Throwing Like a Girl

by Weezie Kerr Mackey

  “Thank you,” I say to him, as Nate steps out of line.

  “Ella? Are you all right?” He starts picking things up, filling his arms with beef jerky and Hostess products.

  Then Mikey and Thomas and Rocky appear at my side.

  Nate looks at me like I’ve lost it, which maybe I have. “Ella? Can you hear me?”

  “What?” I say, kind of making a joke.

  Rocky and her brothers start laughing.

  Nate shakes his head and laughs, too.

  Gwen and Joy remain in line with Sally, who’s smirking. But I have to say, in the middle of this ridiculously awkward and public incident, for the first time, I don’t care about Sally. Because Nate’s talking to me, and Rocky’s my friend, and I’m getting better at softball, and I miss my friends from home, but they’ll love this story. And I’ll embellish it to the best of my abilities.

  “I have to go,” Nate says after a nanosecond of meaningful glances. “Do you need a ride home?”

  “We don’t have room,” Sally whines.

  He doesn’t even give her the time of day.

  “Rocky’s driving me, but thanks anyway.”

  “We need to talk, okay?” he says quietly.

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe tomorrow?”

  “I’ve got a game in Houston.” I love saying that. I sound so cool.

  “Sunday, then. I’ll call you Sunday.”

  Sally buys whatever stupid things she’s buying and walks out of the store without looking at me. Gwen and Joy give me a nervous smile. Nate nods.

  Suddenly it’s just us again. The manager is really nice about everything and says we don’t have to stay and clean up.

  So, I spend nearly ten dollars on snacks. (I offer to buy the popped sunflower seeds and the squashed Junior Mints along with fresh packages.)

  We’re all laughing and talking when we get in the car, until Theresa silences everybody: “How do you know Nate Fontineau?”

  Before I answer, Rocky says to her sister, “No, how do you know him? And why do you care?”

  “Everyone knows him,” Theresa says offhandedly. “He’s hot boy on campus.”

  “No, he’s not,” Rocky says. “He’s too nice to be hot boy. He’s got way more to him than the average flavor of the month.”

  “How would you know?” Theresa asks, taking the words right out of my mouth.

  Rocky doesn’t answer.

  “Well?” Theresa leans over into the front seat. But she’s not asking her sister, she’s asking me. “What’s with you and Nate Fontineau?”

  Rocky looks over. “Does it have something to do with you and Sally?”

  “No. And nothing’s up with me and Nate. He’s just my partner in Behavioral Science.” I feel like I’m always saying this to people.

  “For the Marriage Project?” Thomas asks.

  “Does everyone in the whole school know about that?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Theresa says, sitting back. “Lots of couples start that way.”

  Luckily we get off the Nate subject and laugh most of the way home as the boys reenact my food expedition: the backward fall and the trucker’s graceful catch.

  As I’m about to get out of the car at my house, Rocky says, “Anthony knows Nate from football. They’re friends. And Nate was one of the only people who said something to me when my mom died.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Theresa says.

  Rocky looks at me as if she really knows what she’s talking about. “He’s a nice guy.”

  This makes me like him that much more.

  The bus we’re supposed to take to Houston broke down somewhere this morning, so now we’re going to be driving in two school vans, which causes our dear coach to panic. She’s talking on her cell phone to the athletic director, getting instructions and directions. Then there’s word that Coach Dixon might be coming to drive one of the vans and lend support. All of us agree this has the makings of a most excellent road trip.

  Most of the team is here already, lounging outside the gym, waiting to be told what to do. Of course, the holy trinity hasn’t arrived yet. God forbid they don’t have a chance to make their entrance. Maybe we’ll have to leave without them.…

  Frannie, Mo, and I sit up against the bat bags as I show them my snack stash. They’re impressed, and I begin to tell them about the 7-Eleven catastrophe, giving the trucker only one arm. Just when I’m about to get to the good part, where Nate tells me how desperately he wants to talk, Sally saunters up. She stops right in front of us and glares down at me.

  I can tell everyone has stopped talking to watch.

