by Dan Gutman
It’s harder to steal third base than it is to steal second, because the distance from the catcher is much shorter. I knew I would need to get a really big jump on the pitcher.
The shortstop wasn’t holding me on, so I got a good walking lead off the base. As soon as the pitcher windmilled her arm, I dug for third.
The element of surprise gave me a slight advantage. The third baseman rushed to the bag to get into position for the throw. Max Carey, coaching third, put his hands down, the classic “slide” sign.
I remembered reading in one of my baseball books at home that Ty Cobb used to look at the infielder’s eyes while he slid into the base. The eyes told him where the ball was going. Then he would either slide his toe into the opposite side of the base or stick his toe in the path of the ball and try to kick it away.
I tried to do that too. I ran all out, and while the third baseman waited for the throw, I slid in and stuck my foot into her glove. The ball hit my cleat and bounced away. She let out a curse.
“Safe!” hollered the ump.
The Chicks were screaming and cheering in the dugout. Max Carey came over to me as I dusted off my skirt. I was gasping for breath.
“Okay, good,” he said. “Now listen. You’ve got to use your noodle now. There’s one out. You’re not forced to run. Don’t do anything stupid like try to steal home. Give Ziggy the chance to drive you in. If she gets a hit, you’re home and we win. If she hits a fly ball to the outfield, you tag up and we win. A passed ball or wild pitch, you slide in and we win. But if she hits a grounder or infield pop, you stay put. Got it?”
“Got it.”
The count on Ziggy was 2-1. A good hitter’s count. Ziggy waved her bat around. She looked like she really wanted to get the game-winning hit.
Maybe too much. She popped the ball up. I dashed back to third. The first baseman grabbed the pop for the second out. Disgusted with herself, Ziggy trudged back to the dugout. Connie Wisniewski stepped up to the plate.
“C’mere,” Max Carey said to me. Then he whispered in my ear, “Steal home.”
“What?!” I replied. “Steal home? A minute ago, you told me not to do anything stupid like steal home!”
“That was a minute ago,” Max explained. “There was only one out then, and Ziggy is a good hitter. But now there are two outs. Connie is our last hope to drive you in. If she makes an out here, we have to go to extra innings. Connie has a bum knee, and she’s not swinging the bat well. So you’ve got to drive yourself in.”
“But—”
“Steal home,” Carey hissed in my ear.
You hardly ever see anybody steal home in a baseball game. There’s a good reason for that. It’s almost impossible. A thrown ball moves faster than even the fastest runner. To steal home, you have to get a great jump, a tough pitch for the catcher to handle, and a certain amount of luck.
But if Max wanted me to go for it, I would. I took a deep breath and waited while Connie pumped her bat slowly.
“Get a hit, Connie!” somebody shouted from the stands.
“You can do it!”
I edged off third. The third baseman was a few steps in front of me, in case Connie tried to squeeze me home with a bunt. The pitcher glared at me. I wasn’t going to wait for her to wind up. As soon as she turned her head back to the plate, I took off.
“She’s going!” the catcher screamed.
I made a run for the plate like somebody had planted a bomb in third base. The pitcher rushed her delivery. Connie backed away from the plate to give me room to slide.
Watching the catcher’s eyes, I could tell the ball was going to get home before I would. She moved forward to block the plate.
Just when I was about to slide, I saw the ball was already in her mitt. I was dead. My only hope was to go in standing up and knock the ball loose.
I put my head down and arms over my face to give me at least a little protection. It was going to be a nasty collision, I knew that for sure.
I crashed into the catcher without slowing down. Together we tumbled to the ground, all arms and legs. I fell heavily on home plate, having no idea if I was safe, out, or maybe even thrown out of the game for unneccesary roughness. I was exhausted from running the bases. There was a sharp pain in my back.
I looked up for the umpire’s call, but he hadn’t given it yet. He was looking to see if the catcher was holding the ball.
Something was jabbing into my back, so I rolled over to get off it.
It was the ball.
“Safe!” the umpire shouted.
The fans went nuts. The Chicks were out of the dugout before I could get up, shrieking with delight. They mobbed me, hugging me, kissing me, pounding me on the back. Max Carey told me I had “moxie.” I didn’t know what moxie was, but I figured it had to be something good, and I was glad I had it.
Final score: Chicks 7, Peaches 6.
And I, Josephine Stoshack, was the hero.
11
Play Like Men, Look Like Girls
THE GAME WAS OVER, THE CHICKS HAD WON, AND EVERYBODY was happy. As we piled triumphantly into the dugout, I had one thing on my mind—there was an excellent chance that I would get to see the Chicks naked again.
I’m not proud of it or anything. I know I should have been thinking about how I had contributed to the victory. I should have been thinking about Dolores Klosowski and her broken leg. My dad in the hospital back home. But I’m being honest here. I’m thirteen years old. I don’t know about you, but I know what I think about pretty much all the time.
