The Man For Me

by Gemma Bruce

  “You forgot your change.”

  “I…your tip.”

  “Nobody has to tip at Patsy’s. You can give me fifteen percent, since you’re on an expense account. And I’ll thank you for it.”

  Embarrassed, J.T. started to do the math.

  “That’s a dollar and a quarter.”

  “But, Patsy, you should be charging more,” she insisted.

  Patsy pocketed her dollar and change. “Enough of that going on out on the highway. Have a nice day, now.”

  “You, too,” J.T. said, wondering what would happen to Patsy if they built the new stadium.

  When they reached Gilbey Field, she automatically looked for Tommy’s Beemer. She could have kicked herself for the lapse.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Harris.”

  “Think nothing of it. I thank you for the lunch.”

  “Oh, just one more question. Where would I find the neighborhood kids after school? I was told they play ball in a vacant lot around here.”

  Mr. Harris looked off down the street. “Well, sometimes they play over by the factory. ’Cept I imagine they won’t be there today.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause of Tommy.”

  “Tommy Bainbridge?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He gets ’em all fired up when he’s here but it don’t last long after he’s gone again.”

  “He coaches them?”

  “Yes, ma’am, every time he’s in town.”

  “At the little league field,” she said, trying to reconfigure her image of Tommy coaching children in his spare time.

  “No. They got their own coaches. Tommy he just hits a few with the local kids. Gives ’em somebody to look up to.”

  J.T. remembered the kids at Sal’s and the way they’d hung on to Tommy. She didn’t want to feel sympathetic to the jerk, but she was curious. It behooved her as a journalist to check out the situation.

  “If I go down the street here, I’ll find the lot?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but I wouldn’t go there by myself. You never know when somebody gonna take advantage of you.”

  “I’ll take my car.”

  “Whatever you say. Just keep it in sight or it’ll be stripped before you know it. You be careful, now.”

  J.T. watched him shuffle back into the ballpark offices, then she got into the Mustang and started cruising the neighborhood for a ball field.

  She found it several blocks away. A vacant lot across the street from the abandoned mill. She would have passed it except there was a group of young boys standing by a burned-out car at the side of what looked like a local dumping spot.

  The lot had once been surrounded by a chain-link fence but the fence was sagging in some places and had been trampled down completely in others. A rusted oil drum was overflowing with trash, old newspapers, broken bottles, and rusted pieces of metal.

  At first she thought the kids were stripping the car for parts, then she saw that they were all wearing red baseball caps above an assortment of jeans, sweatpants, and faded T-shirts. And they all had gloves. She’d found Tommy’s team.

  J.T. locked the Mustang and picked her way across a path of broken bottles and rusting beer cans until she reached the group.

  They weren’t engaged in juvenile delinquency, but were waiting for their turn at bat. There were more kids standing at a distance, just where the bases and the outfield would be on a small field. The ground had been cleared and a rough path formed between the sandbag bases.

  A man was standing at a cleared patch at the center. He was wearing jeans and a cutoff sports shirt over a white T-shirt. There was a plastic storage box at his feet. As J.T. watched, he picked up a ball from the box, nodded to a boy that was standing at home plate.

  He wound up; the ball arced over the boy’s head and banged into a piece of fence. The backstop.

  The boy dropped his bat. “Da-a-ad.”

  “Sorry. I’m outta practice. Pick that bat up. I’ll give it another shot.”

  The boy picked up his bat. Gave it a couple of slices and twirls, which he’d probably picked up from television, and waited for the pitch. It looped over the plate and the boy connected. He dropped the bat and ran to first base. Though how he could find it for all the trampled grass was a mystery to J.T.

  Two outfielders were still searching the grass for the ball.

  “Got it,” yelled one of them, and fired it at the first baseman. He caught it but the batter was already there.

  The first baseman threw it back to the father. Another boy came up to bat, this one a good foot and a half taller than the last. J.T. realized that the ages spanned at least five or six years.