  “I don’t know who you think you are,” she says, noticing the audience, loving it. “And I don’t know why you continue to perform these little stunts in front of my brother. But you need to get ahold of yourself and quit stalking him or whatever it is you’re doing. He’s had enough. And, as his confidante, so have I.”

  Her voice, her posture, her wet hair hanging down on either side of her face—everything about her oozes cruelty. I can’t imagine what I’ve done in my life to deserve all this anger. I can’t figure out Gwen and Joy, either. They just stand there without really looking at me.

  Then Coach comes to my rescue, yet again, coffee cup in hand, hair slightly askew. “Okay, girls, glad y’all could make it. Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll let you know what’s going on. We’re running a little late, so I need everyone’s cooperation here.”

  I hardly listen to what Coach says. It’s drowned out by the ringing in my ears, the pounding in my chest. I can feel everyone trying not to look at me.

  Coach Dixon shows up then, looking like she just rolled out of bed. We smile—me more than anyone else, because I’m trying hard not to act stung by Sally’s wicked stinger.

  Coach divides us into two groups, half to go with her and half to go with Dixon. Frannie, Mo, and I are together in Dixie’s van. (Frannie has latched onto Coach’s nickname for Dixon, per usual.) Sally and the hooligans are not with us. Thank God.

  Before everyone separates and climbs into the vans, Coach pulls me aside.

  “Ella, you need to tell me what’s going on.”

  Her face is so close to mine that I see the freckles across her nose, the deep greens and blues of her eyes. Then I look away.

  “Nothing, Coach. Everything’s fine.”

  She hesitates. “Listen to me. I’m watching her and I’m watching you. I won’t let this go on much longer.”

  “It’s okay, really.”

  “No, it isn’t. But stay focused on softball and have a good ride up with your friends. You may not be starting, but I’m putting you in at first today, so I need you to be ready. Here,” she says, pointing to my head, “And here,” she repeats, pointing to my heart.

  And that’s all it takes. My fog lifts.

  “I’m ready, Coach.”

  “I know you are.” She pulls my cap down over my eyes and turns back to her van.

  Frannie and Mo sit in the back. The other seats are mostly taken by ninth graders.

  “How’d we get stuck with all you young ones?” Frannie asks playfully. I squeeze in next to them.

  Mo says, “I brought treats, too. I was gonna save them for the ride home, but maybe we won’t be hungry then, and I’m starved now. Here.” She pulls out intricately wrapped, sliced cantaloupe and strawberries.

  Frannie reaches right over and tears it open. “Thanks, Mo-Mo.” She pops the fruit in her mouth. “Sally’s such a bitch. I wish I could come up with something to shut her up.”

  “I can handle it,” I say, though I’m not really sure I believe it.

  The ride takes about five hours. I don’t tell them what Coach said about getting into today’s game. I just try to bask in the sound of their voices, their laughter, and the music on the radio, which Dixie keeps changing in the middle of every good song.

  By the time we roll into the parking lot beside the field, St. John’s team is warmed up and ready to play. Their bleachers ar
e full of fans, and a sign on the outfield fence reads: ST. JOHN’S SOFTBALL ROCKS AND ROLLS.

  We tumble out of the vans, and Coach gathers us into a huddle. “Okay, Dixie, Sue Bee, and I will get the equipment to the field. I want the rest of you to jog out together. Kat and Marcie, you run the stretches for a few minutes, then grab a partner and throw. We’ll start infield after that. Make it look clean and sharp because they’re gonna be watching—the team, the coaches, the fans.” She looks around at all our faces. “Show them what you’re made of.”

  No one says a word as we spread out in the grass. I peek over at first base, where I might be playing later, and I can’t believe how innocent it looks, just a canvas bump on an otherwise smooth infield. While Kat leads us in stretches, no one groans or chitchats the way we usually do. Something feels different.

  “All right, grab a ball and a partner, everyone,” Kat says, and we obey as if she’s the coach.

  My arm feels magnificent. Strong. Loose. I’m throwing with LeaAnne, who keeps looking at me after I throw her the ball. “Ella, nice throwing,” she says finally. And now I know for sure that today is different.

