Choosing Sophie

by Leslie Carroll

  “You can’t dig up the pitcher’s mound!” Barry Weed had reached maximum frustration. “We have to continue the game, Linda.” He pointed to the outfield. “What about out there by the fence, just under the Wall of Fame? Or the bullpen.”

  Linda accepted Marty’s handkerchief and loudly blew her nose. “The bullpen might be okay. She always liked to do her business there.”

  “I remember it well,” muttered Pinky Melk. He was not too pleased that his flow had been interrupted. I knew he wanted Dusty to let him pitch the entire game.

  Mike Braddock, the Sound’s manager, protested the entire event. “You’re going to let them get away with burying a dog in the middle of the game?” he shouted to the cluster of umpires who had gathered around the ex-Yorkie. “This is a stunt—the Cheers are down by a run and they’ll do anything to delay the resumption of play.”

  “Is resumption a word?” Dusty asked the home plate ump.

  “Are you going to let these guys turn you into a clown?” Braddock demanded of the adjudicator. The two men were nose to nose. “Because, just between you and me, allowing a team to stop the game to inter a mutt is just about the most boneheaded decision anyone could ever make.”

  “One more insult out of you and the word you’re going to hear is ejected,” the ump warned Braddock.

  “All we want is a pain delay,” Dusty said gravely.

  Braddock looked at our manager like he was an utter nutcase. “A what?”

  “A pain delay. You have rain delays all the time, and no one gets accused of manipulating play. We want a pain delay.” Dusty pointed to Linda who was keening over Rosebud’s body like the heroine of a Greek drama. “Look at her. She’s a deMarley—if only by marriage.” Dusty’s voice was filled with passion, his eyes rimmed with tears. “Anyways—would the sainted Augie deMarley”—and here Dusty crossed himself, “deny the public exposition of grief in his own arena, in deMarley Field? I put it to you this way. And the answer is no, of course he wouldn’t. Old Augie could be a pill and a prick, but when push came to shove, as it so often did, he was a dog lover.”

  Barry Weed nodded in agreement.

  “Is your arm getting cold?” Dusty muttered to Pinky. “Go throw on your jacket, if you want to stay in the game after this whole fiasco is sorted out.”

  Pinky trotted into the dugout for his rose-colored wind-breaker.

  The ump looked grimly from manager to manager. “Okay, Fredericks,” he said finally. “Get out your shovel.”

  The players from both teams gathered in a corner of the bullpen, respectfully holding their caps over their hearts. I had a feeling it was the only canine burial in history attended by a guy dressed like a giant raspberry.

  “This is just like when it happened my dog died, too,” Spot Baldo said in broken English.

  “You poor boy. What kind did you have?” Linda gently inquired.

  “Like me. A Dalmatian. I am feeling sorry for you. You are a phat woman.”

  Linda drew back appalled. “How dare you!” She placed her hands on her zero-percent-body-fat torso. “See this? Thin—thin! Learn English, for Chrissakes!”

  “I am learning English. Phat is something very good.” He turned to Sophie, who was now wearing a flowered print dress with a straw sun hat covering her boyish haircut. “Please tell Mrs. deMarley that phat is a compliment.”

  “Not on my planet,” Linda muttered angrily. “Maybe on yours, where people eat sausage and drink beer all day.”

  Sophie placed her hand on Linda’s arm. “Shh! Shut up already! I think he’s spelling phat with a p-h. In which case he’s using the word correctly. And it has nothing to do with your weight.”

  “American slang! Wonderful!” Spot beamed. “And I am still sorry your doggie is no longer.”

  The P.S. 173 choir, which had performed the national anthem before the game, quickly regrouped, and under the direction of Henrietta Fiddle, their “maestress,” as Sophie called the woman, favored the mourners with a soulful medley moderately appropriate to the occasion: “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” and some song about being carried across the river, ending the set with “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child,” which sent me running, red-eyed, for a box of tissues.

  “Marty, you give the eulogy—I’m too upset,” Linda sobbed. I handed her a Kleenex.

