A Season of Daring Greatly

by Ellen Emerson White

  There was a big canvas Pirates bag full of baseballs, and people were helping themselves, to use for the pre-game throwing routine.

  “Are you really okay with it?” she asked Schwartzman.

  He shrugged. “It’s just a number.”

  Yeah, but baseball players were superstitious, so she definitely appreciated it. “Want to warm up with me?” she asked, before he could slip away.

  He hesitated, but his better angels must have won out, because he nodded. “Sure.”

  Guys were already throwing back and forth, but baseball teams were usually loose, and this group wasn’t—at all. So, for the hell of it, when Schwartzman tossed her the ball, she sent it back underhand, in a reasonable facsimile of a fast-pitch softball pitcher.

  He stared at her with such horror that the ball—which was already wild, because her release point was way off—zipped right past him.

  The rest of the team had also stopped playing catch, and most of them looked equally dismayed.

  “Just fulfilled all of your worst expectations, didn’t I,” she said.

  Pretty much everyone nodded vigorously.

  “Did I even do it right?” she asked, since softball pitching mechanics were complex, with a lot of moving parts, and she had never really tried to do it before.

  “No,” a guy with a crewcut said. “My sister’s a DI pitcher, and—well, that was terrible.”

  At least half of the guys were now throwing to each other underhand, and the mood was suddenly much lighter.

  “Knock it off, bozos!” Louis, the male trainer, said grumpily. “We have a game, remember?”

  So, they went back to normal throwing, but people were joking around now, and she felt less like an unwelcome interloper.

  “You know this is just for position players, right?” Dimitri said.

  Oh. Hunh. News to her. She’d assumed that all pre-game warm-ups were mandatory. “I do,” she said. “But, I wanted you all to see that I’m open-minded, and willing to mix with you, sometimes.”

  Which amused at least some of them.

  She and Schwartzman threw easily back and forth, as he moved deeper into the outfield every few tosses, and then gradually in again.

  “What position?” she asked.

  “Corner outfield, mostly,” he said. “I think they might give me some time at third, too.”

  Which made sense, because he certainly had a strong arm.

  Once the warm-ups were finished, people headed back to the dugout, except for the starting players, who began to do some jogging or sprints, or get stretched out by the strength coach and the trainers.

  “You can run, too,” Dimitri said, from the ground, wincing slightly as Sofia worked on his hamstrings and lower back. “For solidarity.”

  “I’m very fast,” Jill said. “I don’t want to show anyone up.”

  He nodded, even though he was wincing more visibly. “That’s a good story. Stick to it.”

  Yep. Because she totally and completely knew what she was doing.

  And she had intended to stand here, by herself, for no reason, with nothing to do. She was not at all embarrassed, or self-conscious.

  Nope. Not even a little bit.

  CHAPTER 11

  A black guy in chinos and a Lacoste shirt came over, with his hand out. He was one of the people to whom she’d been introduced when she first arrived, but at this point, that was all a blur.

  “I’m Jeremiah,” he said. “Media relations. We met earlier.”

  Right. “Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’ve been introduced to so many people today that I’m having a little trouble remembering names.”

  “Understandable,” he said, and gestured towards a younger white guy wearing beige cargo pants and a Retrievers T-shirt. “This is Paul, my intern.”

  “Hi,” Paul said, seeming to think that he was being quite covert about checking her out—except for the part where it was hard to miss.

  Jeremiah had an ex-jock build, whereas Paul had unkempt brown hair and glasses, and looked like a college guy who probably never did anything more athletic than play the occasional intramural Frisbee game with a beer in his free hand.

  “We should sit down when you can, to talk about our overall approach, your social media presence, and any concerns you have,” Jeremiah said.

  This probably wasn’t going to be the right time to say that her primary goal on social media was to keep as low a profile as possible. “My mother might want to join us for that,” she said.

  “We’ve actually already met with your mother,” he said, very blandly.

  “Were you bowled over by her uncontrollable excitement?” Jill asked.

  Jeremiah smiled, without elaborating.

  That was a big no.

  “At least one of us is always going to be with you, when you’re interacting with fans,” he said. “We’re hoping to keep things from getting out of hand.”

  “I’m supposed to sign autographs, right?” she said.

  Jeremiah looked puzzled. “Do you mind signing?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “But, that’s a lot of people over there, and—well, the game starts pretty soon.”

  Jeremiah nodded. “Got it. Don’t worry about it. Just sign until one of us intercedes, so that you can get to where you need to be. You can let us know when to step in.”

  Jesus, she had handlers now. What was next, an actual entourage?

  Most of the kids in the stands seemed to be extremely excited to see her, but others were only chirping mindlessly for her to give them a ball. Which made her flash on being at a Pawtucket Red Sox game with her father, when she was about seven, and him giving her a “Don’t be that kid” speech, since he wasn’t a fan of what he called “ball grubbing.”

  Over the years, she had been at minor league games where she saw quite a few children—and some adults—eagerly amassing a stack of baseballs, most of which she assumed they never looked at again, once they brought them home. Her father had always said that getting a ball in the stands should be special, and the one she kept on her desk at home was a foul ball he’d snagged one-handed for her at Fenway Park once, when she was maybe ten years old.

