys were all laughing after you left. They feel like they can joke around with you.” He added that there were two people I should watch myself around. “They like you, but they’re religious and just have different views of what women should be doing and wearing.”
“That’s weird,” I replied, “because I’m a believer, too. But I don’t believe in judging others—I mean, I’m certainly not perfect myself.” I came to think that the religious guys were telling the nonreligious guys to have some respect for me and put some clothes on in the locker room. But these were the same guys who screwed around on their wives, so I doubt the others paid much attention. They just said, “She’s one of us, so who cares?”
From that day on Glick and I became great friends. He usually was the first one on the field unless he was starting. During warmups I hated doing sprints because it was so damn boring, but throw me a football and I would sprint all day. So we developed a ritual. We would stand in the outfield on the foul lines, and he would yell, “Go!” I would sprint as hard as I could go for about forty yards, then break left or right, and he would throw the ball. I lived to make a diving catch. Sometimes a crowd gathered to watch. Once Glick got in trouble because he dove for the football and got grass stains and dirt all over his pants. At these times, I felt playful, like when I was twelve years old and snuck out of the house at night to play football with the kids down the street. Glick loved baseball like I did. He was a talented and disciplined player, and I admired him very much.
Our manager must have known what was going on in the clubhouse. A few games into the season, Mitterwald called all of us into the locker room and laid out the rules. Unlike in St. Paul, my using the stadium bathrooms to change was not going to work here, so I was to use the umpire’s room whenever it was open. I was to be welcome in the clubhouse any time, where some players would be fully dressed, some with towels wrapped around them, and some in their underwear and jock straps. I learned to announce my presence by saying loudly, “Housekeeping. Me fluff your pillows?” I do think that sometimes the guys pretended that we were going to have a clubhouse meeting, just so they could hear me say that.
It was clear that I was on a very different sort of team in Duluth. The Saints had been older and quieter; these guys were young and rowdy. (Think of the Saints as the dignified New York Yankees and the Dukes as the crazy Boston Red Sox during the 2004 season.) Stuff happened. One evening it was so cold down in the bullpen that we could not feel our feet or hands. How could we keep warm if we were called in to pitch? We dug a hole in the dirt, got a white towel out of the locker room and pieces of a broken bat and lit them on fire. We were having a heck of good time but doing everything possible to not let the fire get too high. We ended up sitting all around it so no one in the dugout or the stands could see the flames. Toward the end of the game, who got the call to come in? Babe. I got two quick outs and joined the guys in the dugout. People were laughing as the cameras went off, though I did not understand why until I looked in the mirror later and saw that my face was covered with soot, with only a couple of patches of skin showing. The press loved it. The next day, some of the guys mocked me by wearing, all over their faces, the antiglare stuff we put under our eyes for day games. After that, management no longer sent towels down to the bullpen.
The guys could see I loved playing and wanted to win, that I was not a man-hater or someone interested in being famous as the “first woman ever.” And I kept my mouth shut about those who were popping greenies like sunflower seeds or taking steroids—and about the groupies that were everywhere. I could laugh off my teammates’ practical jokes. I don’t know how many times I got a hotfoot, or shoe polish in my cap, or slime in my mitt. The only thing I escaped was towel whipping, thank goodness. Guys would come out with welts. No place was sacred from clubhouse pranks. The trainer might be stretching you out before a game when a teammate would come by and fart as loud as he could. It did not matter who you were—you were easy bait if you were getting stretched out. As long as they had underwear on and I did not have to see their hairy butts, it was all good. I can imagine some of you thinking how gross and rude that is, but I took it as a compliment. I wanted them to treat me like another player. Well, that is what I got.
As the second half of the season got under way, the Dukes went on a roll. We had been dead last when I came to the team; now we were moving up to second place. I say this not because of anything I contributed but because it was plain exciting to be winning. We were a bunch of misfits who happened to play well together. Wins, of course, help a team to mesh, but even before that we all got along. We were definitely the melting pot of the Northern League. We had homegrown Texas white boys, a tattooed Cali guy with chin hair, three African Americans, clean-cut though not necessarily devout Christians, an Asian, a Canadian, ex–major leaguers, rico suave ladies men, several Dominicans (some speaking no English), and me, the girl. Our pitching coach, Mike Cuellar, fit right in. He walked with a swagger, wore a gold necklace, and liked to have fun. He was still in great shape after his fifteen seasons as a four-time All-Star and an American League Cy Young winner. There were limits to our communication, though. Mike was from Cuba and sometimes struggled with English, especially at important moments. One day he ran to the mound to chew me out. “You Think, You Stink,” he hollered over and again, spit foaming at his mouth. I fought down a belly laugh. If I was not getting as many innings as I had hoped, I was having a heck of a good time.
