Choosing Sophie
Page 16
I used my controlling interest to railroad my ideas through, implementing them as soon as it was practicable. Prototypes of the sorbet-shaded uniforms, and the Cheers’ “Razzie the Raspberry” mascot were rolled out—the latter almost literally—by the end of the week, with the rest of the gear rush-ordered from a factory in rural North Carolina. I’d hoped for a more enthusiastic response from the players, but I suppose I should have predicted their reactions to my promotional campaign to Think Pink. Only our second baseman, Hollis Golightly, had anything positive to say about the new uniforms, pronouncing them “daring.” I took it as a compliment.
Once they tried them on, the rest of the team gave the new uniforms a giant raspberry of their own, carping that the new duds made them resemble wads of bubble gum, bottles of Pepto-Bismol, or just plain fruits. Ahab Slocum, whose backside was somewhat generous, and whose thigh muscles were nothing short of impressive, insisted that he looked like one of his mother’s baked Virginia hams.
The uniforms were kind of chic, actually, from a fashion standpoint. And certainly, no other baseball team wore anything remotely like them. My press release quoted me as saying, “The players look positively yummy now,” and the media ate it up with a spoon.
Unfortunately, they dished it out, too. VENUS DEMARLEY STRIPS CHEERS OF THEIR DIGNITY read one local sports headline, and the following day the same journalist called for the players to TAKE IT OFF! The one-two combination of my stripper-style exercise routine and the rose-colored attire, compounded by the pounding they were taking in the press, sent the guys’ misery index spiking as high as the noonday temperature on the field.
Sophie cautioned, “If you don’t watch out, you’re going to have a mutiny on your hands, Mom. I mean, the Clarendon Kumquats had appallingly awful uniforms; I hated those fuzzy olive-colored jerseys and caps, but at least we didn’t dress in one of the ultimate girl-colors. Even our Little League club didn’t wear pink, and we were a bunch of nine year olds in pigtails who took after-school ballet lessons!”
“The mood is temporary,” I insisted. “Things like this happen in every company whenever someone initiates a total overhaul of the status quo. It’s a classic business model. Until the tides turn in their favor, the visionary is always mistaken for a pariah. I promise you, Soph, it’ll blow over as soon as the boys get some wins under their belts. All they need is some confidence.”
Sophie sighed in exasperation. “Well, how are they supposed to get it when you’ve dressed them like desserts?!”
“There’s a method to my madness; you just have to trust me. Up until I designed new uniforms and changed the team’s logo and mascot, all the Cheers got from the press was a razzing for another season of lackluster performances. The guys got so much grief from the local media, they lost all faith in their capabilities as ballplayers. Now the focus is on something entirely different, which has absolutely nothing to do with their ability to hit and run and field and pitch. The pressure’s off because I’ve deflected the press’s collective attention. Now the guys can just settle down and focus on the fundamentals.”
Sophie looked at me in utter bemusement. “Umm…I’m not exactly sure folks’ll see you as a baseball visionary,” she sighed. “I love you, Mom, but I’m afraid people are just going to think of you as a half-shelled baseball nut.”
My heart suddenly began to sing coloratura arias, hitting notes I never knew I had. At that moment, I didn’t care what people thought of me—my daughter had just said she loved me!
Top of the Seventh
“Do you think we can sue her for running the team straight into the toilet?” Marty deMarley mused between bites of a particularly crunchy cereal. Linda cringed at the sound. “There must be some way around it. Is there a clause in Uncle Augie’s will that said what would happen if Venus screwed up?”
Linda sipped her espresso and shook her head. “I’m looking at the photocopy. I haven’t come across any loopholes yet. And don’t forget, the team defined mediocrity even before Venus inherited it. It only sucks slightly worse now than it did before.”
“Are you on her side now?” Marty gasped. Milk dribbled down his chin into the cereal bowl.
