Throwing Like a Girl

by Weezie Kerr Mackey

  Before I know it, we’re on the field warming up. Frannie says she spotted my parents wandering around.

  “I saw the scarf.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Is it unlucky today? Or lucky?” Mo says.

  “I can’t remember!”

  Rocky’s throwing so hard that my hand stings.

  I yell, “Zawicki sure knew what he was talking about.”

  She cracks a smile.

  Coach blows her whistle and gathers us under a tree. It’s so hot the ground is like a furnace pumping heat up through our cleats.

  “Drink a lot of water and keep your hats on.” She passes water bottles around. “I know this is so much fun. It’s fun for me, too. And we’re going to have tons of adventures before we get home, but I need for y’all to get your heads in this game…right now. We barely beat Oakridge the last time. They’re gonna want this game. Be ready for that.”

  She claps her hands, then says, all passionate and serious, “Get your game face on and make this ours from the first pitch. Own it. And remember, you’ve got to want it more.”

  We start cheering, then stand up, clapping and hollering. The umps call the captains to home plate. We lose the toss, which means we’re away, which means we’re at bat first. And that’s it. Gwen’s standing in the batter’s box: The game has begun.

  I spy my parents in the stands, and my mom gives me a private wave, trying not to do anything that would embarrass me. I wish I could run over there and apologize for being moody and thank her for being such a steady fan, scarf and all.

  Gwen gets a hit, a nice poke between first and second, and she’s easily safe. Virginia pops out, holding Gwen at first, and Kat gets a single to left field. With runners on first and second, Rocky’s in the batter’s box, and it’s time for me to get up casually, find my bat, swing it a bit, then watch Rocky blast a one-hop double between second and third. She sends Gwen and Kat home and makes it safely to second.

  Oh, the pressure. With one out, ahead by two, I get up to bat, don’t look at my parents, and try to decipher Coach’s sign: four fingers brush over her right eyebrow. Wait on it.

  I’m never patient enough to wait on pitches, even when they’re obvious balls. But today I am. Today I’m in the box with a confident stance and a lucky bat. I remember this pitcher from our last game against Oakridge, and I hit off her by waiting it out. So I do just as Coach says.

  Now the count is suddenly 3 and 0. She throws me a strike, but I expected it. I’m 3 and 1. I step out of the box calmly. My best friend has one foot against second base and the other stretching out in front of her. She’s poised to run. She knows I can do this.

  The next pitch drifts over the plate like it’s floating, like it’s in slow motion. I twitch my right arm up and back a bit and then swing hard. The ball connects a few inches from the end of my bat—the middle of the sweet spot—and sails between right and center field. Both fielders are going after it as I round first. I slide into second as Rocky crosses home plate. We’re up 3–0 in the very first inning!

  My parents cheer in the bleachers. Everyone on the bench high-fives Rocky. Coach jumps up and down by the third-base line. And I see Sally Fontineau chitchatting with one of the ninth graders as if she couldn’t care less.

  It occurs to me, as I stand on second base, the sun pounding down on my batting helmet, that Sally is inconsequential to my life. I’ll figure things out with Nate. I’ll take finals. I’ll find a summer job here in Dallas. I’ll start school in the fall. And I’ll answer back the next time Sally tries to harass me. I’ll start standing up for myself off the field, the same way I do on it. Because there’s no reason in the world why I shouldn’t.

  It’s like that moment when Rocky discovered that softball made her world clearer. I think it’s making mine clearer, too.

  We beat Oakridge 5 to 0. We’re on our way.

  In the huddle after the game, Coach says, “That was good. No, that was great. You played well. You got off to a quick start offensively and played flawless defense.” She looks around at all of us. “Way to go.”

  We cheer for ourselves because we’re psyched.

  “All right. You have a few choices for the rest of the afternoon. You may go and watch the end of the Episcopal game; they’re on field four. Or you can go watch track or tennis or baseball. As long as you’re back on that bus by five forty-five. And we meet in the lobby for dinner at seven. Got it?”

