Good. Because she sure as hell was. With luck, none of it would ever have to be mentioned again. According to Lauren and Greg, it had been getting some attention on the Internet, but the reporters had pretty much given up, once it was clear that they couldn’t get her to answer any questions.
Mr. Russo must have been summoned while they were out of town, too, because when she changed into a new T-shirt and shorts, she could tell that they had already been altered. He was, once again, very good, because they no longer flapped foolishly, but still felt loose enough to move in.
There were several large plastic bins stacked in the corner of the room, each of them full of new fan mail. Was she supposed to answer all of them? By herself? What an exhausting prospect.
She picked up a random envelope, and saw that it had already been opened, which she assumed Jeremiah and the interns had done, so that they could check them first, and make sure that there wasn’t anything—disturbing.
Which she might ask him about—or she might not. It might be better to remain oblivious.
When she walked into the clubhouse, it was noisier than usual, and the energy felt—different, somehow. Charged up, and a little ragged. Someone seemed to be holding court, and she wasn’t thrilled when she recognized Caleb Kordell, the number one pick. She’d heard that he had stepped up negotiations and was on the verge of signing, right after Texas A&M got knocked out of the College World Series, but she had foolishly been hoping that he would be assigned to the Gulf Coast League—even though she knew better. They were probably bringing him along slowly, though, because of the labrum, she assumed.
She looked around until she caught Scott’s eyes, and he pantomimed dropping a noose around his neck and hanging himself.
Yeah, that’s about how where she was, too.
Now, Caleb noticed her. “Hey, Cafferty,” he said. “You haven’t been released yet?”
Well, the day wasn’t over. “Nice to see you again,” she said, dropping her knapsack into her locker.
“Just be ready to step up your game,” Caleb said. “Don’t want to be left in my dust.”
Yeah, she would be sure to get right on that. At least his locker wasn’t next to hers. As she was saying hello to Shosuke and Javy, Scott came over and commandeered her folding chair.
“Number One finally signed,” he said.
She nodded. “Lucky us.”
“And Brumley got cut, and Nathan got sent down to the GCL,” Scott said.
Whoa. “Cut, like gone?” she said.
Scott nodded.
Wow. Just like that? She knew baseball was a ruthless business, but seeing it in action was still kind of shocking. Nathan hadn’t gotten much playing time, so they probably had wanted him to go to a team where he would get more work in. But, poor Brumley.
She saw that Nathan’s locker had been cleaned out, Eduardo had been moved over to Brumley’s former locker, and Caleb had taken over Eduardo’s spot, between Jonesy and Marcus.
“Did Eduardo get bumped to the bullpen?” she asked.
Scott shrugged. “Looks that way. I’m not sure.”
She asked Javy in Spanish, and he nodded.
It was awful, but she had a “Thank God it wasn’t me!” thought, and based on their expressions, as they all covertly looked at Eduardo, she was pretty sure that Javy and Shosuke felt the same way.
Caleb was loud during team stretch, too, bragging about this and that, although she made a concerted effort not to pay attention. At one point, a couple of people glanced at her, and she tuned in just enough to hear that he was going on about some “chick” he had “nailed,” and how he pitched better when he “got some”—and so on and so forth. A few guys joined in, and the whole conversation was considerably more crass than usual, although Bannigan yelled at them to focus on the work.
Caleb wasn’t the first jerk she was going to have to play with—and he wouldn’t be the last—but, she definitely wasn’t looking forward having him be here.
At all.
CHAPTER 22
Naturally, Caleb was very vocal during PFP, too—and quick to shout, “Way to go, Cafferty!” when she managed to drop the ball and stumble over the bag, while trying to cover first on one play.
Jonesy was similarly inept on the next play—and grinned at her when he got back in line, so she knew he had done it on purpose.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Be a duck, Ladybug,” he said. “Let the rain roll right off your back.”
That was good advice, and she tried very hard to concentrate solely on the drills—and not to notice that Caleb mocked her mistakes much more harshly than he did anyone else’s.
When it was time for her bullpen, she walked out there with Marcus. Ramón would be catching her, but as far as she could tell, Marcus was incapable of letting any of the pitchers on the staff do anything without him either helping directly, or closely observing.
“Poor Brumley,” she said.
Marcus nodded. “I think Adler did it this morning, after everyone else took off from the bus. At least, it was easier on the guy’s pride.”
The rumor was that when someone got released, a coach came into the clubhouse and said, “The manager wants to see you,” and the player would have to go and get the ax right then and there, with everyone else trying to avoid making eye contact. If it ever happened to her, she hoped like hell that she wouldn’t instantly burst into tears.
Even if they turned out to be tears of gratitude.
“So, they just give you a ticket home, and that’s it?” she said.
“More or less,” Marcus said. “Some guys get picked up by other organizations, or maybe give independent ball a try. But, I think most people go home and try to figure out what their new lives are going to be.”
It would be hard for anyone, but especially the players who truly lived and breathed baseball, and didn’t have any backup plans. She was pretty sure that Brumley had been one of those guys.
