Safe at Home

by Alison Gordon

“Someone they all look up to. A well-known athlete. A television performer.”

  “I can’t stand to think about it.”

  “And I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “Neither can I. But let’s try.”

  I got up, set the alarm for 8:30, and blew out the candles, then got back in under the duvet. We spooned, with his body against my back.

  “Good night,” he murmured into my neck. “I’m glad I’m here.”

  “Me too.”

  Chapter 23

  “Konnichi wa?”

  “Emphasis on the first syllable,” Andy said. “KON-nichi wa. That’s hello. During the day. Konban wa is for the evening.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Sayonara is goodbye. What’s please?”

  “That depends. Dōzo is please, like please go first through the door, or please have this food. If you want a different kind of please—”

  “Fine, one’s enough for me. I know thank you from Kuri. Arigatō, right?”

  “Well, yes. Except, if you want to be more polite, it is dōmo arigatō. Or more polite still, it’s dōmo arigatō gozaimasu.

  “Well, arigatō to you for that.”

  “And casually, it is simply domō.”

  “Let’s get real. How do you casually say ‘you’re welcome’?”

  “Try dō itashimashite.”

  “Then how do you say ‘Welcome to Toronto’?”

  “Toronto e yōkoso. Emphasis on the yō.”

  Sunday, no day of rest for sportswriters or cops on an ugly case, began with a language lesson. I figured that a few words of Japanese might be a good way to start off with the new Titan shortstop.

  We covered the basic greetings and terms of politeness over breakfast and were out of the house before 10:00. Even though I arrived early, it was already circus time at the ballpark. I recognized the senior writer for Sports Illustrated in the mob around Red O’Brien, and the national baseball writers for the Washington Post, Boston Globe, and Philadelphia Inquirer. It was like the first game of the World Series.

  Christopher Morris, my favourite magazine writer, stood by the Tiger dugout surveying the scene. That is his habitual stance, just apart from the crowd, looking at the story from his own angle. That’s why he is so good. I went to shake his hand. He kissed me on the cheek.

  “Good story, Kate. How did you get it?”

  “You’ve heard of a silver platter?”

  “Yes, but he handed it to you, not someone else.”

  “Just lucky.”

  “I’ve been waiting for this for the last few years.”

  “Joe.”

  “No, not him in particular. But there are others.”

  He mentioned a few: a couple of well-known sluggers and a Cy Young award-winning pitcher. I’d heard rumours about them over the years. He also mentioned the name of one infielder still playing who is known around the league as a real stud, an image he cultivates in a national advertising campaign.

  “I can understand why he isn’t leaping out of the closet,” I laughed. “But the others? What can it hurt now?”

  “I don’t know. I thought maybe once they were out of the game they might go public.”

  “Probably worried about the Hall of Fame.”

  “Yeah, I guess Cooperstown isn’t quite ready.”

  “Not ready? Last time I checked, those guys didn’t even know it was the twentieth century.”

  “Now, Kate, let’s not malign our national shrine.”

  “Your nation, not mine.”

  “How is Kelsey doing, anyway?”

  “Fine. I guess you know he’s not talking until tomorrow. Are you going to stick around?”

  “Yes. Dinner tonight?”

  “Sure. That would be nice. I might bring a friend, too. Listen, since you can’t talk to Joe, come with me. I’m on another story right now. Come meet our new Japanese player.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Atsuo Watanabe. He’s a shortstop. Ted Ferguson and Red O’Brien signed him last year when they went on the All-Star tour. He’s been in Triple A.”

  “Beats standing around here interviewing other reporters,” Christopher said. “Lead on.”

  Watanabe was leaning over the water fountain in the dugout. The name on his uniform curved around his slim back in an inverted U. His was a name that only a broad-shouldered player could carry well. This kid would have been better off named Smith. As we approached him, he turned around, looking with rookie eyes at everything going on. No matter where he’s played before, and Watanabe had played in some pretty grand ballparks in Japan, his first view of a major-league stadium is a thrill. I had seen many rookies at just this moment. Some of them had kept the wonder, others had quickly taken it for granted.

  “Konnichi wa, Watanabe-san,” I said, holding out my hand. “Toronto e yōkoso.”

  He shook it, bowing slightly, amusement in his eyes.

  “Konnichi wa,” he said, then went on, in Japanese, of course. I didn’t understand a word. I guess my face showed it.

  “I was merely thanking you for the respect you have showed me, Miss Henry,” he said, in precise, slightly accented English. “It is very kind of you.”

  “You speak English very well,” I said, a little embarrassed.

  “I finished first in my class every year. I was an excellent student of English.”

  “If I appear surprised, it is only because many of the baseball players in North America do not appear to have been very good students.”

  The formality of his speech was catching.

  “I have learned this in my short time here. I have been anxious to talk about literature and political theory with my teammates, but they have not shared the interest.”

  “You are familiar with North American literature?” Christopher asked, as surprised as I.

  “I like the Canadian writers in particular,” he said. “Margaret Atwood, Alice Munro. You have many excellent women writers. I started, of course, with the works of Miss Lucy Maud Montgomery.”