  Marty opened his arms into a bewildered shrug. “What am I going to say? I never really liked the dog.” Linda smashed him in the arm with her purse. “Oww!” Marty ducked when his wife took a second swing, this time at his head. “Okay, okay. Rosebud was a wonderful dog. She wore clothes beautifully—like her owner. She was high maintenance—like—” Linda’s purse connected with her husband’s right ear.

  “All right, clearly I’m going to have to eulogize Rosebud myself.” Linda took a deep breath, then burst into tears again. She was a selfish, self-absorbed woman, but I felt for her, so I went over and put my arm over her shoulder and gave her a little hug.

  “You can do it,” I encouraged her. “Pull yourself together—for Rosebud’s sake. She would have wanted you to be brave.”

  “Don’t you touch me!” Linda flinched as though I carried the plague. “Don’t you come anywhere near me! I’ll never forgive you for what you did?”

  “I’m sorry that you’re blaming me for Rosebud’s death, Linda, but—”

  “I’m not talking about Rosebud. I’m talking about Precious!”

  “Precious? What’s precious?” The woman had me utterly flummoxed.

  “Precious is not a what. She was a who. Another Yorkie. Precious preceded Rosebud.”

  “Wait—what did I do to Precious?” I hadn’t even realized Linda had had a string of Yorkies; I guess I figured it was all the same dog. Though I suppose that would have made Rosebud a sort of doggie Methuselah.

  “What did you do to Precious?!” Linda’s expression was livid. “Ohh—don’t tell me you don’t remember. Because I’ll never forget it!”

  The woman was losing her marbles and the umpire was becoming exasperated. “All right, Mrs. deMarley; you just tell Ms. deMarley what she did to Precious so we can get on with burying Rosebud.” He pointed to the ground. “This one is Rosebud, isn’t it?” He smacked the side of his head. “I can’t believe I’m refereeing an argument between two women over a dead dust mop.”

  “That was it!” Linda shrieked. “She called Precious a dust mop!”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “To be honest, Linda, I don’t even remember saying that. But I’m sorry if I unwittingly offended your dog. Wh-when did I say that?”

  “Thanksgiving. Fifteen years ago. We called you on the phone to wish you a happy holiday, and you said to me, ‘How’s your dust mop?’”

  Oh, Christ. She’d despised me for years over a remark I truly didn’t remember uttering?

  “Will you just accept her apology so we can resume the game?” the Sound’s manager demanded.

  “I’m sorry, Linda. Genuinely sorry.” Then I smiled. “Please forgive me so we can close the circle.” I had her and she knew it.

  “All right,” she said finally, tired of playing Atlas holding up the world. She gave me a stiff hug. “After all, we’re still family, even if we’re not related.”

  “Now, c’mon, it’s time to face the music,’ I said gently. She turned around to the makeshift casket, and I rested my hands on her narrow, bony shoulders. “It’s okay. I’ve got your back.”

  With massive determination, Linda began her eulogy. “Rosebud was the only person who truly understood me—”

  “She wasn’t a person,” Marty muttered under his breath. “I’m a person. I’m your husband, for crying out loud.”

  Linda gave him a dirty look. “…who gave me unconditional love…” Glaring at Marty, she added, “unlike some people.”

  Some people sure are pretty fucking nuts about their pets, I thought. If Linda had been treating Rosebud like a human being—or better—all these years, Marty, as annoying as he was, might be a candidate for
martyr.

  “Can we wrap this up?” Mike Braddock looked at his watch. “Aren’t there rules about how long a break you can take for a seventh-inning stretch?”

  The home plate ump looked over at Dusty and Barry Weed. “The man’s got a point. Start digging, people. And make it quick.”

  “Mom, do you think I can call the rest of the game from the booth?” Sophie asked me.

  “You really want to play all the parts today, don’t you?” I whispered, teasing her.

  “I’ve been practicing on my own all year. If the Cheers lose this game I’ll have to wait until next season to get a shot at it. It’s not like it’s being broadcast over the airwaves or anything. If I totally blow, then only the fans in the ballpark will know about it, and I won’t have to go home and slit my wrists.”

  “That’s not remotely funny. Give me until the funeral’s over to think about it.”