  I’m not part of infield, but I watch intently as Coach hits to the starters, and the girls pick off the balls effortlessly then throw around the horn. Dixie’s hitting fly balls from the first base line to the outfielders, and I see she’s a pretty good softball player, too. She’s praising the girls as they run in, retrieve the ball on the first hop, and get it back to her in one long throw. They look good. The whole team looks good.

  I throw with Frannie and Mo on the sidelines, and I want so badly to say something to them about possibly playing, but they might feel bad that they’re not getting in the game. And there’s always the chance Coach won’t put me in.

  As the game gets under way, Julie makes two errors in the first inning, and I have a feeling today’s the day my uniform gets dirty.

  At the bottom of the third, St. John’s is ahead 3–0. Our team is getting ready to go back on the field when LeaAnne and I get the call from Coach.

  “Ella, you’re goin’ in at first. LeaAnne, you’re gonna catch.” Coach grabs Kat before she puts on her catching gear again. “I want you on the mound.” Kat immediately hands over the equipment for LeaAnne to strap on.

  I go get my glove, wishing I hadn’t opened the Junior Mints last inning. I glance at Frannie, who made me do it, and whisper, “I shouldn’t have eaten the whole box.”

  She laughs. “They’ll bring you luck.”

  I make a gagging noise, and she and Mo snicker and give me the thumbs-up as I trot out onto the field.

  My legs are noodles. My fingers are suddenly brittle and cold despite the heat of the day. Virginia Dalmeyer has taken out a practice ball, and as she goes by me, she says, “Kat gets a few warm-up pitches, so we’ll toss the ball to you and get you warmed up, too, okay?”

  “Right,” I say casually, but I want to kiss her for explaining this instead of just hurling the ball my way and expecting me to know what to do with it.

  One of the things you don’t take into account at first base is your proximity to the rest of the team sitting on the bench. If I look over my shoulder, Frannie and Mo will be right there. And Sally Fontineau. But I don’t look over my shoulder. Virginia calls my name, and I stand in the ready position as she tosses a grounder to my left. I try to backhand it and miss. It rolls beyond the bench, and Mo jumps up to recover it.

  I take a deep breath. What would Rocky tell me to do? Don’t think, she’d say, just throw it. Do what comes naturally. I throw it to Jenny Yin, at third, who throws a nice easy ball right back to me. Then I throw to Joy at second. She throws me a grounder, which I easily scoop up while feeling for the bag with my foot.

  I can do this. I know I can.

  Kat’s pitching is solid and steady. With her shoulders up and her back straight, she simply reeks of confidence. I try to act the same. And I notice the St. John’s batter does, too.

  Sue Bee walks the sideline with the score book. She calls out, “Number six batter, walked last time.” She glances at me, nods. Treats me like everyone else, giving me the information I need. I could get used to this. SMACK. A hit, scattering my thoughts. It’s headed for Jenny Yin as the batter barrels down the first base line—right for me. Jenny lowers herself to one knee, snaps up the ball, and in one fluid motion, flings it across the infield toward me.

  I remember that I need to get my foot on the bag, put my glove out in front of me—open—and get out of the way of the runner.

  But Rocky’s right: It’s better if I stop thinking and do something.

  Before I know it, the ball’s in my glove, the ump’s got her thumb goin’ south over her shoulder, Kat’s yelling, “Oh, yeah,” and the next batter’s coming up to the plate.

  I did it! My first out. All by myself. Sort of.

  I love this!

  With a fly ball to left field, followed by one of those solid hits that whizzes right to the pitcher’s face—Kat easily puts her glove up to snag it—we’re out of the inning. Three up, three down.

  This is so cool.

  Teammates on and off the field high-five me, despite the fact that I only had to make one catch. Frannie and Mo get up and dust off the bench before I sit down.

  Kat pats me on the back. “Here she comes,” she says. “Watch out.”

  I can’t believe how good I feel. It’s like the incident with Sally this morning never even happened. She’s down the bench, stuck there, and I’m in the game.

