A Season of Daring Greatly

  “This isn’t make-or-break, Cafferty,” Durben said. “We just want to get a general feel for things.”

  “Don’t listen to him!” some Nationals guy yelled. “Your whole career’s riding on this!”

  With luck, the ink was dry on her contract, and so, if they decided they wanted to back out, it would be too late.

  “Don’t pay attention to that clown,” Freddie said, his voice good-natured. “The next time he throws a strike will be the first time.”

  In general, the mood of the onlookers seemed to be pretty cheerful, although there was an anxious edge of anticipation among most of the front office people, to say nothing of her family.

  “Just fastballs,” Durben said. “Free and easy, maybe seventy-five percent max. We’re not looking for you to break the gun here—this is more about mechanics. You have a two-seamer and a four, right?”

  Jill nodded, scraping her cleats across the front of the mound to get a feel for it.

  “Four-seamers first,” he said. “A few down the pike, and then work outside low, outside high. Don’t overthrow.”

  Jill nodded. Could they tell that she was having trouble swallowing? With luck, no.

  Time to pretend there was no audience at all. No radar guns. No videographers. No crowd of kibitzing major league baseball players. That she was at home in the backyard, throwing to Greg, who would generally shout things like “Don’t hurt me!” and pretend to scream in pain every time the ball cracked into his glove.

  The mound was perfectly manicured, but she smoothed her landing spot with her cleats, anyway. Which felt good. Familiar.

  The challenge now, was to make the world very small. Focus on hitting the glove—and nothing else.

  She had never thrown to a catcher who looked so calm, and still, and relaxed. A massive target. A man, not a boy.

  Her first three pitches felt terrible coming out of her hand, and went at least a foot away from where she had planned. There was maybe a little discontented rumble from the many bystanders—which, of course, she absolutely did not hear. Nope. Not even faintly.

  She took a deep breath to focus—and the next three hit his glove and generated enough pop to get people’s attention. Which changed the rumble to something more like a small buzz of low-voiced conversations.

  “Outside corner,” Durben said.

  She went low with two pitches, and then high, with two more.

  “Too much plate,” he said. “Barely kiss the black.”

  Kiss the black. Okay. She put the next several pitches about two inches off the plate.

  “Inside, now,” he said. “Low, then high.”

  She felt strong. In control. In command.

  Durben grunted with what she hoped was approval, although it was hard to be sure. “Go to the two-seam. Same pattern.”

  She was perspiring enough now so that her arm was nice and loose, and the two-seam fastball had good movement today. Lots of sink, lots of tail. She moved it up and down, in and out.

  “Let’s see the change,” Durben said.

  It was easy to overthink a changeup. But, she needed to keep it all about the grip, and stay with her normal arm action. Take advantage of having big hands, and let the ball sit deep in there.

  The glove. All that mattered was hitting the glove. Nothing else even existed.

  After she threw about half a dozen, Durben made the same grunting sound. “Okay, make the people happy,” he said. “Show me the hook.”

  Curveballs were fun. She’d only been throwing one for a couple of years now—before that, she’d worked off the changeup—but, right from the start, the curve had been a really good fit. Nothing made her feel more confident than throwing a true hammer that pretty much fell off a table, especially when batters completely froze at the plate. She snapped off a few, with good sharp breaks, reminding herself to stay low in the zone—and heard corresponding murmurs, and even a soft whistle, in response.

  “Okay, that’ll do it,” Durben said. “Go with Garcia, have him set you up with some ice and a cooldown.”

  Jill nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The Pirates manager said something unintelligible, and Durben said, “Oh, hell, yeah. Love the long stride, too.”

  While the two of them conferred with Mr. Saunders, glancing at her every so often, Freddie took off his mask and came over with a big grin on his face.

  “Nice work, Jill,” he said. “Stay focused, and someday, you’re going to be back here for real.”

  How excellent would that be? She grinned back at him—because she couldn’t resist.