  Rosebud was interred without further fanfare. I figured Sophie deserved a reward for her unassisted triple play, so I escorted her up to the booth and had a word with Biff Buck, the Cheers’ announcer. Biff seated Sophie, slid the mic in front of her, and the game resumed.

  Our bats weren’t as strong as they’d been recently, but then again, our best hitter had walked off the team. All we needed was to hold the Sound where they were and score two more runs to win the game. Easier said than done, however. In the bottom of the seventh, Anton Anton led off with a solo home run to tie the score, but then the Sound’s reliever struck out the side in order.

  In the bottom of the eighth, he loaded the bases with two Cheers out. My gut seized up. I yearned to be accounted at least partially responsible for taking this Little Engine That Could into the playoffs and for turning a profit for the first time in years. It had been a remarkable journey of self-discovery—that I could be the daughter my father had always wanted me to be, and the mother I never knew I could, yet remain true to who I really was.

  “Coming to bat now is Cheers’ second baseman Shoji Suzuki,” Sophie announced. He’d only been hitting .220—not exactly stellar. In fact I was concerned he might commit seppuku over his somewhat pitiful performance at the plate lately.

  “And the first pitch is ball one,” Sophie said, followed moments later by “that’s not a déjà vu, fans, that’s ball two. And Shoji is ahead of the count. What do you say, Biff? It’s pretty exciting up here, huh? Sorry, folks, Biff can’t answer me. He’s too busy scarfing down a sundae.”

  It was the first time I’d ever heard her call a game that wasn’t an assignment for her broadcasting classes. Sophie’s poise and polish behind the mic impressed the hell out of me. There wasn’t a trace of nerves in her voice. In fact, she sounded like she and Biff had been calling games together for years.

  Shoji swung at, and spectacularly missed, the next pitch for strike one. His wrists broke the invisible plane on the one after that for strike two, as Shoji tried to check his swing. The reliever’s next pitch was way high. Perhaps his arm was tiring.

  “Ball three,” Sophie called. “And Shoji’s facing a full count.”

  We held our breath. I grabbed Dusty’s hand and squeezed it. The reliever wound up, and with a high leg kick, released the ball. Shoji swung, making contact.

  “Unfortunately for the Cheers, it looks like it’s gonna be an easy line drive to first base,” Sophie said, followed immediately by an excited “Ohmigod!” as Shoji took off for first, running at full tilt. “You guys, this is totally awesome!”

  The fans were on their feet, shouting themselves hoarse.

  And then—the ball, which should have been scooped up by the Sound’s first baseman, rolled between his legs when he stooped to grab it! Jicama Flores, who’d gotten a good jump from third, poured on the speed, and headed for home, beating the tag by a millisecond.

  Sophie called the play with such breathlessness that I was afraid she’d hyperventilate. “And the Cheers score the go-ahead run! The Cheers score the go-ahead run!”

  I threw my arms around Dusty’s neck and planted a huge kiss on his lips. The players were so revved up, they didn’t even notice. The stands practically shook with excitement. No one sat down until the eighth inning was over, after Pinky’s bunt was easily fielded and flipped to first base.

  My heart thumped wildly as I joined the fans in chanting “Where’s the Beef?!”

  “You’ve got to bring in Wayne to pitch the ninth,” I said to Dusty. “Pinky’s tired. And did you see his face when he failed to move the runner over? I thought he was going to cry.”

  “Let’s see what Cheers manager Dusty Fredericks does now,” Sophie said. “Pinky Melk has turned in an awesome performance this evening, but he looked like his arm was flagging a bit during the last inning, and their closer Wayne deBoeuf—the Beef—has posted an awesome record this season in just such do-or-die situations.”

  Okay, so she needed to work on her awesomes.

  Dusty gave the nod to his pitching coach, who jogged out to the bullpen and gave the thumbs-up to Wayne deBoeuf.

  Waving at the crowd, Wayne trotted onto the field, barefoot as usual. I noticed he’d painted his toenails a deep shade of pink. Cheers pink.

  No one sat down for the entire top of the ninth. The fans turned their caps backward, rally-style, and shouted, “Eat Beef! Eat Beef!” at the opposing players.

  To our utter delight, the Beef notched the performance of his career. In a one-two-three inning, he struck out the demoralized Sound. There’d be no bottom of the ninth; the Cheers, with their one-run lead, had won the game.