  Although, of course, she also had a milk crate full of baseballs from important games she’d pitched over the years, starting in Little League, to AAU, to high school and the local travel teams, which she’d saved and carefully marked, if she’d pitched a no-hitter or had an unusually high number of strikeouts or something. She had actually thrown two perfect games in her life—one in Little League, and one in AAU—although several others had been spoiled by things like errors, or passed balls on strikeouts, with the batter ending up safe at first. Which, even in Little League, was a pretty freakish achievement, so she was going to have to keep those two baseballs as nice amateur memories, because a pitcher throwing a perfect game in the pros was considerably less likely than getting struck by lightning. No-hitters weren’t exactly common, either, but perfect games—twenty-seven up, twenty-seven down, not a single mistake—were kind of the Holy Grail of pitching. In fact, as far as she knew, in the entire history of Major League Baseball, it had only happened a couple of dozen times, out of more than two hundred thousand games. It happened even less frequently in the minors.

  When she went over to the stands, too many of the people wanted autographs and selfies, and since the latter was entirely not her thing, she had to remind herself to smile graciously and—with luck—convincingly. There were also professional photographers and videographers all over the place, but she did her best not to let them make her feel self-conscious—even when they were right on top of her.

  Some of the fans were pushing and shoving, which made a few security guards move closer, and she was aware that Jeremiah and Paul had, too. People were probably only being enthusiastic—but, it was disturbing, especially when adults elbowed children out of the way—or when their damn hands flailed out violently in her direction, and came close to hitting her.

  “Gam
e time, everyone, sorry,” Jeremiah said, and then he deftly guided her away.

  She was probably supposed to be embracing this fame thing—but, the whole scene had made her dizzy, and it was hard to catch her breath. Christ, was she really going have to deal with this kind of thing for the rest of her life? Was there anything smart about doing that? Especially, on purpose.

  “We’re going to work on some strategies,” Jeremiah said, watching her. “Figure out a sort of hit-and-run technique, so you can have more control.”

  She nodded. “Yes, that would be good. Thank you.”

  The dugout felt like a haven, albeit one filled with strangers. But, she had barely stepped inside, when it was time to turn around and line up on the first base side for the national anthem.

  She took her cap off, and gripped her father’s dog tag with her right hand, holding it over her heart. Paying respect to the flag, and all that it meant, was not a challenge for her—ever. Once the performance was over—the singer wasn’t half bad, although he was shaky on the high notes—she gave the dog tag one last squeeze, and then put it back inside the compression shirt she was wearing under her jersey.

  Most of the guys who weren’t playing were already standing on the top step of the dugout, leaning against the railing, but she didn’t feel quite ready to do that yet, and picked a spot in the middle of the bench instead, which wasn’t blatantly isolated, but wasn’t really close to anyone else, either.

  Of course, now that she was sitting down, she wanted some Gatorade, but felt shy about getting up to help herself to a cup from the big orange dispenser. So, she stayed where she was, trying to look relaxed. Which would have been easier, if she hadn’t left her sunglasses inside.

  There was a baseball game going on. She could watch it. Except that she was so tense that it was hard to focus.

  A small white plastic bucket full of bubble gum was resting on the concrete shelf above the bench, and even though she wasn’t a gum chewer, she helped herself to a couple of pieces. She could blow some bubbles, maybe. But, for now, she just held the pieces in her hand, finding even the decision about whether to unwrap them kind of overwhelming.

  After a few minutes—there seemed to be at least one runner on base, although she wasn’t sure how he had gotten there—someone sat down about a foot away from her. She looked over to see Sofia, the trainer. She was probably in her late twenties, and at least ten inches shorter than Jill was, with short black hair, and a body type that was somewhere between athletic and chunky.

  “Oh,” Jill said, and shoved the gum into one of her back pockets. “Are you my designated friend?”

  Sofia scowled. “I am an extremely competent trainer. I hate it that they hired me because I’m a woman.”

  That was reasonable. “I hate it that there’s all this fuss about me being a woman, when I really just want to go and”—she gestured towards the visiting team’s dugout—“strike all of the sons of bitches out.”

  “Can you strike all of the sons of bitches out?” Sofia asked, sounding more curious than anything else.

  Well, that was the crux of the entire matter, wasn’t it. “I’m pretty sure I can strike some of them out,” Jill said. “But, I think there’s also probably going to be a considerable learning curve.”

  Now, Sofia looked at her with what appeared to be genuine interest. “Well, okay,” she said, and then turned her attention to the field.

  They watched the rest of the inning in friendly silence, and then, as the team came off the field, Sofia got up to meet the starting pitcher at the other end of the dugout. The energy in the dugout was more of a “Don’t worry, we’ll get ’em back” mood, than an “All right!” celebratory one.

  So, she checked the scoreboard, and saw that they were down 2–0. She had no idea how that had happened, but it was only the first, and two runs was no big deal.

  The center fielder sat down near her, setting his glove on the bench with a thump. He was quite good-looking, in a sleek, polished way, with black hair and improbably gorgeous teeth. He nodded at her, before gulping down some Gatorade.