  Had it been a perfect session? No. One of the curveballs spun a little, and her location was shakier than she would have liked—and if she thought about it long enough, she could probably come up with a long list of other self-criticisms.

  But, as far as her potential career was concerned, it had been a damned good start.

  CHAPTER 8

  As she left the bullpen, front office guys were practically tripping over themselves to shake her hand—even the ones who had been unfriendly the first time she met them. And she noticed people congratulating the area scout who had recommended her. The players were more friendly now, too, teasing her and goofing around as she walked across the outfield—but, that was a good sign.

  Theo gave her a thumbs-up, and her mother was trying to hide a very broad smile, probably because she didn’t want to seem too obviously proud.

  Jill winked at her as she walked by with the trainer. Then, she gestured towards the dugout, and her mother nodded.

  It hadn’t been that many pitches, but now that it was over, she was worn out.

  A player fell into step with them, and she wasn’t sure who it was. One of the bullpen guys, maybe. But, even though she had made a point of not looking too closely, he was definitely one of the—for lack of a better phrase—weenie-waggers from the clubhouse. Garcia narrowed his eyes, but didn’t say anything.

  “Here to check my cup?” she asked, stiffly.

  He shrugged, not meeting her eyes.

  They were about the same height, which gave her some extra confidence. She—in no way whatsoever—had to look up at him.

  “You’ve got some good late movement there,” he said.

  She nodded, not in the mood to be even marginally friendly.

  “Good location, too,” he said.

  She nodded.

  They crossed the foul line, heading towards the dugout, and the clubhouse beyond.

  The guy let out his breath. “Look. I’m sorry. Okay? Jay and I were being assholes.”

  “Damn right you were,” Garcia said, very grim. “She’s a kid.”

  “I’m trying to fucking apologize, man,” the guy said, and then looked at her. “You’re going to catch a lot of shit, you know? Lot of people don’t want you to succeed.”

  She glanced over. “Are you one of them?”

  “Fuck, yeah,” he said. “But, you know, I gotta say, you threw great. Where they sending you?”

  “Pomeroy,” she said.

  He nodded. “Hang tough. Don’t let any of us scare you off.” Then, he turned and jogged back onto the field.

  “Is he a pitcher?” Jill asked.

  Garcia nodded. “Mop-up, mostly. He’s not a bad guy. I would’ve told them to lay off, but I guess I wanted to see how you would react. The way I figure it, if you can’t handle that, you’ll be gone in a week, anyway.”

  True enough. So, she nodded.

  “I’m not crazy about this whole thing with you playing, either,” he said, “if you want me to be honest. Not too many guys are, probably. But, if it turns out you’re for real, and can hold your own, and help the ball club someday? Hard to be against that. And I liked what I just saw out there.”

  With luck, most of the rest of the baseball people she ran across were going to feel about the same way.

  When they got back to the clubhouse, she was strapped up with an astonishing amount of ice, to a degree which made her feel
either ridiculous—or very frail. Garcia explained, at length, the post-pitching routine they were going to want her to adopt, and talked about her overall diet, nutrition, sleeping patterns, and a bunch of other practical, if somewhat mind-numbing, stuff.

  After he took the ice off, he did some more stretching of her arm and shoulder. Then, she followed him to a weight room where various players were working out. They noticed her—but, none of them seemed very interested. Lifting weights was, in this particular environment, serious business.

  Garcia showed her some cooldown exercises and stretches, and put her on a stationary bike for twenty five minutes. Then, she was issued a fresh T-shirt, a batting practice jersey, and another pair of baseball pants. She changed in the same small room, and one of the assistant general managers appeared to walk her back out to the field, where she was supposed to shag fly balls during batting practice, and then have an informal meeting with the media.

  Well, informal in the sense of being totally structured and planned.

