A Season of Daring Greatly

  Mrs. Wilkins gave her a happy smile. “Jeremiah sent that nice young intern out to let us know.”

  “I should probably text you,” Jill said, “when I’m running late. I know this is pretty inconvenient.”

  “We’re happy to wait,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “We love being at the ballpark.”

  Mr. Wilkins grunted his agreement, as he pulled out of the parking lot.

  Even so. “It seems like a lot of work, though,” Jill said. “And isn’t it hard, not having privacy?”

  “We’ve been doing it for years,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “Ever since our kids left home. We like having young people around. During the school year, we usually host exchange students, too.”

  There was no question that they were generous people who enjoyed helping others. “What if the person staying with you is, I don’t know, surly?” Jill asked.

  “Oh, they’re always great,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “Some of them are a little quiet, especially the youngsters from other countries, but we enjoy each and every one of you.”

  She didn’t seem like the kind of person who would give a dishonest answer, so Jill decided to take her word on that.

  “There was that one kid,” Mr. Wilkins said.

  Mrs. Wilkins winced. “Oh, yes. But, that poor thing didn’t adjust very well, and it didn’t last long.”

  That sounded ominous. “You mean, you kicked him out?” Jill asked.

  Now, Mrs. Wilkins chuckled. “Of course not. But, baseball really wasn’t a good fit for him, and he got released.”

  Without even knowing who he was, Jill felt sorry for him. “They cut one of the other pitchers this morning,” she said. “He was a nice guy.”

  Mrs. Wilkins turned in her seat to look at her. “I’m so sorry! Was he a good friend?”

  Not exactly, but— “Well, I knew him, and—I don’t know,” Jill said. “It was sad. He rode home on the bus with us last night, and today, he was just gone.”

  “Part of baseball,” Mr. Wilkins said. “Had a season in the Cubs organization myself.”

  She hadn’t known that—and might not have guessed, since he was, um, substantial, and it was hard to see the ex-athlete in him. “What position did you play?” she asked.

  “First base, and corner outfield,” he said, and glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “I was much thinner then.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, hoping that he hadn’t read her mind.

  “I made it through the first season, but they cut me early on in spring training the next year,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That must have been disappointing.”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay. I liked being a cop.”

  “How did you two meet?” Jill asked.

  “He arrested me,” Mrs. Wilkins said.

  That was a joke, right? She checked Mrs. Wilkins’s expression, to be sure, and then relaxed. “Well, that’s a good story for your grandchildren,” she said.

  Mrs. Wilkins laughed. “And don’t we tell it to them that way, every single time!”

  “I met her in the ER one night, when we came over with some MVA victims,” Mr. Wilkins said. “Connie was the best nurse they ever had over there.”

  “Oh, hush,” Mrs. Wilkins said fondly.

  “You were,” he said. “That place has never been the same, since you retired.”

  “You do go on, Horace,” Mrs. Wilkins said, and they smiled at each other.

  They were extremely nice people. She wasn’t sure how much common ground they were going to be able to find, or if she would ever really feel comfortable living in someone else’s house, but her mother was right—as host families went, she could definitely have done worse.

  A lot worse.

  CHAPTER 23

  Her next start was two days later, and she tried very hard to keep to the game-day routine she was developing—even though she still wasn’t completely sure what she wanted her routine to be. So far, it was mostly trial and error. When to eat, when to relax quietly, when to start getting psyched up. The pre-game strategy session went fine, and so did her stretching with Sofia, and her on-field warm-ups.

  But, for some reason, once she was in the bullpen, she didn’t feel right. Her fastballs weren’t crisp, her location was terrible, and when she tried to throw a curve, it spun ineptly, instead of breaking.

  “You’re pressing,” Sawyer said. “Just throw easy, stay with your delivery.”

  Jill nodded, focusing on her arm-slot, with the hope that if she got that right, everything else would fall into place. By the time her warm-up was over, she felt a little more smooth, but still not like her normal self.