The bullpen was like a private community. Our conversations ranged from talking baseball (players’ weaknesses and strengths, past seasons with other teams, and the use of steroids, testosterone, and human growth hormone supplements) to arguments over where we could get the best coffee—most of us agreed on Dunkin’ Donuts—and how many times a week married couples should have sex. And always, the guys were scanning the stands for women. I often got cast as the judge of these debates because I was considered the fairest person.
My teammates’ sense of humor helped me relax. For most of them it was not do or die, like it was for me. They enjoyed playing baseball, but most knew it was not going to be their life. If it did not work out, they planned to go back home into the family business or some other job. They felt like they had nothing to lose, because most players don’t even make it to professional baseball, and they had achieved that. To move higher was often a matter of politics or good luck, so they just gave it their best and let whatever happened happen. But they saw the extra scrutiny and stress on me. And I could see that my Cuban teammate, Ariel, had a lot more pressure riding because he had to keep his job or he was going back to Castro’s country.
One night at a game in Iowa we were fairly deep into a scatological discussion when Mike Cuellar gave the hourglass sign. When I got to the mound, I saw small brown frogs everywhere. The field was brand new and well groomed, but it was surrounded by farmland. August in the Midwest is hot and humid—I guess this was frog weather. Well, better this than the cold of May and June. I notched a strikeout and got out of the inning with no runs, but when I came into the dugout I ran into a plague of frogs of near Biblical proportions. When my teammates saw me dodging the frogs, I was in for it. The guys were all over me for being afraid. I denied it, saying I just did not want them all over me and did not want to kill them. No mercy. Back on the mound, I opened my glove and there was a frog, which I laid on the grass behind the mound. From the eighth inning on, I had frogs all over my gear and my body. Dang, I thought. Just give ballplayers a little opening, and you are toast.
After we won the game, I was safely settled on the team bus when I heard noises coming from my baseball bag. When I unzipped it to check, about twenty frogs hopped out.
“Damn it,” I muttered, “Those little shits” (meaning not the frogs but my prankster teammates). I tried to gather all the frogs that had jumped onto the bus floor. I was all over the bus trying to get those suckers. Then I stepped off the bus and put them in a grassy place nearby. I could see some of the guys who were talking to local Baseball Annies peer around and laugh.
Other teammates just said, “Ila, what the fuck have you done now?”
Having done my deed of kindness, as I headed to the back of the bus I stuck my slimy hands out, darting at the freshly showered players as if to touch them, all of them yelling, “Get the fuck away from me.”
After taking two games out of three from the Sioux City Explorers, we returned to Duluth, where I learned that the club had found a place for me to live. I had loved the anonymity of living in a hotel room and treasured my privacy, which I considered important to my mental health. The house, though, was convenient for someone like me without a car—right across the street from the stadium. My hosts were a divorcée who was a retired cook with grown kids in the area and a single woman with a boyfriend. How was I going to live with two women in a thousand-square-foot two-bedroom house? Whenever I was in town, one woman gave up her bedroom and slept in the living room. They were the nicest women, and I could tell they wanted to hang out with me, but by the time I got home I just wanted to chill. Sleep was what got me through. My hosts did their best to give me the space I needed.
As I settled into my role with the Dukes, some of my bullpen mates began asking for pitching advice. Because I didn’t have ninety-five-mile-per-hour speed, I had to pitch smart, with a lot of movement on the ball. I also threw a heavy ball, according to teammates I played catch with. They saw that I understood mechanics. (Some coaches, like Mike Cuellar, were so good back in their day that they couldn’t relate to pitchers whose styles were different from theirs.)
All through August, the Dukes continued to win. The guys were happy because now even more groupies were lining up for them. We finished the season in first, one game ahead of the Saints. Now we would face them in the best-of-five semifinals. No one expected us to win—the Saints were considered unbeatable against a team like ours: fifth in the eight-team league in hitting and batting, and sixth in pitching and fielding. I started to pray, “Please God, please . . .”
I cannot recall every game of the playoffs, but I remember Game Five, played in Duluth on a frigid night with about two thousand people in the stands. Starting for us was our ace, Allen Halley—six feet one, 195 pounds, and a ball of fire. With a shaved head, a soul patch below his lip, and a ruddy face, Allen always looked like he was out to kill you. It was his habit to dip or chew, he popped greenies like candy, and he drank coffee like water. Though he had a huge temper, he was kind to me and superfunny. We also had a hot bat in designated hitter and outfielder Mike Meggers.
Before the game, we in the bullpen played our ritual game of flip. You could use only your mitt and body to bounce the baseball off you and onto the other player. If you hit another player and the ball hit the floor, he was out. Every part of the body but the head was “in.” I never won that damn game. After the ball game started, the bullpen was quieter than usual. We were all ready to come in at the first sign of trouble, but that night the Dukes were on. Mike was crushing the ball, and Allen was dealing big time.