  The father wound up. The kid at first started for second. Three feet away, he slid, both feet stretched toward the base. J.T. cringed.

  “Good job,” said the father, and turned back to pitch.

  But no one, including the batter, was paying attention. They’d all zeroed in on J.T. and were staring at her like they’d never seen a girl in jeans before.

  The father turned around, noticed her, and walked over.

  “Hi,” she said, trying to take them all in at once. “I was looking for a good game.”

  “I don’t know how you got here. But the little league field is back on the main street. If you just turn around and go—”

  “Thanks, but I think I’m in the right place. I heard Tommy had quite a team going here. I came to check it out. Would that be you?”

  “Yeah. We’re the Bucks.”

  “Like the deer.”

  “Like Bucky Beaver.”

  “Like Bucking Broncos,”

  “Cool,” said J.T.

  “Tommy had to go,” said the slider, who’d wandered off second and come to see what was going on. “And he was gonna teach us to slide this week.”

  The man shrugged. “I haven’t played ball since I was a kid. I don’t even remember sliding.” He wiped his hand on his jeans. “Carey McClain,” he said. “I’m just standing in for today. I’ve got to work tomorrow.”

  The boys all groaned.

  “Well, that’s why I’m here,” she said, lying like the journalist she was. “Tommy asked me to come by. Tell you he’s really sorry he had to leave like that. But you know the majors.” You owe me, Tommy Bainbridge.

  They nodded. She wanted to kiss every dirty little face. “But he said, if you don’t mind a girl,” she rolled her eyes to let them know she was well aware that she wasn’t anything compared to their hero.

  “Girls rock!” shouted one of the players.

  “Yeah, they do,” said J.T.

  “What did Tommy say?” asked the yeller. He doffed his cap and two pigtails fell to his shoulders. He was a she. J.T. smiled even though she was mad at Tommy. At least he wasn’t sexist. Now that she looked past the dirt and the grime, J.T. noticed several other girls among the group.

  And every time she’d ever been laughed at for being a girl, every time she’d been scoffed at, dismissed, or badgered because she was just a girl, came back to her. And she knew that she wanted these girls, and the boys, to have a real chance.

  Hell, great ballplayers had come from back lots. Stranger things had happened.

  “Tommy said,” J.T. was about to bite off more than she’d bargained for and there might not be a story in it, but…“Tommy said, maybe I could show you a few things.”

  “No way,” said the first baseman.

  “Mind your manners, Burt Hoskins.”

  Burt scuffed at the ground.

  “I can show you how to slide,” said J.T. Of course she hadn’t slid since last summer’s Sports Today versus the Daily Sun game. It had been painful, but exhilarating. She’d scored the winning run.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Carey McClain said, looking relieved.

  The boys looked dubious. The girls were ready to rock.

  “I’d love to.” J.T. held her car keys out to the first baseman. “Take care of these. Walk this way.”

  They all cro
wded behind her as she walked to second base.

  “Okay, where’s the kid that just slid?” A dark-haired boy with deep set eyes stepped forward. “That was me.”

  “Well, me. You gotta name?”

  Some of the kids snickered.

  “Runt,” said a voice from the group.

  She gave the group a look. “You know the great thing about baseball?”

  They waited. “Size doesn’t matter. Randy Johnson is six foot eight, David Eckstein is five feet seven. They’re both professional ball players. And they’re both good.”

  “And get paid a lot.”

  “And get paid a lot,” she agreed. “So no more runt, girl, stupid comments. Got it?”

  They nodded.

  “What’s your name.”

  “Carey Junior.”

  “Okay, Carey Junior. You got a pretty mean slide.” Carey’s face broke into a snaggle-tooth grin. “But you went in with both feet. Good way to break an ankle. You gotta bend the leg you’re sliding on.”

  Carey bit his lip. She got a few nods from the group, but basically they just stared.

  J.T. sighed. “Give me room.”

  They stepped back. She walked toward first. Stopped three feet off the bag. “Ready?”

