Throwing Like a Girl

by Weezie Kerr Mackey

  Later, in the car, Rocky gets right to the point. “What’s the verdict?”

  “Julie Meyers is playing first tomorrow.”

  She nods. “You’re gonna be better than she is. No worries about that. You’ll definitely play, Ella. The question is, are you gonna make it long enough to start in a game? Because at the rate you’re going, your disappointment will get the better of you.”

  I hear Theresa snort in the backseat. I don’t respond. Neither does Rocky.

  We drive all the way to my house, a good fifteen minutes before Rocky says, “Well?”

  “I’m not gonna sabotage myself, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

  “Good. We can start our first lesson on Friday. After practice.”

  I climb out, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and glance through the windshield at Rocky. The sun bounces off the glass so I can’t see her very well, except for her chin and the curve of her smile. I can’t hold mine back, either.

  Regular

  Season

  At dinner my parents ask annoying questions about tomorrow’s game. I tell them I’m not starting, and the way they look at each other makes me realize they didn’t think I would be anyway. Great.

  They say they want to come. My father is even taking off work early.

  “No. You can’t.”

  “What do you mean? We want to watch the game,” my father says.

  “To see you win,” my mother adds.

  “That’s my point. I probably won’t play at all.”

  Neither responds to this. Finally, my mother says, “Ella, when I say you I mean the team. Watching all of you play.…” She lifts her eyebrows for emphasis. “You might want to think about that. It’s called being a part of the team.”

  “Whatever,” I say, stalking off to my room to bury myself in homework.

  Thursday, game day, pours rain.

  Frannie and Mo come up to me after fourth period. Mo says, “Can you believe this weather? On opening day?”

  “I know,” I say, as if I’m so upset. But after lunch the skies clear and the sun comes out strong, almost steamy. From my Spanish class I can see a little bit of the softball field where the maintenance guys are throwing sand over puddles in the outfield.

  By Behavioral Science, word is that the game’s on.

  Nate gives me a brotherly pat on the back. “Ready for the big game?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Fort Worth Country Day,” he says, like that’s a complete thought.

  “Right.”

  Mr. D hands back our food budget with a bright red A. Nate and I high-five each other, which causes a wave of eye-rolling by girls in the class. Nate never catches any of this. They’re too careful.

  The newest assignment, along with reading boring sociological data of marriage in different cultures, is a family tree. I have to complete one on Nate’s family, and he does one on mine. The final version will be joined together. Another task I’ll probably complete for the both of us.

  Toward the end of class, during a lull, Nate says, “So, are you starting today?”

  “You know it.” I lift one shoulder and freeze that way. What did I just do? I can’t believe I told him that.

  He looks surprised for a flash of a second, but then he recovers and says, “That’s so great. I’ll come by after rehearsal and see if I can catch an inning.”

  Why did I say that? Did I forget that it’s possible to be caught in a lie?

  Nate doesn’t seem to notice my horror. Instead, he starts humming, which he’s been doing a lot lately with Show Boat rehearsals heating up. It’s a bit corny, but I like that he hums, even if it makes it hard to concentrate during class. Maybe it’ll make him forget to come down and see me riding the bench in my spotless uniform.

  In the locker room everyone dresses for the game in silence because the other team is here already, acting like they own the place. They stand at the long row of sinks and mirrors adjusting their hair and caps, perfecting their already perfect look: patriotic red, white, and blue uniforms, hair ribbons, shoelaces, and wristbands. We can’t seem to stop gawking.

  The Fort Worth Country Day coach has this husky smoker’s voice and a kick-ass tan. She looks like she’s been doing this for a hundred years, and you can tell by the way the team listens to everything she says that she’s revered. The minute she yells, “Time’s up!” they leap to attention and gather at the far end of the locker room in front of a small green chalkboard. It’s almost creepy.

  Coach marches into the locker room at about that time to get us psyched. When no one responds to her cheers, she says, “What’s the problem here?”