  “Forget about it,” Marcus said, once she had put her jacket on, and they were walking towards the dugout. “What happens in the bullpen doesn’t have anything to do with the game. You’ll be fine once you get out there.”

  Maybe. “I feel—off,” she said.

  Sawyer looked at her sharply. “You have any injuries you’re not telling me about?”

  She shook her head. “No. I just—I don’t know. I’m off-kilter, somehow.”

  “Mother’s right, you’ll be okay,” Sawyer said. “Bear down when you get out there.”

  She nodded and looked around for a little girl in a convenient spot next to the field. But, she couldn’t find one, so she handed her warm-up baseball to an eager small boy, instead. Just as she did it, she wondered whether she was putting the whammy on herself, by changing her routine—but, no, that was stupid, and she smiled at the boy, before continuing on her way.

  The national anthem was sung by a local school choir, and once again, a cluster of children joined her on the mound, although this time, there were five girls, and two boys—all of whom were vociferously excited. But, she did a decent job of keeping them under control, and Jeremiah and Paul were quick to guide them off the field once the anthem was over.

  Her warm-up tosses were somewhat better, so maybe it had just been a lousy bullpen. And with the game starting, she had an utterly clean slate.

  Which almost immediately turned into an ugly slate. The first batter hit a sharp single on a fastball with almost no movement, and the next guy doubled to the gap, followed by a very deep sacrifice fly to Schwartzman, so she had given up her first damn run—and the guy on second advanced to third on the throw.

  Where he was promptly driven in by another double, on a two-seamer that moved like a wounded bird.

  And, here came the second run.

  There was a lot of rumbling from the crowd, and she distinctly heard Caleb laughing, and saying something to the effect of “Oh, yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!”

  Marcus walked out to the mound with a new baseball. “Take a couple of deep breaths, Jill,” he said. “Relax.”

  Relax? What game was he watching? She stared at him.

  “Look at my glove, and hit it,” he said. “Nothing else exists.”

  Well, except for the damn runner on second. “Do I do a slide-step?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No, just pitch. We’ve done some work on the stretch, and you’re solid there. Start fresh with this guy, and you’ll be fine.”

  She glanced at the plate, where a muscular Latino guy was grinning at her, and waggling his bat with great anticipation.

  “Just hit my glove,” Marcus said.

  Except, the truth was, the batter was huge, and she was afraid he might hit her crummy fastball about a thousand miles, so she tried to aim off the plate—and walked him on five pitches. She was able to get a ground ball from the next batter, but Raffy double-clutched on the throw, and Diaz barely managed to keep it from sailing into the outfield, so the bases were loaded. That was followed by another damn double, and it was five to nothing, with only one down.

  None of her pitches were working. The four-seamer was slow, the two-seamer was flat, the changeup was completely out of control, and the curveball had only a vague, forlorn spin. Hell, her grandmothers could probably hit doubles off her tonight. r />
  She wanted to look at the bullpen, to see if anyone was warming up—but, no point in broadcasting the degree to which she was totally overwhelmed right now. She was damned if she would look over at the dugout, either, but she had definitely heard Caleb laughing again.

  Marcus trudged back out to the mound. “Keep the ball down,” he said. “Let’s get out of the inning.”

  How were they going to do that? “Why can I suddenly not throw?” she asked.

  “You can,” he said. “Put the dog tag away, okay?”

  She frowned at him, then looked down and saw that she was, in fact, clutching it tightly.

  “It’s a tell,” he said. “You play with it whenever you get nervous.”

  She was going to argue—but, since it was in her hand, the only sensible thing to do was to tuck it back into her jersey.

  “We’re going to work this guy low,” he said. “Get him to ground out. You’re fine. Just focus.”

  Low. Outside. She could do that. And the guy wouldn’t be able to put a good swing on the ball.

  Once Marcus was behind the plate, she sucked in a breath and tried to tune out everything except for his glove.