  The group nodded. She took off toward second. Several feet away she tucked her left leg and slid. Her right foot ended square at the bag. She stood up and brushed the dust off her jeans. “Like that.” She’d probably just lost several layers of skin, but the look of awe she’d inspired was worth it.

  “Who wants to try?”

  They all did and before long they all had a grasp of how to do it. Some more than others, but it was a start. She gave them a water break, hoping that someone had thought to bring water. She’d worked up a thirst. Mr. McClain had a spare juice box, which he offered to her.

  She’d have to hit the local Wal-Mart for a cooler before the next game. Juice only made them thirsty and wired.

  “Break’s over,” she said, tossing her box into the oil drum. They all did likewise. Not from following her example, she realized. Someone, Tommy probably, had already instilled some discipline in these kids.

  “Stealing. Show us how to steal.” J.T. shook her head. Everybody wanted the flash. “First we’ve got to do some work.”

  “Stealing’s work.”

  “Stealing is icing on the cake. You can’t steal if you can’t get to base.”

  Chapter 17

  The next day was Saturday and the team had the day off, one of the few days off they’d have for the next three months. The players were ecstatic to be able to sleep late, get laundry done, watch some television.

  J.T. was bored.

  She spent the morning cleaning up the articles she’d written about the team, wrote a new one about the kids, and added them all to her unsellable binder. It was growing larger and larger and her career was on the skids.

  Maybe Skinny was right and she wasn’t cut out to be a reporter. What else was new? She wasn’t cut out to be a ballplayer. She’d considered sports therapy. But Mickey had already eclipsed a medical career. So she’d turned to sports journalism. She loved being at the games, feeling the excitement of the players. Loved having a purpose.

  But the bottom line was that she never felt a part of the action. Always on the outside, trying to get in, and failing. There were times she was ready to concede, look for a husband, and put her energy into his career.

  But she knew she would never be content to sit back and watch life. Unfortunately, she wasn’t doing much of a job at living it, either. She needed a plan.

  What she needed to do was stop feeling sorry for herself. She needed to stop trying to please everyone.

  But she always snagged on the same question. What was she going to do? What did she want to do? She’d loved her two hours with the kids, but she had no credentials to coach or to teach. And you couldn’t make a living at it.

  She got a Coke and a bag of chips out of the Giant Eagle bag and took her binder to the bed.

  Three hours later, the chips and Coke were gone and she’d come to the last page. There was great material there. Moving. At least they moved her. And they were totally useless.

  She turned on the television—found a game. But it just made her think of Tommy. How he’d played her and left without a word. She turned it off.

  It was almost three o’clock. And she suddenly realized that the kids might be at the lot. Carey McClain had to work. She grabbed her jacket and purse and headed across town.

  She was a few minutes late. They were all there, standing or sitting around the big plastic container. When they saw the Mustang, they jumped up and ran toward it. By the time she’d retrieved her glove and bat from the trunk, they had surrounded her.

  “What are we going to do today?”

  “We’re gonna shag some flies. Then we’re going to hit some,” said J.T. She counted heads. “Three rotations of six. First group, in the outfield. Second group, space yourself around the bases. Group three get ready to rock ’n’ roll.”

  She hit balls until her arms hurt, then she moved them in and pitched until her hands hurt. By the time she got back to the hotel she was beat and starving. She took a long shower and dressed in clean clothes.

  She’d been fine as long as she was with the kids. She’d been too busy to think of Tommy B. and his announcement, his leaving without a word and the constant calling since then. Maybe she had been too quick too judge him. A bad thing in a reporter. But she didn’t want to think about him tonight.

  She considered having a burger at the Pine Tree, but decided against it. Even reporters needed time off. She drove to the mall, passed Wendy’s, and stopped at the steak house.

  She lingered over her meal, but when she left the restaurant it was still only seven thirty. She was exhausted but knew she wouldn’t sleep. There was a four-plex movie theater in the mall. She nixed the romantic comedy and went right to the action adventure.