“What, are you nuts? I’m just stating the facts, that’s all. Technically—if you read the sports pages,” Linda added, turning to the back of the morning edition of the Daily News—“the Cheers are a better ball club than they’ve been in several seasons.” She glanced at an article about the team’s woes and summarized it for her husband as she nibbled a slice of dry toast. “On paper, the Cheers are stronger both defensively and offensively; they have a deeper pitching staff, but they’re not performing to expectations. And why? Because they don’t respect their new owner. It’s okay if they dislike Venus, even if they hate her—because if they fear her, they’ll still play well. But without the respect of the players and coaches, Venus’ll never be able to turn them around.”
“Does the columnist offer her any advice, in case she’s reading the paper?” Marty asked curiously.
Linda skimmed to the final paragraph. “Nope; it just says she needs to earn their admiration.”
Secretly, Linda commiserated. In fact, she’d surprised herself with the realization that, as a fellow estrogen producer, she even felt sorry for Venus to a certain degree, though she would never admit it to anyone, and certainly not to Marty, who in her view, wouldn’t do much better with the Cheers if push really did come to shove and they could legally yank the controlling interest in the team out from under Venus deMarley. Even with Linda’s prodding and scheming backing him up, dorky Marty couldn’t command anyone’s respect, least of all a bunch of macho kids hoping to get called up to the majors.
The realization was an epiphany Linda deMarley was uncomfortable acknowledging. And Linda didn’t “do” sympathy. Sympathy sucked up your time and got you too involved in other people’s business. Sympathy came back and bit you in the ass, the way it had when she’d told her sister Marilyn what a loser her gambling, gun-toting husband was—and Marilyn had taken the dickhead back with open arms and hadn’t spoken to her since.
Was Marty right? Was she now on Olivia’s side? She’d never even liked the woman. And she still wasn’t about to forgive and forget the way Venus had insulted her—even if it happened well over a decade ago. Sort of like Marty’s dinosaur cookies—only important. Linda folded the paper and shoved it across the table toward her husband. For some reason, all her thoughts were jumbled this morning, her opinions zinging back and forth between what it must be like to be in Venus’s thigh-high boots and Marty’s Bally loafers. Maybe it was just the espresso talking. Linda wasn’t liking the confusion. She’d never been confused about anything before. Everything was always black or white; why were things suddenly popping up in shades of gray?
“Rosebud and I are going shopping,” she said, abruptly hopping up from the breakfast table. “I’m not feeling like myself today.”
Marty reached for the Daily News. “What’s the matter, hon?” he asked solicitously.
“Something’s wrong with my insides,” Linda said, placing her hand on her well-toned abs. “I’m feeling nice.”
I drove out to the City Island marina, with a copy of the morning paper on the front seat beside me, opened to the sports pages. Something their columnist had written was gyrating in my brain, and I wanted to be able to grab hold of the criticism, stop the spinning, and face the music.
Dusty was already at his boat when I arrived, scrubbing the hull with a huge sponge. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to do that after our little excursion?”
He shook his head and pointed skyward. “Fucking seagulls. I’m not gonna let them use the RosAmor for a toilet.”
“Speaking of the crapper,” I said, as Dusty wrung out the sponge and tossed it into an empty plastic bucket, “Mike Lupica says the Cheers are sitting there, stinking up the division, because they don’t respect me. And it’s not just about the new uniforms or the bump-and-grind exercise routine.”
“Do you think it’s true? Lupica says it’s not just the players who have a problem with my owning the team; it’s the management, too.” I looked Dusty in the eye. “Do you have a problem with it?”
“Venus—I think the team is sucking because they’re not playing well.”
“Sounds like a Yogi-ism,” I chuckled. “But, for argument’s sake, let’s say that’s actually true. Why aren’t they playing well? Statistically, it’s supposed to be the strongest team in a decade. So whatever’s at play here is something intangible, ephemeral. It’s got to do with personalities, not numbers. You’re the manager, Dusty,” I said, kicking off my sandals. I wiggled my bare toes. “Maybe the problem is you.”