  By the fifth inning, we’ve held the score at 3–0, and Kat gets up to bat. She stands back in the box and holds the bat high by her ear. She waits on the first pitch, steps out of the box, taps the bat on each insole, glances at Dixie by first base and Coach at third, then steps back in the box. I’ve got to remember this. Imprint it on my brain.

  At last, she whacks a triple down the left field line. Dixie’s hopping everywhere, sending Kat around the bases, but Coach holds her at third, and she obeys the signal. The whole bench jumps up and down, screaming. It’s the first time we’ve shown so much emotion. Even Sally joins in.

  With no outs and Kat on third base, there are two more batters before me. My belly feels like one huge, monstrous butterfly. Surely someone can connect with the ball and send Kat home for our first run of the season.

  Virginia’s up next. She gets the sign for bunt and is successful on the second pitch. The ball hops out to the left of the mound. Shortstop comes in, digs up the ball, and makes a fake throw to first as Virginia kicks up dust to beat the throw. But then Short turns and plants both her feet like she’s going to pick off Kat at third. Fortunately, Kat notices and doesn’t take off for home—but she’s a few feet off the bag.

  There’s a standstill for a second. I’m so anxious I get the hiccups.

  And then Short fakes a throw, Kat strolls back to the bag, and we’ve got runners on first and third. No outs!

  Center fielder Nicki Porter, our sixth batter, goes up to the plate and seems completely surprised by the first pitch. As soon as it hits the catcher’s glove, the catcher rips off her mask and fakes a throw to second as Virginia steals. I’m so glad that wasn’t me—I wouldn’t have known what to do.

  I’m standing in the on-deck circle for the first time in my life. I remember this scenario from practice: When you have runners at first and third, the runner on first always steals second, because the catcher’s not going to risk the throw and give the runner on third a clean shot at scoring.

  I can’t believe I actually understand this!

  I don’t know if Nicki is thrown off by the play or what, but she swings and misses at the next three pitches. So now it’s my turn. I’m supposed to walk up to the box. So I do. I’m supposed to look mean, slightly distracted. So I do. And then, I’m supposed to look the pitcher in the eye like I’m gonna smack the hell out of the ball. So I do.

  I try to remember exactly what Kat does. She takes the first pitch (which means don’t take the p
itch; that took me about two weeks to remember). So I do this, too. I stand there all smug and let the first pitch fly by—a ball, luckily. I step out of the batter’s box, just like Kat did. I tap my insoles with the bat, glance at Dixie, who nods at me like she has no doubt, and then I glance at Coach. She gives me a sign. I think it’s “hit away,” because what else could she give me? I don’t know anything else.

  The second pitch comes in low, and I swing. A huge swing. And I miss. Before the next pitch I repeat the whole damn thing. It seems to take hours—stepping out, hitting my cleats, looking around, stepping back. Is it obvious I have no idea what I’m doing? But here I am, waiting patiently, holding my stance, and then without thinking I swing big again, using my whole body, and there’s this delicious ping off the bat!

  I don’t even know where the thing goes. I just hear everyone yelling, and I see Dixie waving me on. So I start running.

  Kat waits until the ball drops over the second basemen’s head and then takes off for home. Dixie has me rounding first, but holding until the center fielder overthrows to second. As I take off, Virginia scrambles for home, and the pitcher scrambles for the ball, not sure whether to throw me out, or Virginia. Coach gives me the signal to slide, both of her palms pushing for the dirt. Oh, no. I basically throw myself down, face and boobs first. A mouthful of red infield dirt. But I did it! I got a hit—two runs scored. I’m standing on second with a dirty uniform.

  The whole team cheers and claps. They’re high-fiving Kat and Virginia, whooping for me out here on my own. I make the tying run and in the end, we win 5 to 4. And even though I never got on base again, I didn’t make any errors playing first, and I was at the beginning of the line when we shook hands with the other team.

  Coach praises us in the dugout. “You were down, and you brought yourselves up again. That’s a really hard thing to do with such a young team. Be proud of yourselves. You deserve it.”

  Walking back to the locker room, Frannie and Mo give me a group squeeze and tell me I played great, but something’s different. I see it in Mo’s pinched smile and Frannie’s quick change of subject. I didn’t ride the bench for the duration this time.