  Christopher looked at me, confused. He had obviously not grown up on Anne of Green Gables. I remembered some things I had read about the Japanese and their fascination with things Canadian.

  “All Japanese school children are very familiar with Miss Montgomery’s work,” Watanabe continued. “Do you think it will be possible for me to go to see her famous home on the off-day tomorrow?”

  His face fell when I explained that Prince Edward Island is two thousand kilometres away from Toronto.

  “And I’m afraid that the Rocky Mountains are out of the question, too,” I said. “But you could handle a day trip to Niagara Falls. Perhaps Hugh Marsh could arrange it.”

  “Thank you so much,” he said.

  “Dō itashimashite,” I said.

  We both laughed.

  “Let me ask you some questions about playing in the major leagues,” I said. “Is baseball here very different from Japan? I realize it is the same game, but there must be differences.”

  “Oh, yes. They do not expect players to work so hard here. And the fans are very different. In the minor leagues, very quiet. I will be interested to see how major-league fans behave this afternoon. This stadium, will it be full?”

  “On a Sunday afternoon, probably. There will be a lot of fans here from Detroit, too.”

  “They will be the ones making all the noise,” Christopher said. “The Titan fans aren’t typical major-league fans. They are Canadians, more polite than most. Wait until you come to New York next week.”

  “Ah, Yankee Stadium. It is my dream to play there since I was a little boy.”

  “That’s not typical either,” I said, “Whatever Christopher tells you. They don’t call it the Bronx Zoo for nothing. There are fewer animals in the rest of the parks.”

  “Things aren
’t so quiet in Japan, either. Japanese fans care very passionately for their teams. For even a high-school championship, the stadiums will be full.”

  “I’m interested in why you came,” said Christopher.

  “I would like to bring honour to my country by playing well in the major leagues.”

  “Your family must be very proud,” I said.

  Watanabe frowned.

  “No, they are ashamed of me,” he said. “They think I am betraying them and my country to play with the gaijin—the foreigners. I must do very well here to win back their respect.”

  Then he smiled.

  “But I think I will do very well.”

  “This is not a typical Japanese attitude, I don’t think,” Christopher said.

  “And that is why I am playing baseball here and not in Japan,” Watanabe replied.

  “Well, good luck to you,” I said. “I’ll see you after the game. You realize that women reporters come into the dressing room, don’t you?”

  “I have been told,” he smiled. “I have brought a yukata—robe—with me. You will excuse me now, please. It is time for my batting practice.”

  We exchanged handshakes and bows. Watanabe ran to the cage, where other starting players were waiting their turn. Most of them ignored him. He struck up a conversation with Joe Kelsey.

  “I wonder if he knows he is talking to a pariah,” Christopher said.

  “Misfittery loves company,” I said.

  Chapter 24

  Atsuo Watanabe’s major-league debut wasn’t exactly out of the storybooks. His first major-league hit, and his only hit in the game, bounced on a seam in the turf over the third baseman’s head for a cheap double.

  “He should be ashamed to put that ball in his trophy case,” said Jeff Glebe, who had given up his day off to try to find a new angle on the Kelsey story for his column.

  “It will be a hit in the box score tomorrow,” I said. “What are you, a purist?”

  As we chatted, Watanabe got picked off second.

  “Welcome to the big leagues,” said Jeff.

  He made up for his rookie blunder on the base-paths with his defensive play. He made one terrific diving catch in the hole to rob a Tiger of a base hit. He was warmly received by the fans.

  The Titans won 4–1, their fifth in a row.

  “Things are looking up,” I said, as Jeff and I headed towards the elevator after the game.

  “Don’t hurt yourself jumping on the bandwagon.”

  It was jammed, as usual, in the elevator. We crowded on, with apologetic smiles for Cecil. Because the elevator serves not only the press box, but the high-rollers in the private boxes one floor down and the wheelchair patrons on the main stadium level, service is intermittent at best, just after a game, and it’s a long walk down the stairs.

  “Up, please,” said Bill Sanderson, at the back of the elevator. He didn’t get a laugh. He never did.

  We landed with a thump at the ground floor. The doors didn’t open. We waited for several endless seconds in silence. Cecil pushed several buttons with some urgency.

  “Too much weight,” he said, looking pointedly at me and Jeff, the last two on.

  “Oh, Christ,” Jeff said. “My claustrophobia has just kicked in.”

  He wasn’t kidding. For the next twenty minutes he was chalk white and sweating. I don’t know what he was worried about. At least he was tall enough to breathe up there. I leaned against the door and pretended I was somewhere else and that I didn’t have to pee. As the minutes passed, the place began to stink from everybody’s nervous sweat.

  By the time we were rescued, most of us were ready to throttle Sanderson, who had babbled non-stop about deadlines and the depletion of the oxygen supply. The only one I was worried about was Cecil. I thought he was a bit old for the stress, but he was completely cool. In fact, whenever I began to lose it, all I had to do was look at him. He would give me a little smile or a wink. In fact, after they pried the doors open, he wanted to go right back up to pick up the wheelchair patrons.