When it was time for her side session, she had been hoping that Caleb would be busy down in the weight room or something, but no such luck—he was hanging out by the bullpen to watch, while blowing obnoxiously large bubbles with his gum.
The best idea was probably to think of him as a garden-variety heckler in the stands—and go out of her way to ignore him. But, it was hard, with him snapping the damn gum every other second, as though he was trying to throw her off.
Sawyer had her working from the stretch again, and today, they were spending part of the time incorporating a slide-step, too. Which felt awkward, and noticeably threw off her command.
“No, here, try it this way,” Sawyer said, and moved her position.
She’d never needed a slide-step in high school, and it felt more like playing catch, than pitching. It was hard to maintain her regular velocity, and Sawyer had to keep suggesting adjustments and refinements—which amused the hell out of Caleb, and seemed to unnerve the organization’s minor league pitching coordinator, who was observing today, presumably having come to Pomeroy to see Caleb’s session later on.
“She seriously doesn’t know how to do a fuckin’ slide-step?” Caleb said, to no one in particular, although the pitching coordinator looked tense.
“Your bullpen’s at four, Kordell,” Sawyer said, without even looking up. “Until then, I don’t want to see your face.”
Caleb laughed. “Yeah, I can tell that she’s sensitive,” he said, and jogged off into the outfield.
Jill didn’t let out an actual sigh of relief—but, it was tempting. And she pitched a hell of a lot better during the rest of her session, so the pitching coordinator was probably relieved, too. In any case, he looked more relaxed, and was taking fewer notes.
When she finished up, nobody commented on her obvious inability to concentrate, in front of a certain draft pick, although Ramón touched his ear, and shook his head at her. She nodded, since she didn’t want to get a reputation for having rabbit ears. She was a professional; she needed to be able
not to hear things.
Sofia was down in the weight room, helping Dimitri with some back rehab exercises—the poor guy had some issues there that just wouldn’t quit. So, Louis did her post-session stretch and massage, and then packed her up with ice. The two of them weren’t exactly pals yet, but they were learning how to work with each other in a productive and businesslike way, and she really couldn’t ask for more than that.
When she went back outside to do some running, it was almost time for Caleb’s first bullpen, and Adler and Mr. Brayton and Mrs. Doshi and some other front office people had joined the pitching coordinator to observe the session. She was damned if she was going to stand there and watch, too—but, she maybe lingered nearby, and she wasn’t the only pitcher to do so. Several of the others were outright leaning on the side of the bullpen, not trying to hide their interest.
Caleb had the ideal big power pitcher body—he was about six-four, and at least two hundred and twenty pounds, and he moved with supreme confidence. The ball was really popping every time it hit Marcus’s glove—and she could see Sawyer and the coordinator guy nodding with approval, and maybe even excitement.
She didn’t like looking at his mechanics—the idea of using her elbow that way made her cringe—and his leg kick looked constricted, but the pitches were great. Speed, movement, location. A slider, instead of a curve, and he seemed to be throwing a cutter, in lieu of a two-seamer.
Except, of course, she wasn’t paying close attention.
When she saw him wrapping up, she made sure that she was running in the outfield—and away from his probable preening range. He swaggered off, deep in conversation with Sawyer and the pitching development coordinator, while Marcus, Ramón, and the third-string catcher, Jackson, trailed behind. Once they were all down by the dugout, she jogged over to Andrew, who had been one of the bullpen onlookers.
“How good is he?” she asked.
Andrew looked surprised, as always, to have someone engage him in direct conversation. “He’s a legitimate first rounder,” he said. “Some giddy-up on the heater.” He shrugged. “I saw him in the Super Regionals when we were both sophomores, and he’s a lot better now.”
Damn. It was going to be annoying if he backed up all of the talk with his performances. Hard to miss how happy the front office people looked, though.
And she did not, in fact, know how to do a slide-step properly.
Before changing into her home uniform, she took the time to call both Lauren and Greg—who were nice enough to commiserate about the Arrival of Caleb, and just generally be sympathetic and supportive. And Lauren complained about how much she hated physical therapy, and Greg was moping about some URI guy at the gym who he had finally gotten up the nerve to ask out—after they had been flirting for weeks—only to get abruptly and unkindly shot down.
So, they were possibly the three most glum eighteen-year-olds who had ever lived—but, it was still nice to talk to them.
She had no game responsibilities that night—she would be charting tomorrow—so she hung out up at the railing with Javy and Ramón and an infielder named Juan who rarely got to play, all of them speaking in an idiosyncratic mix of English and Spanish. Mostly, they talked about food, which made her hope that the post-game spread would be something remotely enticing.
She did pay attention to the Aberdeen hitters, since she would be starting against them on Friday. The lineup seemed to be a pretty polished group—more so than usual—and Dimitri, who wasn’t playing, told her that a lot of them were holdovers from the previous season and, accordingly, very comfortable with life in the New York–Penn League. Her team had some second-year players, too—Eduardo, Jonesy, Vincent, Jackson, and Owen, among others—but, Aberdeen seemed to have at least twice as many.