  It was a perfectly good plan, but she left the ball up again, and the guy smashed a line drive single up the middle, and the guy on second scored—and her stomach was starting to ache.

  Now, she was facing the number nine hitter—a scrawny little middle infielder, who looked about fifteen—and her first pitch skidded into the dirt, and skipped towards the backstop. The runner on first took second, and after three more lousy pitches—two of which Marcus had to lunge to snag—she had walked the tiny banjo hitter.

  Great. Just great.

  And she did want to clutch the dog tag.

  Jesus Christ, this was a nightmare. An unmitigated disaster. She looked in at Marcus, who still wanted her to keep the ball low, which she actually managed to do—but, the guy at the plate golfed a scorcher of a line drive, which Owen dove and caught.

  Dimitri came over partway from first. “Pitch to contact, Jill,” he said. “We’ll get the last out for you.”

  The sooner, the better. She couldn’t remember ever getting smacked around like this, not even in Little League.

  And her stomach was hurting badly enough to make her want to double over.

  She threw a two-seamer so far outside that Marcus barely managed to corral it. Maybe her curveball would work? God knows nothing else was. She shook him off—more than once—until he gave up and signaled for the curve.

  Good. Her curve was her best damn pitch. She could throw a curve.

  But, as it left her hand, she knew there was almost nothing on it—and the batter turned on the pitch with obvious delight, sending the ball deep into the sky, and way over the left field wall.

  One run crossed the plate, and then another, and the two guys waited to exchange high fives with the happy kid who had hit the homer.

  9–0. Freaking nine to nothing.

  Marcus had started to come out, but she waved him off, threw her first decent two-seamer of the night, and the hitter swung and missed.

  Of all things! A strike. Would the world stop spinning on its axis?

  So, she threw another, but took a little off it, and the guy was so overeager that he popped up to Diaz, and the god-damn inning was finally over.

  Nine to nothing.

  She sucked.

  As she walked off the mound, there were so many boos that she was disconcerted, and almost stopped right she was.

  “Is this a home game?” she asked Marcus.

  “Well, at least you’ll have fewer autographs to sign later,” he said.

  Mr. Silver Lining.

  The closer they got to the dugout, the more the boos intensified, and it sounded as though the whole stadium was joining in, but surely, they couldn’t all have decided to start hating her. There were a lot of insults and jeers, which drowned out the stray “It’s okay, Jill!” and “We still love you!” shouts here and there. One guy yelled, “Hey, how’s that world domination working out for you?”—and since that was legitimately funny, she almost laughed.

  Although she was also seriously considering throwing up.

  “This is what happens to fans in fair weather,” Dimitri said, off to her left.

  Apparently so.

  The boos weren’t letting up at all, and without thinking about it, she lifted her hands in a mea culpa shrug—which diffused some of the negative reception. But, she was damn glad to be able to step inside the dugout.

  Adler was waiting for her, completely expressionless, with his arms folded across his chest—and she shrugged at him, too.

  “You want to hit the showers?” he asked.

  More than she could possibly express.

  Up at the railing, Caleb laughed. “We all sure want her out of there. Man, that was pathetic.”

  “Shut up, Kordell,” someone said—and she was surprised to see that it was, of all people, Owen.

  “Hey, at least I’m not charting tonight,” Caleb said, and gestured towards Javy, who was holding the clipboard. “That poor tool’s hand is cramping up.”

  Christ, he was really a piece of work. But, she looked at Adler, who was watching her closely. “That was a very bad inning, sir,” she said. “A disgrace, even. I certainly earned being yanked, but I’d like another shot at them, if that’s okay.”

  He looked at her some more, then moved his jaw. “Give me one good reason.”

  Well, that was going to be a challenge. “Because I haven’t pitched yet tonight,” she said.

  “No, you haven’t,” he said, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll give you fifteen pitches, and then I’m pulling you.”

  Fair enough. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Thank you, sir.”

  Hector held up a raised solidarity fist as he walked past her on his way to the on-deck circle—for which she felt pitifully grateful.