  “Only an hour to get ready?” someone says.

  And everyone laughs.

  We all head in different directions. Rocky wants to watch the end of the Episcopal game. Before we take off I tell the girls I have to go see my parents. They’re standing by the bleachers. The four of us walk over together, and my mom tries to tone it down, but can’t help hugging each of us. No one seems to mind.

  “What a game,” she keeps saying.

  My father says, “I’m so proud of you, Ellie.”

  We say our good-byes and walk toward the other softball field. I think about telling the girls about my little epiphany on second base.

  But then I decide to keep it to myself. For now.

  Back at the hotel, we take turns in the shower until the whole room steams up. Towels and brushes and dirty uniforms are everywhere. Mo orders us to get the room halfway organized and at least hang our uniforms in the closet for tomorrow’s games. She dresses in a clean pair of khakis and a red shirt. Her blond hair, combed back off her face, falls right into place even though it’s wet.

  Frannie sees this and says to Mo, “Is it hard being you?”

  With Frannie, everything’s a joke: her flaming red hair, her freckles, her full figure. Life rolls off her pretty easily.

  As the youngest of four girls, I know about waiting for the bathroom and fighting to get mirror space.

  Pacing around the room in her towel, Rocky seems out of place. After a while, she says, “I have nothing to wear. Theresa didn’t pack me anything for going out to dinner.”

  That gets us started trading things. First she tries on Mo’s red shirt, since Mo naturally brought several different outfits.

  But the red doesn’t suit Rocky, so Frannie says to me, “What’s in your bag?”

  “Jeans and two shirts.” I take one, my sister Becky’s. It’s a white T-shirt with a light blue ribbon threaded around the collar.

  I hand it to Rocky and she looks at me.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Go ahead. My other one is a black peasant shirt.”

  “I wish that one fit me,” Frannie says. “You’ve got more style than I thought.”

  Rocky pulls on the white shirt and says, “Oh, I like this a lot.”

  “It looks good,” I say. Frannie and Mo nod in agreement.

  With wardrobe completed, we work on drying our hair, tying our shoes, and making sure we have money for dinner and our keys to the room. Then we’re off.

  At the elevator we run into some tennis players decked out in their finest party wear: short skirts, skimpy tops, dangly earrings, makeup.

  A few of them talk to Frannie and Mo as Rocky and I hang back. When the elevator arrives, it’s nearly full, and since we can’t all fit, Frannie encourages them to go ahead and we’ll catch the next one.

  “Please,” Frannie says when the doors close. “Let’s not go to dinner where the tennis team goes. They’re too beautiful. It’s intimidating.”

  In the lobby, it’s more of the same. Even the track team looks dressed up.

  “Are we underdressed?” Mo whispers.

  And Frannie snaps back, “I’m not.”

  The coaches hand us our food allowance and tell us we have four choices for dinner outside of the hotel, with chaperones at each. Most of the baseball team lines up to go to the Beef Palace. The holy trinity are hop-skipping it over that way. After a quick consensus, we join the small group for the Black-Eyed Pea, with Coach and Dixie chaperoning.

  From our booth in the back, we happen to be in the prime locati
on to see Mack Elliot walk in the door. I nudge Mo, who’s also facing that way, and then Rocky and Frannie turn around to see. He’s wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt. He stands at Coach’s table for a minute, obviously pleased that he’s surprised her, while she stumbles trying to get up to greet him. We’re all groaning at the missteps. He goes to give her a kiss on the cheek but she fouls that up, too, turning her head too far so he misses the mark.

  We can’t stop giggling.

  “Oh. My. God. She’s totally in love with him,” Mo says, taking the words right out of my mouth.

  We can’t stop watching Coach, Mack, and Dixie. They seem to be in a heated discussion and we make guesses about the topic. By eight thirty, after we’ve split three different desserts, we decide it’s time to leave since Coach gave us a ten o’clock curfew and we want to hit the hotel game room before then.