Dimitri hated to talk about anything involving his injuries, but it didn’t seem right not to mention it at all.
“How’s the back?” she asked, able to see that he was favoring it, even though he seemed just to be relaxing against the railing.
“It’s all right,” he said, staring straight ahead. “Long bus ride last night, that’s all.”
She had been pretty stiff herself this morning, so being crammed into a small seat for hours must have been even harder on him. But, it was obvious that he didn’t want to discuss it, so she just made a sympathetic sound and turned her attention to the field.
After the game, a lot of fans were waiting for autographs, so she stopped to sign as many as possible. There were Pirates hats, and T-shirts and jerseys with the number twenty-eight on them everywhere—and so many of the people wearing them were little girls, which was cool. The merchandising and licensing were still being worked out, according to her aunt and the new associate at her firm who was going to be handling most of that, but MLB had already created a line of clothing with female baseball player silhouettes—although they had ponytails or long hair hanging down, so it was considered a generic player. The fact that she was the only one currently active professionally was, no doubt, an absolute and complete coincidence, and not relevant in any way, especially financially. This situation was displeasing her aunt a great deal, but Jill, personally, found it more irritating that far too many of the shirts she’d seen during the past few weeks were pink.
Signing was always tiring, but she was learning how to drift along the stands, keeping a slight distance away, moving closer when she saw kids, and making an effort just to glide past, if it was a crowd dominated by adults.
When she was the only player left on the field, she kept signing for the group closest to the dugout, but glanced at Jeremiah’s intern, Paul, for a second.
“Jill, they need you down in the clubhouse,” he said, too loudly.
Not really subtle, but with luck, no one had noticed. “Okay, thank you,” she said, and smiled at the people for whom she was signing. “Let me finish up here, and I’ll be right down.”
She autographed a very beat-up Little League baseball, and then someone handed her a business card.
To sign? No, maybe it was yet another agent, or—she glanced at the person, who was a very tan woman in her twenties, with spiky blonde hair. Her name was unfamiliar, and her listed job seemed to be at an IT company. The woman pantomimed for her to turn the card over, and Jill was puzzled to see a phone number written there.
The woman winked at her.
Whoa. Now, she got it. She tried to hand the card back, feeling a little panicky, and the woman just smiled, waved it away, and winked again before fading back into the crowd.
For lack of a better idea, she handed the card to Paul—who didn’t seem to know what to do with it any more than she did.
She signed another baseball and a scorecard, then waved politely, and slipped into the dugout.
Once they were in the tunnel, Paul held out the card.
“Here,” he said.
“Keep it,” she said.
He grinned. “Giving me your castoffs?”
Was that really what he thought? She shook her head, and moved past him.
“Do you get a lot of propositions?” he asked.
Usually, it was older men, being smugly insinuating, and she would pretend not to see or hear them. In high school, she had sometimes been too innocent, and the first time a man offered to give her some “private help,” she thought he actually meant with her pitching. Luckily, a couple of her older teammates had overheard—and roughly sent him on his way, and she had gotten much better at avoiding situations like that. Women had sometimes been flirtatious, too, but since tonight’s approach had caught her so off guard, it was entirely possible that she got other come-ons—and didn’t always pick up on it.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Sometimes, maybe?”
He frowned at her. “You can’t tell?”
Did she have to be an expert on everything? “Well, when people are overt, I guess,” she said. “I don’t know.”
“Go out and have a drink with her or something,” he said. “She might be nice.”
>
Jill tilted her head, not sure whether he was kidding. “Um, I think her intent was to get together with a fellow lesbian.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And—?”
“So, it might have been disappointing to spend time with me,” Jill said.
“Oh,” he said, and looked startled. “Okay.”
Yet another person who didn’t think she was straight? Supposedly, Princeton was hard to get into—but, maybe he was a legacy. “Sorry if that ruins your day,” she said.
“No, not at all,” he said, and grinned. “That means I still have a shot.”
Which wasn’t the response she had expected, and she turned to look at him curiously, as Jeremiah came down the tunnel.
“There you are, Jill,” he said. “I have a couple of local affiliates waiting for you, if you don’t mind giving them a few words?”
She was tired, and didn’t feel as though she would have anything interesting to say, but she nodded and followed him down to the media room.
And tried not to think about whatever her mother and Theo had had for supper tonight, and how nice it would have been to be there, instead of here.
No, that never even crossed her mind.
By the time she was finished, the post-game spread had been entirely ravaged, and the leftovers did not look appealing. It appeared to have been some kind of taco casserole, served with mixed vegetables, and Fritos. All of which had probably tasted fine, but the remaining scraps weren’t worth the trouble.
The glitz and glamour of professional baseball, rearing its head yet again.
Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were kindly waiting outside the players’ entrance to drive her back to their house. As far as she could tell, being a host family included some fairly arduous demands—especially because they had to wait even longer, when another group of fans gathered around for autographs.
When she finally made it over to the car, she wasn’t sure she had enough energy even to open the door to the backseat.
“I’m sorry it took so long. I didn’t expect to be in the media room tonight,” she said.
A Season of Daring Greatly Page 25