  Okay, she would be brave, and try to engage him in conversation. He was her teammate, right? “Hola!” she said.

  He grinned at her with those beautiful teeth. “90272,” he said.

  She looked at him blankly.

  “I’m from the Palisades,” he said.

  Which meant absolutely nothing to her.

  “California,” he said.

  Well, it wasn’t as though there weren’t plenty of people in California who spoke Spanish. “Okay,” she said. “Hello, then.”

  He grinned again. “Hi, I’m Hector.” He indicated the cooler. “May I get you some Gatorade?”

  She would love some—but, she could certainly pour it herself. “No, thanks, I’m fine,” she said. There would be few things more awkward than having guys on the team wait on her.

  “Well, let me know,” he said, and focused out at the field.

  At the next half inning, the pitching coach, Sawyer, walked down to the section of the bench where she was sitting. So far, she hadn’t done anything more than say hello to him, but she remembered his being a journeyman middle reliever in the big leagues for quite a few years. Now, he was bald, in his late forties, and appeared to have gimpy knees.

  “Are you watching their hitters?” he asked.

  It hadn’t even occurred to her to do that—which was embarrassing. Especially since she was starting tomorrow, God help her. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t.”

  He frowned. “I shouldn’t have to tell you to do it. You should want to.”

  She had now officially established herself as someone who wasn’t willing to do the work. She nodded. “I apologize. I think I’m kind of—disoriented.” She looked at him uncertainly. “Should I be charting pitches?” Which starters usually did the day before their next outing—partially as a way to learn the other team’s tendencies at the plate, but also to help stay focused. Writing down what every pitch was, where it was—and what the outcome was. Sometimes, they charted from the stands, and sometimes, from the dugout.

  “Not tonight,” he said. “Suarez is doing it. Where you’re concerned, the routine is all fu—screwed up. So, we’ll just have to roll with things.”

  About which, the man did not sound happy.

  She felt like a tourist in a staggeringly foreign country. “I really am sorry, sir, but where would be the best place for me to be?” she asked.

  For the first time, he looked more sympathetic than irritated. “It’s still baseball, Cafferty,” he said. “And we’re supposed to treat you like—look, you have to tune out all of the static. Focus on baseball.”

  That might be the best advice she got all season—from anyone. Possibly the best advice she would get in her entire career.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll do that, sir.”

  She located an open section and ventured up to the dugout railing, which was padded, and therefore, a nice place to lean. The guys on either side of her nodded, and she nodded back. Unfortunately, when people in the stands saw her, a bunch of them started yelling her name and taking pictures and all, and she really wanted to go back to the comparative safety of the bench.

  “Don’t do that,” a guy she’d heard people call Nathan, who was further down the railing, said. “They’ll lose interest soon enough.”

  “Or, at least, they’ll lose their voices,” someone else said, and most of them laughed.

  There were a lot of “Can I have a ball?” and “Jill, throw me a ball!” requests being shouted in her direction, and she shrugged apologetically at them, without turning all of the way around. They actually weren’t supposed to toss baseballs into the stands during the game, which made it easier to refuse.

  “You’re a mean girl,” Owen said, also along the railing.

  She was going to tell him to shut up—except, that remark had been kind of funny, so she shrugged at him, too.

 
The guy to her left nodded to her, and she returned the nod. He was about six-four and appeared to be biracial, with the thick sort of lower body that usually indicated a power pitcher.

  “Pitcher?” she asked.

  He nodded again, and held out his hand. “I’m Jonesy.”

  “Jill,” she said, and shook it.

  “Do my best to remember that,” he said, and then winked at her. “Although the guys will probably call you Caffy or Jilly or something.”

  Since baseball nicknames were often pretty basic. The truly delightful names, like a guy who had once played in the Red Sox farm system who had been known as “Pork Chop” Pough, weren’t nearly common enough. That had been her father’s all-time favorite baseball name, although he’d liked Harry “The Hat” Walker, too. But, she could live with “Caffy,” since it was almost certainly better than some of the other likely possibilities.

  If he was a bullpen guy, he would be down there already, unless— “Closer or starter?” she asked.

  “Starter,” he said. “I went last night.”

  Good, that meant she could maybe pick his brain.

  “Can’t believe they’re making you pitch tomorrow,” he said. “It’s like throwing a baby into the water to see if it can swim.”

  She didn’t entirely disagree, but she shrugged.

  “It’s probably better than Wednesday, though,” he said. “That’s getaway night, and we’d be stuck waiting for you to finish up with ESPN and all.”

  She couldn’t hear any rancor in his voice—probably because he was just stating the simple, accurate truth.

  The other downside to pitching on Wednesday, it occurred to her, would have been a rushed, possibly tearful, farewell to her family—while the team sat around waiting for her to get on the bus already.

  “How are they?” she asked, indicating the hitter at the plate, but meaning the entire team.

  He glanced over. “What have you picked up?”

  She could stutter and fumble—or be honest. “Not much,” she said. “I was too busy being incapacitated by anxiety.”