In the top of the ninth, we stood together in front of the wooden bench, jumping up and down or toe tapping to keep warm, anticipating the win. When the last batter struck out swinging, I rushed the mound with the rest of the guys. Some of us ran with our arms raised, others jumped up and down and hugged while champagne flowed. It felt great but also weird, because I still felt a sense of loyalty to the Saints.
For the best-of-seven championship series we faced the Winnipeg Goldeyes, who had edged out the Fargo RedHawks in the other semifinal. During the series, both stadiums were packed with fans going nuts. We took a game, they took a game, and then we pulled ahead three to two. We knew we had to get them in Game Six, at home in Duluth. As the game got under way, both starters were dealing, and fielders were making plays that seemed impossible. Who was going to take this game? Both teams deserved it. There was no kidding around in the bullpen that night—we all paced, ready to go if called in. We tried to do this only when the Dukes were in the dugout, not wanting our starter to think he might be coming out. We just wanted to be ready to contribute.
Top of the ninth, we were ahead. In the bullpen I hunched over, close to Glick, biting my fingers, praying to God, “Please . . .” Our closer was in now, the best in the league, but the Goldeyes had the best hitting in the league. Fly ball. One out. I hit Glick on the shoulder: next hitter up went to a full count before grounding out. Two outs. I shook Glick, who gave me the look, like “you’re a freak.” When the umpire motioned strike three, I slapped Glick on the back. Then the entire bullpen rushed the mound, where we transformed into a dog pile of exuberant kids. I was just grateful to be on top of the pile and not the bottom. The Dukes—the misfits of the League—had won the pennant. And I, perhaps the biggest misfit of all, had survived my rookie season. I had my own baseball card. And soon I would be wearing a championship ring. Look at me now, all you naysayers!
I remembered to whisper a quick prayer, “Thank you, God, for watching over me, and for teaching me to aim high and put no limits on You . . . Please Lord, prepare me to get a win next year and to go as far as I can go in this beautiful game.”
Holy Shit, I kept saying to myself, Holy Shit.
“We Are the Champions” blared over the PA. Then we players went on the microphone to thank the fans for their support. For more than an hour we celebrated on the field, helping to make the fans feel a part of this. Finally the guys started to head to the showers, and I realized that the season truly was over.
The following day I hopped in Glick’s green S10 Chevy truck and headed west with him. We both resigned ourselves to going from an ultimate high to ordinary life back at home—though I would have the security of my money from the SSK contract. With that I would have the time to train and get stronger. Trading the wheel every four hours (whoever drove got to choose the music), we wanted to see as much of the countryside as we could. The first day, we traveled through the cornfields and small Scandinavian towns of Iowa before stopping in Lincoln, Nebraska. No romance then, though we dated later that winter. If ever I was going to go hetero—and I prayed that I could—Glick would be the guy. On our dates we would talk baseball and sports, ride the roller coasters at Six Flags Magic Mountain, and talk about our futures. But we both knew we would not last together. I understood that he needed to date other girls and was not close to settling down. I knew I loved him, though not physically.
The next day it poured as we drove through Colorado, soaking our luggage in the bed of the truck. Then we entered the breathtaking red rock country of Utah. We had planned to make it home that night, but by the time we reached Las Vegas, we decided to relax for one more day before returning to the realities of our lives. No gambling, we had just enough money for gas to get home, so we people-watched as we walked the Strip. We talked about what we would face when we arrived home. Glick would go back to his job delivering pizza, because it gave him plenty of time to work out and improve his pitching skills. He still had to live at home with his parents, because he could not make it on his own financially. Sometimes he stayed with a girlfriend, so he had some independence from his parents. The next day Glick dropped me off in La Mirada before heading north to the Santa Clarita Valley.
For the first time since leaving for college five years ago, I was home. I planned to use my endorsement money to rent a place and return to college for four months. I needed to complete six more units to get my BA in kinesiology and become the first person in the Borders-Carter family to graduate from college, so this was a big deal. I would then pass the state teaching exam and substitute-teach while training for next season. I looked forward to reaping some rewards from all the hard work.
Except it did not work out that way. In my memory, I waved good-bye to Glick, rolled my luggage up into the house, and began to tell Dad about my plans.
“I’m ready for my money,” I said. “It will let me live on my own, and I can work less and train more.”
He had negotiated with me to keep half of the fifty thousand dollars as his agent’s fee, because he had gotten more than they originally offered. I had wondered at the time about that—what agent takes fifty percent? But there was still my half, right?
“No,” said Dad. His face didn’t look right, a combination of fear and guilt. “I had to use my half immediately to pay off the rest of Randall’s bills, plus your auto insurance for two years.”
I did the math. “Auto insurance is only six hundred dollars a year, Dad. That’s a total of twelve hundred.”
Dad’s face changed to anger, as if I didn’t care about the family’s needs.