The poor man looked like he was about to have a heart attack. His face grew pale and his eyes began to mist over. “I love those kids like they were my own flesh and blood. I’ve given some of the best years of my life—and Rosa’s last years—to the Cheers.” His shoulders heaved with emotion.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry.” I stepped behind him and slid my arms around his waist, such as it was. “I didn’t mean to imply—I guess what I’m suggesting is that the approach has to change. You’ve been managing the team the same way every season for several years now; and every season, the team has performed below par. It’s the definition of ‘insanity’ to do the exact same thing time after time, and expect different results! The kids seem to love you. You’re a father figure for many of them. But I think it’s time you considered changing the way you manage the team.”
“Wait just a New York minute!” Dusty exclaimed, turning around. We were now chest to chest. “You read an article this morning that blamed the Cheers’ failures on you, and now you’re telling me the team’s piss-poor performance this season is my fault?! And on my boat!”
“Then tell me why Tommy DuPree, the great white hope of the year, can’t win a game!”
“Because he isn’t any good! That’s why!”
Had there been any casual observers of this little contretemps, it would have looked for all the world like a manager and an ump going toe to toe over a bad call.
I refused to step away, or to back down. “Look, I’ve been placed in charge of the Cheers by forces from the Great Beyond. Or at least beyond my control. Now, you guys may not like the fact that I’m a woman, but, guess what—I can’t change that. In fact, even if I could, I’d never want to. Some of you may not like the fact that I used to be an exotic dancer—well, I can’t change that, either. But I just write the checks. It’s you and Barry Weed who ultimately put this team together, and you’re the one who’s responsible for the kids once they get to the ball park. You make the lineup before every game, you work with the hitting and pitching coaches on how to improve performance, and you’re the one who determines the strategy, inning by inning. I’ve got a business degree, Dusty. When I ran nightclubs in Vegas, I figured out how to beat my competition while keeping my employees’ morale as high as their paychecks; and when I inherited the Cheers, I vowed to maintain the same standards. I take my responsibilities to the team, and my father’s legacy, very seriously. I told you weeks ago that no one was safe if the team wasn’t performing, and I haven’t changed my mind.”
We were nose to nose. I was sure Dusty could feel my breath on his face. He gave me a funny look, and I leaned back, ever so slightly. I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t a woman of my word.
“Well, maybe this will make you look at things a little different.” His arm encircled my waist and pulled me back against him. And then his lips were pressed against my surprised, even shocked, open mouth. I kept my eyes open through the kiss, staring at Dusty. I was utterly confused; part of me was angry, yet the rest of me was confounded that I was enjoying it.
“Well…that came out of left field!” I exclaimed, sliding out of his embrace. My hands flew to my temples. Suddenly I had a raging headache.
“Sorry about that, Venus.” Dusty looked a bit sheepish. “I’ve…I’ve been wanting to do that for a while, now.”
“You’re—you’re a widower!”
“And you’re a looker. Does that make me a heel?”
I didn’t know how to answer. I liked the man, in general. Yet I’d certainly never thought of him as a lover. The notion had been entirely off my radar…until now. It was an awkward acknowledgment that I simply didn’t know how to handle. “I…I’m not up for a boat ride now,” I said weakly. I stepped out of the RosAmor and back onto the dock. “I…I need to go home.”
I promised to phone Dusty later to discuss revamped management strategies for the Cheers, but I climbed into my car and headed for Chelsea without the slightest idea what to say to the man. He’d just thrown me a curveball that I hadn’t a clue how to hit.
“Dusty what?” exclaimed Sophie. The New York Times real estate section fell from her hand onto the area rug.
“He kissed me. We were in the middle of an argument over whether his management skills were cutting it, when he kissed me!”
Sophie pretended to realign her dropped jaw. “Was it good?”
“That isn’t really the point, Soph.”
“Well, but it’s more than tangential. Old Crusty Dusty—who’d a thunk it? This is so awesome!”