  Her throat was tight with tension—she hoped it wasn’t tears threatening—and she paused to half-fill a cup of Gatorade before heading towards the bench to sit down.

  “Man, with the shit she throws,” Caleb said to Jonesy, “she’s going to get hurt out there. I mean, they are teeing off.”

  Before Jonesy even had time to respond, Marcus spun around. “One more word,” he said softly, “and I’m going to hit you so hard that your head will land in Connecticut.”

  Caleb laughed. “Staking out your turf there, Grimes?”

  It only took a split second for the dugout to go absolutely silent—including the guys who didn’t speak nearly enough English to know what he had said, but who had picked up on the tone.

  “After he’s finished,” Dimitri said through his teeth, “I’m going to go up to Connecticut, and kick that fucking head all the way to Europe.”

  “Ooh,” Caleb said, and turned to give Jill a big wink. “You’ve been putting out, haven’t you, you naughty girl?”

  “All right, that’s it,” Adler said, with such crackling authority that everyone in the dugout froze even more. “Kordell, you seem to have a lot of energy tonight. Go inside and get on the damn bike until I send someone in to tell you to get off the damn bike.”

  “Sure thing, Skip,” Caleb said, and patted Javy on the back. “Good luck, man. Try not to let your hand get tired.”

  “Bronsky, you’re on deck,” Adler said, as Caleb headed down the tunnel. “Katsaros, you’re in the hole. Get your damn heads in the game!”

  Scott put on a helmet and grabbed his bat, while Dimitri began pulling on his batting gloves, and slowly, the dugout eased back into its normal flow, which was a relief, although there was still some tension in the air.

  As Jill sat down, Shosuke reached over to pat her hand lightly and then withdrew, and she said, “Arigatō,” and he nodded sympathetically.

  From the end of the dugout, Sofia held up the heat pack, and she shook her head. Sofia nodded, and set it aside, and Sawyer came over, instead.

  “Okay, then,” he said, his
voice as calm as if it had been an entirely routine inning. “A lot of the work we’ve been doing has been geared towards getting you through nights like this. So, tell me what your approach is going to be out there.”

  Her mind was a total god-damn blank. “Um,” she said. “Well, I—throw strikes?”

  “Think, Cafferty,” he said. “The curve isn’t there tonight, and you’re not locating the changeup. So, what’s your plan?”

  She still had no clue. “Well, I guess—I mean—” Wait, she did know the answer. Or, anyway, an answer. “I work the black with my two-seamer, change speeds as much as I can, and keep them honest with the four-seamer, but I try to make sure that’s off the plate or up in their eyes,” she said.

  Sawyer nodded. “All right, then. That sounds very much like a plan, doesn’t it?”

  In fact, it did.

  “So, let’s see you execute it,” Sawyer said, then paused. “And do not shake off Mother again. Your curve is horseshit tonight, and he was trying to help you, but you threw it, anyway—and now, it’s sitting out there in the trees somewhere.”

  Halfway to Connecticut, even. “No, sir,” she said. “I won’t, sir.”

  Ramón, who had been listening, straining to follow the conversation, came over and patted his own left shoulder, violently. “Open,” he said. “No good.”

  Sawyer and Marcus both nodded.

  “He’s right,” Sawyer said. “You were flying all over the place out there. Remember to finish your pitches.”

  She was pretty sure that, during that inning, she hadn’t even been capable of remembering her name.

  It would have been nice to slump down and drape a towel over her head, but the game was being televised regionally, and running on MiLB.com, too. Which meant that the camera was probably lingering on the dugout, trying to capture her looking as though she had plummeted into total despair—or was maybe even weeping. So, she just sat calmly, staring straight ahead, taking slow, regular breaths through her nose, and releasing them through her mouth.

  She had a long wait, because the guys—in a methodical, determined way—scored five runs. Nine to five was assuredly not as awful as nine to nothing.

  “They did a good job for you. Return the favor,” Adler said in a low voice, as she moved purposefully past him.