  When they got outside, her mother was sitting at the far end of the dugout, reading a book, with a cup of Gatorade by her side—which seemed hilariously odd. Theo was talking to some of the guys on the grounds crew, hanging out near a huge, rolled-up tarp.

  There were a bunch of players spread around in the outfield, vaguely catching flies and fielding outfield grounders, but it was all pretty desultory, and a lot of the guys seemed to be goofing around. She joined them, standing apart, without making a point of avoiding anyone.

  No one struck up a conversation with her, but most of them gave her a nod, or said, “Hey” in a reasonably collegial way. The mop-up relief pitcher kept his distance, which was fine with her.

  There was music playing on the ballpark’s public address system, to help keep batting practice entertaining, presumably. High-energy rock and roll, for the most part, with some rap thrown in. She had heard that when a team didn’t like the visiting team, they would sometimes play things like Gregorian chants or children’s songs during their BP and warm-ups. Passive-aggressive, but kind of funny.

  The brim of her cap still wasn’t quite right, and she bent it some more. Plus, it was a good way to kill time. She caught a couple of easy fly balls, when they came in her direction, but was careful not to do anything that might look like showboating or false hustle.

  One of the pitchers came over to stand next to her. She recognized him right away—an ace right-hander, who had been on the All-Star team more than once.

  “Watched your bullpen,” he said.

  She had made a point of not noticing whether any star players had been among the spectators. “It was a new experience,” she said, since she didn’t quite have the nerve to ask him what he had thought.

  He nodded, reaching out casually to snag a fly ball. “Don’t get cute,” he said, as he tossed the ball back in the general direction of the infield.

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said.

  He shrugged. “You got a foundation. Build on it, tweak it, make adjustments, whatever, but don’t tear it down.”

  Which made sense.

  “Everyone’ll be giving you advice,” he said. “Everyone. Some of it might be okay, but you’re gonna work off that curve and the change. Don’t screw around with sliders, or cutters, or a knuckler, or whatever the fuck else. Maybe a sinker, get those ground balls. But, don’t let ’em monkey with you. Yeah, you’ll make your adjustments, but if it ain’t broken, keep it that way, you know?”

  She nodded. She had been getting unsolicited—and, very occasionally, requested—advice for years, but most of it conflicted, and wasn’t terribly helpful. The information she was going to hear now would often come from people who were experts—but, yeah, she didn’t like the idea of having someone take her mechanics completely apart, and then try to put them back together again. “Thanks,” she said. “That will really help. It’s all pretty confusing sometimes.”

  “Gotta say, that never changes,” he said, and went back to where he had been standing before.

  She had to give significant points to a veteran who was willing to share some wisdom, without making a big deal about any of the rest of it.

  After a while, the gates must have opened, because a bunch of fans started to come into the ballpark, and she could tell that the more savvy ones were looking for her among the other players in the outfield. Sometimes, she could hear shouting, or see people pointing, and it looked as though a lot of them were taking cell phone photos and the like.

  “You aren’t going to wave?” one of the players nearby asked.

  “I think that would make me an even more annoying rookie than I already am,” she said.

  The guy laughed. “Good call.”

  She was saved from having to worry about it, as batting practice abruptly ended, and everyone started trotting off the field. Some of the players paused along the stands to sign autographs, and since a bunch of fans were calling her name, she decided that she would, too.

  When she approached the box seats on the third base side, a startlingly large number of people rushed over, and there were what looked like hundreds of baseballs and caps and scorecards and other items being held out for her to sign.

  No matter how many things she autographed—very neatly—and then handed back, the crowd never seemed to get any smaller, and she smiled and signed and said things like “Hello” and “Thank you” and “Good to see you” over and over. Increasingly, though, they seemed to press closer, making noisy requests, and thrusting cell phones and cameras practically into her face.

  It was a relief to see Nadine come striding briskly in her direction. There was nothing remotely athletic about her, but she was chic as hell and moved with confidence. The kind of woman who was never without dramatic dangly earrings.