  By the time we got to the clubhouse, most of the players had dressed. There was tension in the air.

  “What went on here?” I asked one of the wire-service reporters who had obviously taken the stairs.

  “It happened before I got here, too,” he said. “I had to file before I came down. There was some sort of fight, I think.”

  I looked for Gloves Gardiner, the catcher, my most reliable informant. I saw him coming out of the trainer’s room and intercepted him in the corridor.

  “Stinger started it,” he said, wearily. “I wouldn’t tell you except that Keith Jarvis was there, and if it’s in the Mirror, you might as well have it, too.”

  The Mirror is a muckraking tabloid with the journalistic standards of a Brussels sprout.

  Evidently Stinger had seen Atsuo Watanabe talking to Joe Kelsey and had made one of his usual crude remarks. This had confused Watanabe and enraged Joe, who slugged Swain. Before the fight broke up, ten guys had been involved.

  “You, too, Gloves?”

  He fingered the bruise on his cheek and nodded.

  “Who else?” I asked.

  “Tiny tried to break it up, but Goober Grabowski ganged up with Stinger. When he hit Tiny, Eddie Carter and I got involved. David Sloane came in with Goober and Stinger, then Alex Jones came in with us. I don’t know who all was in there at the end.”

  “Blacks on one side, whites on the other?”

  “Except me, and the new kid. But to Stinger and Goober, he probably counts as black.”

  “What broke it up?”

  “Red. He fined our asses, too.”

  “The Mirror is going to go nuts with this,” I said.

  “I know. See if you can put it in some kind of perspective.”

  “What would you suggest? When a star third-baseman starts a brawl among members of the same team, I can hardly describe it as a tea party. What is it going to do to morale?”

  “Not help it, that’s for sure.”

  “Maybe the off-day will cool some tempers,” I said. What are your plans for your twenty-four hours of freedom?”

  “Look for a place to live. Karin and the kids will be coming up next month.”

  “Good luck.”

  “We could get the same condo we had last year, but she wants something with a yard this time.”

  “For the kids? I don’t blame her,” I said.

  “I’m going out to Mississauga tomorrow.”

  Typical. The players, bred in the suburbs of America, have no idea that they can live downtown in Toronto and still have a yard and parks and playgrounds all around them. So they head for the ’burbs even here.

  Ah, well, if they didn’t, we wouldn’t get to have Mississauga Day at the ballpark every year and watch the mayor bounce the ceremonial first pitch after the presentation ceremonies. A fine Titan tradition, and she gives out dandy t-shirts.

  The trainer’s room door opened again and Joe Kelsey came out, heading for the exit. I excused myself and ran after him. We stopped in the corridor under the stadium, halfway to the gate, out of sight or earshot of other reporters.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, wearily.

  “You don’t have to. I heard the story from Gloves. Can you just give me one quote for my story?”

  “Just say that it was a misunderstanding that got out of hand, and that I regret any part I played in it.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Depressed, more than anything.”

  “You knew it wasn’t going to be easy.”

  “I just don’t like seeing my friends getting involved.”

  “It beats them not getting involved,” I said.

  “Yeah, and I appreciate it, too. This is going to make the press conference tomorrow more difficult, isn’t it?�
�

  “Probably. It will certainly give it a focus. It will be in all the papers. But maybe it’s for the best. At least the enemy has a face now. By the way, are you and Sandy coming to supper tomorrow night?”

  “Yes, if you still want us.”

  “Don’t be an asshole. Of course we do. Come by at six. If it’s nice, we’ll barbecue.”

  “And no more talking about it?”

  “Not if you don’t want to. T.C. will want to talk baseball, for sure. If you can stand that.”

  “It beats sex any day.”

  “Doing it, or talking about it?”

  “Watch your mouth, Kate.”

  After Joe left, I went back into the clubhouse to find Watanabe. He was alone in front of his locker. His comments were stunning.

  “I beg forgiveness from the fans of Toronto for the mistake I made getting picked off second,” he said. “I will try very hard never to do that again, and to be worthy of their approval.”

  Was this guy for real? It was culture clash again. His comments were ludicrous, but why did I wish more of the guys talked like this?

  “Don’t feel too badly. You won the game.”

  “I must apologize to Mr. O’Brien, too. I hope he will let me play tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  Before I left him, I gave him a card from Kuri’s restaurant.

  “Introduce yourself to Kuri-san,” I said. “Tell him I sent you. He will take care of you.”

  I went to find Red O’Brien. He was still in his office, with a dozen reporters. I went into the room, leaned against the wall by the door and began taking notes.

  “. . . That’s what I’ve been saying all along. What someone does away from the ballpark doesn’t bother me. Kelsey could be queer for sheep, for all I care. Don’t print that. What I’m saying is, as long as a player’s behaviour in his private life doesn’t affect what goes on here, it’s none of my business.

  “Today it did affect what goes on here. I can’t have my players fighting with another. They have to play as a team. I’ve fined every player who was involved, and called a team meeting for Tuesday before the game. I’m giving them the off-day to see if they can figure out how they are going to work this out. If they can’t, we’ll have to see what moves we can make.”