“I also tithed 10 percent of your twenty-five thou to the church.”
Dad tithing was news to me and, when she found out, to Mom.
All my money was gone. Dad said he would pay me back as he could afford it. In truth he went for many years without paying anything. He could not understand why I was so angry. I was told to be a good sport about it but that if I was going to be a sourpuss, then I was selfish and against the family. To me what he did was stealing, and it broke any trust I had left in him.
It was not just about the money, though—there was a much bigger picture here. Mom and the rest of the family had always invested in the pretense that things in our family were okay. Mom said not to worry, that Dad would pay it back. I was furious that she did not back me up after I had stood up for her for so many years. Our family had the habit of not confronting one another with a complaint or trying to resolve the problem; instead they talked behind one another’s backs. Dad had his list of grievances: He felt disrespected by Phillip and Randall, but he was older now and too tired to discipline them, unlike when I was young. He was angry that his kids avoided him. Well, who wanted to be near him when we all lived in fear of his hitting us, kicking us out of the house, and generally making our lives difficult? He was upset with Mom’s weight gain and called her lazy for not contributing more financially. He felt like he was the only one working, with three kids living here for free, eating up all the food, and not taking care of the house. Well, teenagers tend to be that way.
Mom was crushed because Dad was having an affair and everyone knew it, though he denied it. She sank into depression. My brothers were great dudes, but they were mad at Dad for his cheating and lying and had lost respect for Mom because she didn’t stand up to him. Meanwhile my sister Leah complained but did nothing about anything. And here I was, the firstborn, who not only hated lying, cheating, laziness, and talking behind each other’s backs but also was trying to face up to whatever problems came along. For this I was considered the black sheep of the family. Even so, I had always been the mediator. If someone had a problem, they told me. I was tired of the role. I learned that I was enabling the others to not grow. It was time to get out of the house and find a healthier way of living, but did that mean no more baseball for me? Or should I suck it up, live at home, and allow Dad to control me, so I could have more time to train?
I transferred my credits at Whittier to Southern California College and enrolled in the six units that would fulfill my degree. When I walked into one of my classes, I was in for a shock. There was Shelley. She told me that she was not seeing her boyfriend anymore and asked how I was doing.
“Great,” I said. “I’m doing great.” Still upset with her, I was civil but distant, as if we had never been friends.
With my degree in hand and my teaching exam passed, I began to work as a substitute instructor in high schools around L.A. I also worked as a janitor and taught pre-K at Mom’s preschool. I had little time to train and was not at all sure whether I could play next season. Once again I reached out to God. “Lord, help me out,” I prayed. “You gave me a gift to play baseball and you gave me a very determined spirit. If it is still your will, please give me a way to pursue my dream, and I promise to work my ass off.”
After living with friends here and there, I met a woman through my sister Leah. Kelly Deutsch was a huge Yankees fan. During the mid-1970s, Kelly was among the first girls to play Little League in Passaic, New Jersey, and pitched for the boys junior varsity high school team at Collegiate School before switching to softball. By the time we met she was back to her first love, baseball, playing on Leah’s women’s team. I think Kelly loved the game more than anyone I have ever met. She would listen to the Yankees on the radio and would race home on her motorcycle from her work as a producer in Hollywood to catch a game on TV. Kelly also was out-of-the-closet gay, light years ahead of me that way. She understood this difference between us. We dated a couple of times, but I think she knew I was not emotionally ready for a relationship. By mutual agreement we agreed to continue as friends. She became my confidant, the one who knew stuff about me. I admired her in so many ways.
Kelly invited me to move into her apartment in Hollywood, covered my share of the rent, and gave me food. In return I cleaned the apartment and coached her in pitching and hitting. We lived for the weekends, when we drove to Beverly Hills High School and practiced baseball for hours. We also watched a lot of baseball on TV, and I would explain the game to her and what was going on. She showed me around Hollywood and Los Angeles, and got me a job as an assistant producer, even though I had not a clue what I was doing. Because of Kelly I was able to train hard for the upcoming season.
That winter photographer Annie Leibovitz called. She had been taking pictures of various women for a book she was working on with Susan Sontag, and I was someone of interest to her. She wanted to come to California and take pictures of me pitching. She arrived in town with a bunch of assistants and three large trailers of equipment. She did her usual amazing work, shooting one overcast afternoon on the field at Whittier College. What I remember most about Annie was her kindness. I had always been a fan of her work; now I became an admirer of the woman she was: talented, famous, and gracious. The off-season had started with a bitter financial disappointment, but it ended on a high. Sure, there were people like Dad in this world, but there were also people like Annie Leibovitz.
Then a letter dated November 6, 1998, arrived. The Dukes wanted me back. This time, I told myself, I’m taking two suitcases and lots of warm clothes and packing like I’m not coming back. I am determined to get a win.