  Back at the lobby, we gaze into the crowded room filled with pinball machines, a Ping-Pong table, a pool table, foosball, and two small bowling alleys. It’s crawling with kids our age.

  Rocky’s not into it. “I need to call home,” she says to me. “Tell them I’ve gone up.”

  “Good luck,” I say.

  After she disappears I see that Mo and Frannie have gone off to be social, and I’m stuck sitting on a grubby stool watching all the people, thinking about Nate, and wishing I could call him, but I don’t have the nerve. The confidence thing hasn’t quite made its way into the boy arena.

  A few guys I don’t know start to play pinball near me. They’re keyed up and talking loud. One of them notices me and asks, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Ella.” I don’t recognize them from Spring Valley.

  “You don’t look like you’re having much fun, Ella.”

  I stand and push back my stool. “Oh, no. I’m good,” I say.

  “I bet,” another guy says.

  I think that might be an insult, but I’m not sure.

  I look around for Mo and Frannie. But instead, I see Sally, staring right at me, raising her eyebrows, shaking her head slowly. As if to imply I’m flirting with these boys or something.

  I don’t know who I hate more: these obnoxious boys or Sally. But I step away from the guys and walk toward Sally. I think the time is right to deal with it.

  It must surprise her, the way the distance between us lessens. Suddenly I’m in her face.

  “Enjoying yourself?” Sally asks.

  “I came to find out what that look was all about.”

  “What look?”

  “The one you gave me from across the room.”

  She shrugs, completely uninterested in our conversation.

  But I refuse to be dismissed anymore.

  “Sally, I want to tell you that I think it was completely wrong of you to forbid me to see Nate last night. You don’t own him.”

  “Neither do you. And, by the way, he never asked where you were or anything.”

  I feel a momentary punch in the gut. “That’s not the point,” I say. “I don’t know what your problem is with me. And I don’t even care. I just want you to know that I’m done with you walking all over me. Nate might feel bad for you, but I don’t. You’re pathetic. You don’t want anyone else to be happy, because you’re not. Don’t you ever want to be less mean?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Anyway, we only have one more day of softball and then we’re no longer teammates, not that you ever acted like one. But at least I won’t have to look at you every day and wonder why anyone would want to be friends with you.”

  I don’t wait for her reaction. I turn and walk to the elevators by myself, push number ten, and squeeze my eyes closed. It wasn’t grand. It didn’t even feel that good, but it was a start.

  In the room, Rocky’s watching TV. “Where’re Bert and Ernie?” she says.

  “Still down there. How’d it go?”

  She shakes her head. “I couldn’t do it. I don’t want to ruin this moment. This is so fun and so pure. I’ll talk to him when I get home. I can’t worry about it now.”

  “You can have that shirt if you want. It looks good on you.”

  She laughs. “Oh, Ella.”

  “So, I’ve got some news. I went up to Sally.”

  “You did? What did you say?”

  “I said, you better lay off or Rocky’s gonna beat you up.”

  She howls with laughter. “Did you really?”

  “No.” I tell her what actually happened.

  Rocky studies me. “And you think that’s bad? Compared to all the things she’s said and done to you, that’s nothing.”

  “It didn’t feel like nothing.”

  “Well, don’t lose sleep over it. She won’t.”

  “Right.”

  Mo and Frannie barge in, laughing hysterically.

  “I wish we had a Ping-Pong team at school.” Frannie giggles. “I would be so popular!”

  We’re ready for bed when the knock on the door comes at ten fifteen.

  “You’re my last room,” Coach says from the hallway.

  Frannie opens the door and says, “Because we’re your favorites?”

  Coach just smiles. “Don’t stay up all night watching TV and eating junk food.”

  “Hey, Coach, what happened with your cute construction guy?” Mo asks.

  I swear Coach blushes. “Oh, nothing.”

  “He was up here on work?” Frannie asks, even though we know he wasn’t.

  “Something like that. All right, y’all. Lights out in fifteen minutes. Okay?”