  “We’re intimidated,” Debra Lester whispers. “They’re so big.”

  Which is true. They’re huge. They look like they’re in college.

  Coach doesn’t like this. She starts clapping and walks up and down the rows of lockers. “Okay, Lady Peacocks,” she shouts. “Get proud and show me your colors!”

  I cringe, especially since the other team can hear.

  We shuffle out through the gym as ordered, but it’s like she’s forcing us to do something we absolutely do not want to do. The sun makes our purple and green uniforms explode, and I have to shield my eyes.

  The starters begin infield, throwing the ball around from their positions when Coach hits it to them. They don’t look half bad—until the Country Day girls appear at the top of the hill and descend in one massive red, white, and blue mob. The Lady Peacocks start dropping the ball, overthrowing it, missing it completely. Coach reels them in. She doesn’t want the other team to see that we’re nervous.

  Their coach barks out, “Infield,” and the other team’s starters dash out to their positions and hurl the ball around the bases, yelling and grunting at each other. They look so confident. Thank God I’m not starting.

  After a minute or two, Coach comes over to the bench and crouches down to our level. She looks into our faces. “Don’t watch the other team warm up; don’t look so scared; and start giving your team some support. Send it telepathically if you have to. Believe it.”

  I happen to glance at Sally Fontineau. I’ve been avoiding this for a whole week, trying not to have any contact with her whatsoever. When she sees me, she rolls her eyes and pops her gum.

  Coach notices the whole thing.

  “Sally? Ella?” she says, making it seem like we’re sharing some secret code.

  I’m shocked. Surely she can’t think I’m as indifferent as Sally.

  But then, instead of reprimanding us, she says, “Hang in there. We’re a team, remember? This is fun.”

  Sally looks at her fingernails. I look Coach right in the eye and nod my head, trying to project my I’m-a-worthy-part-of-the-team face.

  Coach turns to go over the batting order with Sue Bee, and Sally says to me, “So, you took six after I took five?” She frowns.

  I ignore her. Good comeback.

  The umpires call for the captains from each team. Kat and Marcie go to home plate together while Coach stands by the bench. When Marcie comes back with our score book, she looks around and gulps, “They have a girl named Moose.”

  Sally’s the only one who laughs.

  Coach claps her hands to get us to stand at attention. “Okay, everybody, take a deep breath. We’re doing it. It’s happening.” She looks around at all of our nervous faces.

  Is it me, or did she linger on mine? Did she notice that I’m not as excited as I should be? Can she tell I like Sally’s brother and that could be social suicide? Does she see that I lied to him and now I’m terrified he might show up? Can she read in my face, in my eyes, how much I want to play? But also how the other team is freaking me out?

  Apparently not. Or if she does notice anything, she doesn’t let on. She says, “All right, then. Let’s give those Falcons something to talk about!”

  Of course, Fort Worth Country Day has some predatory bird as their mascot.

  The first inning is sl
ow and brutal. Even though their number one batter pops out to short, the next three batters get on base with only one hit between them, a nice poke down the third base line. I have a thought that if Rocky were playing short, then Virginia would be at third, and maybe she would’ve caught the ball before it dropped in front of Debra Lester in left field.

  Then I have another fleeting thought: Maybe I am starting to understand more about the game!

  When the number five batter walks up to the plate with the bases loaded, everyone gets jumpy. Gwen’s shoulders are slumped, which means she’s already losing confidence in her pitching. Coach yells, “Come on, Peacocks!”

  It’s gonna be a long day on the bench.

  Sue Bee, who’s been telling everybody she wants to get into sports management in college, informs us that the number five batter is the girl named Moose. We’re all quiet. Just as I’m thinking that she couldn’t be named for her size because she’s relatively small for their team, Frannie leans over and says, “She must have a huge swing.”

  And she does.

  She knocks the ball over Nicki Porter’s head in center field. Nicki chases after it, grabs the ball, and throws it to Virginia—but it’s way off the mark. When the ball finally hits Kat’s glove at home, Moose has already crossed the plate. A grand slam in the first inning.