  Sophie screamed into the mic: “Oh God—oh my God—Mom! This is so awesome! I love you, Mom! We did it! You did it—I mean the Cheers did it! The Cheers have beaten the Long Island Sound, 4 to 3, to clinch the wild-card berth in the Atlantic Coast League playoffs!”

  “Oh my God, we did it! We did it!” I kissed Dusty passionately as he enveloped me in a bear hug, giving my butt an affectionate squeeze. I hoped no one noticed. I turned around to wave to Sophie; she was being smothered with kisses by Kyle Angel, who had somehow materialized on high. I could have sworn I’d just seen him celebrating on the field with the other players. Oh dear—where was Lyle? Above the roar of the crowd, you could hear smoochy noises over the hot mic.

  The clubhouse emptied as we all ran onto the field, throwing our caps in the air. The players piled onto the Beef—a giant Cheers hero.

  I took the opportunity to nab Gabriel Moses, coaching him to just act modest when responding to questions about “his” spectacular play. “And when they ask you how it felt—”

  “I’ll tell them it went by in such a blur, I can’t even remember,” he interrupted. “I’m just happy to help the team in any way I can,” he added, as if regurgitating a rote memorization that might as well have come from the Bull Durham screenplay.

  “Don’t worry ma’am,” said our new third baseman. “I won’t blow it for you. As long as no one bothers to check the airline’s passenger list.” Gabo winked at me and touched his cap.

  I hoped to God I could trust him.

  “Biff, I have to go down and congratulate my mom and stuff,” Sophie said over the loudspeaker. She and Kyle left the booth and leaped the cement steps, two by two, down to the staircase that led to the field.

  “What a night!” I exclaimed.

  Sophie gave me a hug and then dragged me halfway out to first base where no one could overhear us. “Isn’t this awesome?! I only wish I could tell people about the—you know.”

  “The what?” I said, pretending not to get it.

  “The—you know. The unassisted triple play,” she hissed into my ear.

  “What unassisted triple play? The one Gabo Moses made in the fourth?”

  “I’m so totally bummed that I’ll never be able to own up to it. Can’t we just tell someone?”

  I shook my head. “But you know. And I know. And Dusty knows. Barry knows. And I’m sure most of the team, at least those who didn’t have their heads up their butts this evening,
knows it as well. So in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter if the whole world knows it was you? Because that wasn’t why you did it in the first place. We both know that you didn’t do it for the glory—you just made the play because your head and your heart were in the moment, and in the game.”

  “Heads up, ladies!” shouted Dusty. Sophie and I turned back to see a phalanx of photographers and sports writers charging toward us. “Okay, kiddo,” I smiled, between gritted teeth. “Time to keep a secret.”

  “I’ve been known to do that,” Sophie grinned.

  We jogged a few feet toward the clubhouse before we were mobbed.

  “Olivia deMarley—your Cheers have made the playoffs for the first time in the team’s history. You must be quite excited.”

  “That’s kind of an understatement,” I told the reporter. “And it was a team effort. The players and the management—every member of the Cheers family—should all be very pleased with their contributions this year.”

  Another reporter, a local TV guy, shouted my name, and when I glanced in his direction, he fired off his question. “It’s been quite a season for the Cheers—from the stripper-style workouts to the team’s, shall we say, revamped look to the somewhat unexpected departures of Tommy DuPree and Sammy Santiago to this evening’s fireworks—that spectacular unassisted triple play by the newest Cheer, Gabriel Moses. And now you’ve taken the team where your father never did. Do you think your dad would have been proud of you, Ms. deMarley? Or, if he were with us today, do you think he’d be a bit envious of your, shall we say, surprising success?”

  Sophie rolled her eyes, as though she’d never heard a stupider question, but she answered the reporter before I could open my mouth. “You must be kidding her, right?” she said. “Old Augie is up there dancing to ‘We Will Rock You’ right now. Leaving the Cheers to my Mom was the best decision of his death. But if he weren’t doing the heavenly hornpipe, I bet he wouldn’t be the only one feeling a little Venus envy at the moment. You’re not going to bleep that, are you?”