  We stay up late watching HBO and talking about Coach, Mack Elliot, and what fun it is to sleep in a hotel. Later, I lie in the dark listening as everyone’s breathing drops deeper into sleep. Finally, my brain still unable to shut down, I get up and sit at the window, watching the lights of Tulsa. No matter what happens tomorrow, I decide it’ll be a good day.

  In the morning we’re groggy but excited. We throw on our uniforms, and carry the bags with our gloves, caps, water bottles, and sunscreen.

  “I’m having French toast,” Frannie says as we get on the elevator. “My mother never makes me that.”

  We walk through the lobby into the conference room, which is Spring Valley’s makeshift dining room for the weekend. There’s a long buffet with rows of steaming breakfast food: French toast, waffles, pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage links, sausage patties, biscuits, gravy, hash browns, and oatmeal. At the far end of the buffet is everything else: fruit, cereals, juice, milk, bagels, muffins, and croissants. The athletes and coaches walk around with heaping plates like they’re hypnotized by the amount of food. Frannie is speechless.

  “I’m starved,” I say.

  And we dig in.

  After nine, everyone starts clearing their trays and slurping down their last bits of orange juice. Sally, Gwen, and Joy come in. Coach gets up and tells them to take something for the road because we’re getting on the bus. Sally doesn’t look at me, but I keep my eye on her.

  From the bus I watch huge, beautiful clouds coming in from the west. I thought only Texas had these long, low lines of clouds that go on forever. But apparently Oklahoma has them, too. Only these clouds are different, because by the time we arrive at the school, the sky has darkened, and when we begin batting practice, it turns a solid green-purple stretching from the horizon to just above the treetops. This must be some kind of sign.

  The umpires look worried and say to Coach, “Let’s see how many innings we can play before it hits.”

  But she tells us in the huddle, “It’s not gonna rain. That’s how positive thinking works, okay?” She looks around at us. “I mean it. We win this game, we’re in the finals.”

  “All right!” we yell.

  My stomach’s in knots, as usual.

  Coach says, “Last night I couldn’t sleep.”

  Join the club.

  “So I got up and wrote a little pep talk. But you know what? You don’t need a pep talk. You don’t need me to tell you how to play the game anym
ore. You know how to play the game. Now it’s just time to show everyone else.”

  We stomp our feet and yelp and whistle.

  The game starts as quickly as yesterday’s. First we’re warming up, next we’re at bat. Playing the school hosting the tournament puts any team at a disadvantage: Their fans pack the bleachers, the team knows their field by heart, they slept in their own beds, in their own rooms. By the end of the second inning, Holland Hall has jumped ahead by two runs. They keep their roll alive in the top of the third by picking off Kat when she tries to steal second.

  But then Rocky’s up to bat. She never ceases to amaze me. With everything going on in her head, she’s still so cool in the batter’s box. So tough looking. As if she’ll crush the ball to bits. I’d be terrified if I were the pitcher.

  Rocky glances at Coach, waits for the signs. Coach claps her hands. “Okay, batter. Nice and easy. Nothing flashy.”

  And Rocky nods her head.

  She waits on the first two pitches and then a ball comes in, low and inside. I watch Rocky’s knees drop a bit. She’s gonna swing. She’s gonna pulverize that ball. And she does, with everything, her whole body. Nothing “nice” about it. There’s that perfect, high ping sound and the ball flies so far over the left fielder’s head that she drops her glove and takes off after it. Rocky’s long, strong legs soar around the bases. Her rhythm is exactly even, and she doesn’t stutter before touching first, then second and third. She crosses home plate, and we run to congratulate her as the rain begins to fall lightly.

  She says to Coach, “Sorry about that. The pitch was too round. My favorite kind. I had to swing away.”

  “Sure,” Coach says, smiling.

  But the rest of the game continues to go something like that. When Coach gives us signals to swing away, we hold back. When she tells us to stay on a base, we take the turn and safely launch ourselves headfirst into second or third or home plate. We do everything opposite of what she says, and it works.