  It was after ten when the movie let out. The mall parking lot was empty except for a cluster of cars around the four-plex. She yawned and thought of bed. She drove back to town and was passing Gilbey Field before she realized she had automatically turned right to the field instead of left to the motel.

  She’d been on automatic pilot. She made a U-turn. That’s when she saw the car. It was parked in the Gilbey Field lot. And it made her heart jump to her throat. She slowed down. It was Tommy’s Beemer. It couldn’t be and yet there it was. Why would he be here? Where else should he be?

  Stupid. He lives here. He had other houses, but this was his real home. He probably wanted to see his family. And if it was Tommy, shouldn’t she check it out? It was her responsibility as a journalist to get the news. Maybe he would talk to her now. An exclusive interview might just save her job.

  She pulled into the lot. Sat in the car, thinking.

  Okay, so maybe he was back, but what was he doing at the ballpark? The thought that he might have brought someone else here for some couch sex almost made her turn around and leave. But the burst of anger the thought provoked had her heading for the door.

  The door was locked, but Mr. Harris opened it when she knocked.

  “Ms. J.T. Come in.” He opened the door wider and she stepped inside.

  Suddenly feeling like a spy, she looked quickly around.

  “He went on down to the locker room,” Mr. Harris said.

  “Does he have company?”

  Mr. Harris’s eyes widened. “No, ma’am. But I expect he’d like some.”

  She almost turned and fled.

  “He looks a little lost.” Mr. Harris tightened his lips and nodded.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” J.T. patted his arm and started down the hall.

  Tommy wasn’t in the locker room. The media and training rooms were dark and Bernie’s office was locked as always. There were no lights on in the runway, but she couldn’t think of anywhere else he might be, so she felt her way through the dark until she stepped into
the dugout.

  He was standing on the pitcher’s mound, basked in moonlight like a statue. He was looking out to center field, his hands in his pockets, and he didn’t move.

  J.T. didn’t move, either. She wondered if she should just tiptoe away and leave him to his thoughts. Then she remembered Mr. Harris’s words and the expression on his face and thought maybe Tommy might need a friend. And he had tried to call her.

  She stepped out of the dugout and onto the field. Stood for a moment to see if he felt her presence. If he looked pleased, she’d stay. And if not…she’d just back off and hope she’d never have to face him again. But he didn’t turn around and J.T. began the slow walk to the mound.

  She came up beside him. He didn’t even seem to realize she was there. Just stood looking out over the field. The moon softly lit the signs across the back fence, hiding their true state. It turned the trees beyond to shimmery silhouettes. Washed over the grass so that she could hardly make out the burned patch in right field.

  She wondered if that was what Tommy was seeing. If he was remembering a time when the team was the bright spot of spring. Or was he having second thoughts about his decision to retire? Had he really been pushed aside for a younger pitcher?

  Finally he turned his head, glanced down at her. His look answered none of her questions, but told her everything about the future. Tommy Bainbridge was scared.

  “Rough decision,” she said.

  “Yeah.” The word was hardly more than a breath. “It was time, but—” He turned back to the field. “I feel—” He shook his head.

  Frightened. Unsure. Anxious. Mr. Harris knew. Lost. Tommy was lost without his career.

  She slipped her arm around his waist, all of her anger gone. It was a friendly, supportive gesture. Tommy turned into her. “J.T.” His arms went around her, holding her close, gripping her so tightly that she had trouble taking a breath.

  And they stood together in the moonlight, not speaking, while Tommy breathed jaggedly against her hair. Gradually, his breathing took on a different feeling and she felt him harden against her stomach.

  “Jess.” He lifted her chin and touched her lips with his. It was electric. Short-circuiting her brain, pinpointing sensation deep in the pit of her gut. She opened her mouth and he invaded her, his tongue moving as if he could gain sustenance from her mouth. His hands moved to her hips. Pulled her spasmodically against him and ground his pelvis against hers.