  “I’m afraid we need Miss Cafferty inside now,” she said, projecting her voice with no apparent effort. “But, thank you for coming out today and enjoy the game!”

  There was some grumbling, and a lot of disappointed looks, and then Jill saw one little boy whose eyes had filled with tears, so she went back.

  “Okay if I sign your hat?” she asked.

  He gave her a big grin, even as the tears spilled over.

  It was extremely disconcerting to make children cry. “There you go,” she said, and put it back on his head, before joining Nadine again.

  “Pomeroy is going to have someone from media relations on the field before and after every home game,” Nadine said. “They’re bringing on extra security, too.”

  Jill looked at her uneasily. “Do you think I’m going to need it?”

  Nadine hesitated a second longer than Jill would have liked. “We’d rather play it safe. No one is really quite sure what to expect, but there are similar arrangements in place when the team is on the road.”

  Expect the best, prepare for the worst. And it would probably be a good idea not to imagine any versions of what the worst could be.

  As they approached the dugout, she could see that Mr. Saunders was surrounded by a large pool of reporters, and he waved them over.

  “You’re okay with this?” Nadine asked.

  Well, she had damned well better be, given that it was her reality—both now, and going forward. So, Jill nodded.

  “I’m going to stick around,” Nadine said. “Bail you out, or redirect, if it seems necessary. Back them off, if they get difficult, that sort of thing.”

  Jill nodded. “This might sound stupid, but do I have to be bland?”

  Nadine tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not colorful, exactly,” Jill said. Except, maybe, somewhere deep down inside, she possibly was. Or, anyway, wanted to be. “But, it’s boring to talk about staying within myself, and taking it one day at a time, and all. And the shtick of ‘Isn’t it amazing that I’m a girl’ gets really old.”

  “Well, you should just be yourself, of course, but—” Nadine looked worried. “You might want to avoid making promises about
your performance levels, or—”

  “Oh, I would never do that,” Jill said quickly. Not only was it braggadocio, but it would also be a really good way to put the whammy on herself. No one with any sense ever messed with the Sports Gods. “I just—well, if possible, maybe I don’t want to iron out all of the quirks.”

  Without seeming to be aware that she was doing so, Nadine glanced at the corner of the dugout, where her mother was turning a page in her book, while sipping her orange Gatorade, looking refined, academic—and out of place.

  “Wait until she pulls out her dip, and starts spewing tobacco juice,” Jill said. “It’s pretty jarring.”

  Nadine looked startled, and then, amused. “Is that quirk?”

  Not her A-game quirk, but it would suffice. “A little bit,” Jill said.

  With luck, Theo wasn’t doing anything too weird at the moment. She looked around, and saw that he was still being distracted by the grounds crew, who seemed to be showing him every single tool and gadget they had—which was good, because otherwise, he would probably be lying underneath the scoreboard or something, examining how it worked, and possibly—if no one was watching closely—tinkering with things.

  For a moment, she missed her father so intensely—he had played football at Holy Cross, and would have been so relaxed here with a bunch of jocks, and also made everything feel really fun—that she couldn’t think at all. Then, she realized that Nadine was saying something to her, and gave her head a small shake to try and focus.

  “Would you rather go inside and freshen up, first?” Nadine asked.

  Which would, no doubt, involve another parade of genitals. “No, I’m fine,” she said. Albeit, probably, quite disheveled. “Good to go.”

  Nadine looked relieved—and slightly concerned.

  As it turned out, the reporters had boring questions, and she reflexively said that it was exciting to be here, and that she was looking forward to reporting to Pomeroy and learning as much as she could—and on and on. One of them stumped her when he asked where she was going to shower—and she had to concede that she had no idea. Fortunately, Mr. Saunders jumped in, and said that the team would be setting up a specifically designated area, and that a newly hired trainer up there was a woman, who would ensure that there were always proper facilities at visiting stadiums—which was welcome news, as far as Jill was concerned.