“Awesome-good or awesome-bad? You kids overuse that word so much, I haven’t a clue what you mean by it, anymore.” Then I remarked that she’d evidently ceased giving me the silent treatment—which began over the Romeo Hicks issue.
“This is too interesting to ignore. So, what are you going to do about it?”
“We’re going to look at new ways to turn the Cheers into a winning ball club. And if we can’t come up with something that works, I’m going to have to ask Barry Weed to give Dusty the heave-ho. It would break my heart, but it’s my responsibility to keep the team afloat. We’ve got salaries, upkeep of the stadium—”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean what are you going to do about the players—I mean what are you going to do about the kiss?”
I sat on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. “It’s kind of the same thing. I can’t exactly fire a guy who’s just kissed me.”
“Not unless you’re a total bitch. Which you’re not. At least not yet. You would be if you kicked old Crusty Dusty to the curb. I bet Linda deMarley wouldn’t think twice about it, though. The only sentient being she gives a shit about is her dog.”
“Dusty’s only part of the problem,” I sighed, leaning against the couch and closing my eyes. It helped me remember the taste of his kiss. “He must have had a Spanish omelet for breakfast.”
“What?”
“Nothing, honey.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm nothing, Soph. As I was saying—Dusty’s only part of the problem. The players themselves are the other part. Starting with your diamond in the rough, Tommy DuPree.” I told her that my gut was saying it was time to look for another ace right-hander.
Sophie’s eyes filled with tears. “You don’t trust me,” she said in a small voice, looking for all the world as though I’d somehow betrayed her. I knew she needed to be right. To demonstrate to me that she possessed a worthy and useful talent. Yet, the pitcher wasn’t performing up to par. I had reached the point where I had to make a decision either to honor my daughter’s delicate ego or do what was best for the team.
And I chose Sophie.
“I bet you guys aren’t using sabermetrics,” she said later that afternoon, fully aware she’d dodged a bullet. “Wait!” she commanded, with that I-know-something-you-don’t-know bravado. She retreated into her bedroom and emerged a minute or so later, clutching a hardcover to her chest as though it were more precious than the Dead Sea Scrolls. “Glenn gave me this for my eighteenth birthday,” she said proudly. “He told me that even an amateur talent scout should know about sabermetrics.”
I took the book from her h
ands and leafed through its pages. “Actually, I came across a couple of articles about sabermetrics on the Internet,” I told her, “and at the time I thought it made about as much sense as any other methods of baseball analysis, though it took me a while to wrap my brain around all the necessary number crunching. “I even raised the subject with Barry.”
“And?” Sophie asked excitedly, pleased that she might be able to make up for the credit she’d lost in going to bat so strongly for Tommy DuPree.
“And he just scoffed at it. Barry doesn’t believe it’s really possible to analyze baseball by using objective evidence. Dusty agreed with him. He says the game is an art, not a science.”
“But it’s both!” Sophie exclaimed, growing more passionate about her opinion with each word she uttered. “Whoever has the most runs wins the game, right? So, on-base percentage is crucial. Drawing a walk is as key, if not more so, than batting average. For example, if you drill the ball to centerfield, but the outfielder picks it up and throws to first before you get there, you’re one base-on-balls less likely to win the game. Tommy DuPree and the others are good players—they just need to be managed differently. Barry Weed is a chain-smoking dinosaur—I don’t care if he’s only forty-three years old, he’s still Paleolithic when it comes to general-managing a ball club. And Crusty Dusty should at least give sabermetrics a try,” she insisted. “I’ll help! I’ll start compiling the stats of each of the Cheers against each of the pitchers they’ve faced in the Atlantic Coast League, and I’ll do the same thing in reverse: write down the stats of each of our club’s pitchers against each of the hitters in the league.”
“And do what with them?” I asked her. “I totally agree that we have to have a new approach, since the current model is obviously not working. But A-ball has a relatively short season. We don’t have time to scratch our tushies and analyze sheet after sheet of figures. We need some momentum. We need some wins!”