  Not a spectacular debut for the Peacocks. Even the construction workers are quiet.

  I notice my parents in the stands during the third inning. I try not to look over because every time I do, they wave at me. And meanwhile, my mother is wearing this ugly polka-dot scarf that I’ve now decided is unlucky.

  Please don’t let Sally Fontineau find out they belong to me.

  By the fourth inning, there are a few teachers and some other parents and a couple of girls I recognize in the stands. But no Nate, thank God. I wonder about Rocky, if she’s watching or thinking about coming down. I see Mack Elliot hanging out by the bleachers, trying not to be too obvious. I keep looking at Coach to see if she notices, but she’s just biting her lip through the whole game.

  And it’s pretty bad. Everyone’s fumbling with the ball, chasing after it, dropping it, missing it altogether. It’s embarrassing. Kat gets two hits, but the rest of the team never gets on base. After the fifth inning, with the score 14 to 0, the game’s called. Slaughter rule.

  I let out a deep sigh, not sure if it’s because I’m relieved or disappointed. Nate never came. Probably he thought it would last a bit longer than it did. As it turns out, I’m glad I didn’t play. I glance up at the library and wonder if Rocky will be able to help me at all.

  Afterward we line up and “shake hands” with the other team, which I find out actually translates to slapping low fives. There’s so much to learn in sports.

  My dad comes over to the bench, trying to be upbeat. Then he introduces himself to the coach. I can’t even watch. Please don’t let him use any baseball metaphors.

  My mother unwinds the scarf from around her neck, walks over to me, and says, “They were a good team. Tough.”

  Like she even knows what she’s talking about. “Thanks, Mom. That’s really encouraging.”

  “I just meant there’s nothing wrong with losing to a good team.”

  Dad joins us. “What a nice girl,” he says, about Coach.

  “Dad, she’s not a girl.”

  “She’s not?”

  My mother looks at him. “Try not to talk, dear. We can’t say anything right.”

  I roll my eyes. “Thank you for coming. But I said you didn’t have to.”

  “I think that’s our cue,” my mom informs my dad. “We’ll wait in the parking lot.”

  We have a team meeting on the field. Coach is trying to figure out what to say: “They were a good team. The best in our league. It’s not so bad to lose to a good team if you look at it the right way.”

  I can’t believe she just said the same thing as my mother.

  “There’s a lot we can learn from them,” Coach adds.

  And from behind me, Kat says, “You can say that again.”

  I almost forgot about lying to Nate. Until Sally hunts me down in the hall before first period.

  “So, my brother asked me how you played yesterday, you know, starting at first base?”

  Honestly, she’s heartless.

  “It…was.…” How can I possibly explain?

  “I’m sorry?” she asks, as if she can’t hear me. Gwen and Joy are in the background, but they’re not enjoying this. I see them so much in practice and they’re usually pretty nice to me. But Sally never seems to notice. The whole thing is awkward.

  “It was a mistake,” I begin. “I wasn’t even paying attention when he asked. It just slipped out.”

  “In your dreams,” she says and busts out laughing. She stares at me for one more second and then shakes her head and walks away. Gwen and Joy shrug and follow her.

  The rest of the day doesn’t get any better. I don’t have a chance to talk to Rocky. And I can’t think of one thing to say to Nate that might explain why I lied. Sally must have told him. I decide the best thing to do is ignore it all. So I keep my head down as I walk into Behavioral Science and try not to look up the whole class. Luckily Mr. D spends the entire class explaining how the census works, while the girls that hate me pretend to take class notes when they’re actually writing personal ones or twisting their hair into different styles.

  It’s Friday, the end of my third week at Spring Valley, but it feels like three years. How long does it take to be happy somewhere? To fit in and disappear into the woodwork?

  Nate catches up to me as I’m walking to the locker room after class.

  “Hey,” he says. “I heard about the game.”

  My heart beats so hard I can’t speak. I want to swallow myself up.

  “Country Day is a powerhouse in every sport. Not a huge deal,” he adds.

  I stop and look at him. Tears burn behind my eyes. “I didn’t start yesterday,” I say. “I knew on Wednesday that I wasn’t gonna be starting. I was really disappointed about it, even though I’m not very good. Anyway, I don’t know why I lied. I think I wanted it to be true.”

  He frowns. “What did she say to you?”

  Now, here’s something I didn’t foresee: that he might want to protect me from her.

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “It is to me. And obviously to you, too, Ella. Look, you don’t have to explain yourself. I get that you want to play.”

  I wonder if he’d “get” the fact that I wanted to play until I saw the other team. And that when we lost, I didn’t feel like I’d lost because I didn’t play, and therefore I didn’t have to take responsibility. I smile weakly and tell him I’ve got to run. He looks like he might say something more, but doesn’t.

  At practice I’m back to square one; Sally snickers when she sees me, then whispers to Gwen and Joy. Frannie and Mo don’t seem to notice, and I don’t want to bring it up. Could this chain of embarrassment get any longer? I’m not even excited about playing softball with Rocky after practice today. I just want to disappear.

  At five thirty, everyone leaves practice, and Coach calls me over.

  I’m panicked. Maybe she thinks I’ve been slacking off or can see that my attitude needs tweaking. Maybe she wants to tell me I’m off the team.

  “Hey,” she says. “Everything going okay? School? You’re making the adjustment?”

  “Uhhh. Yeah.” I hope no one is watching. I don’t want anyone to think I’m getting special treatment.

  “What about softball? You’re liking it?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “And everything’s all right between Sally and you?”

  Why would she ask me this? “Sure. Everything’s fine.”

  “Would you tell me if there were some kind of problem?”

  I hesitate. And for a moment, I really think about my answer. But then I notice that Mack Elliot has pulled his big black pickup truck alongside the field and is making
his way toward us. Coach doesn’t see him, but I do.

  I try to concentrate on her again. “Umm, would I tell you if.…”

  She feels him behind her, whirls around, and says, “Oh, you startled me.”

  I stand there smiling like a fool.

  “Mack, this is Ella, from Chicago.”

  “Hi, Ella. Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.”

  “Coach tells me you show a lot of promise as a softball player.”

  I almost say something, like thank you, but then it really sinks in that Coach, someone I respect, has told someone else that I show promise—and the feeling picks me up and shakes me loose. I start to giggle uncontrollably.

  “That’s enough trade secrets from you,” she says to Mack, swatting his arm playfully. They’ve obviously come a long way from trashy fields and construction trailers.

  As I walk back to the locker room, everything turns around again, from my first miserable moments in this new place to right now, right here, on the campus of a private school with peacocks roaming free, as far from Chicago as I could ever imagine myself. It’s like I’m on an escalator in the mall of life—just when I’m about to hit the ground floor all stinky with fast-food restaurants and bathrooms, I get sucked back up to the top again, where I can look into the shiny windows of Lord & Taylor, Abercrombie, the Gap. Everything looks bright and shiny again.

  Not too bad, if I can keep a good hold on the moving handrail.

  On the ride home, Rocky and I talk about yesterday’s game. She asks me how it felt to be watching it from the bench. “I’m sure you wish you were in there helping the team.”

  “Actually,” I admit, “I was glad I didn’t have to play. They were so good.”

  She laughs. “That has to change. You need to believe you can help the team. But that’ll come as you get better.”

  Rocky parks by a row of small houses that all look the same and have no driveways. We walk half a block with our stuff, and I don’t say anything, but it makes me appreciate my new house. Rocky’s door is blue; that’s the only way to tell it apart from the others. We go inside and no one’s home. The boys drop their backpacks and run to the kitchen. Theresa marches upstairs, and Rocky just looks at me: “Welcome to my world.”