In fact, I had been thinking about it ever since they held me down and forced me to put on a dress. Right then and there, it had occurred to me that after the game I’d be in the locker room again. If I could just blend into the woodwork, they just might forget I was there.
“P.K. is coming!” Tiby shouted just as we entered the locker room.
“He’s probably going to congratulate us on our stirring victory!” Ziggy beamed.
“Quick! Clean up the mess!” Connie shouted. “P.K. hates a sloppy locker room!”
The girls started running back and forth, throwing things into lockers, drawers, and cabinets. Nobody was taking any clothes off.
“Who’s P.K.?” I asked Mickey Maguire.
“Philip K. Wrigley,” she replied. “You know, the chewing gum guy. He owns the Cubs.”
Of course, I’d had Wrigley gum. I had even been to Wrigley Field in Chicago. But why was Philip K. Wrigley coming here?
“He owns our whole league,” Mickey informed me. She said Wrigley started the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League because he was afraid the war might completely shut down baseball. With so many major and minor leaguers away fighting, there would be a lot of empty ballparks.
According to Mickey, P.K. was a little odd. He wouldn’t dial the telephone, for instance. His wife dialed for him. He was a millionaire, but he rode a motorcycle to work. And he once paid a guy five thousand dollars to put a hex on the Cubs’ opponents.
The girls had just about finished tidying up the locker room when a voice boomed down the hallway.
“If the boys in the lab can’t create a chewing gum that doesn’t stick to false teeth, then tell ’em to create false teeth that don’t stick to chewing gum! Get on it, Tommy!”
“Yes, P.K.,” answered some other guy.
Suddenly, two men burst into the locker room. The older, grayer one was clearly Mr. Wrigley. The other one was short, geeky, and had the look of a low-paid, pencil-pushing yes-man. Each man wore a suit and a hat and carried a briefcase. I looked around for Max Carey, but he must have left already.
Suddenly, two men burst into the locker room. The older, grayer one was clearly Mr. Wrigley.
“Oops!” Wrigley said, as if he had entered the locker room by accident. He covered his eyes with his hand. “Is everybody decent?”
“Good evening, Mr. Wrigley,” the girls replied sweetly.
“Evening, girls. Who wants gum?”
“
I do!” everyone declared enthusiastically, and the guy named Tommy passed out gum all around.
“I have some exciting news, girls!” Wrigley announced. “I just signed a contract with the Milwaukee Symphony! They’re going to entertain the fans before each game in the second half of the season! In tuxedos! Isn’t that great?”
Why, I asked myself, would baseball fans want to listen to classical music before a game? Looking around the room at the blank faces, it appeared that the players were asking themselves the same question.
“That’s fabulous, Mr. Wrigley,” Mickey said, not very convincingly.
“Yeah, maybe we’ll be inspired to play better after hearing some Beethoven and Mozart and stuff,” Tiby cracked, hiding a smirk.
I’m not sure if Wrigley caught the sarcasm, but his mood seemed to change after Tiby’s remark.
“Sit down, girls,” he said quietly. He didn’t continue until everyone was seated. “I started this league a year ago to help take people’s minds off the war for a few hours every day. That’s our main job. Those people in the stands, their sons and husbands and boyfriends are living in foxholes; they’re getting shot at, bombed, injured, and killed. We want them to forget about that for just a little while.”
“We’re doing our best, Mr. Wrigley,” Ziggy said.
“I know,” Wrigley went on. “But we’ve got to do better. I don’t need to tell you there are a lot of empty seats out there every game. You see them. We need to put fannies in those bleachers if this team and this league are going to be successful.”
“What are you planning to do, Mr. Wrigley?” Mickey asked, almost meekly.
“Tommy and I have batted around a bunch of ideas,” Wrigley said, gesturing to his assistant. “I have an important meeting to get to, so I’m going to let Tommy go over the details with you.”
Tommy the geek went to the center of the locker room while Wrigley made his way toward the door.
“Oh, one last thing,” Wrigley said before leaving, “I love the new chicken.”
Everybody smiled at me as Tommy the geek took off his suit jacket and hat, pulled a notebook out of his briefcase, and cleared his throat. With his boss out of the room, Tommy seemed to enjoy being in charge.
“Girls, I’m going to give you the straight skinny,” Tommy announced. “Mr. Wrigley didn’t like what he saw out there tonight. Arguments with the umpire. Yelling at the fans. Being called back to the dugout to put on your lipstick. Potatoes being thrown on the field! You girls have to shape up. It’s just not ladylike.”
“Baseball isn’t ladylike,” Ziggy muttered, loud enough to be heard by everyone.
“Look,” Tommy said, putting down his notebook, “nobody wants to see tomboys play baseball. The attraction is that you are girls. That is what is entertaining. To attract fans—especially male fans—you’ve got to look and act more like girls.”
“And what, exactly, do girls look and act like?” Mickey asked, her hands on her hips.
“Girls are feminine,” Tommy stated firmly. “That means lipstick, nail polish, and makeup on at all times. Hair stylishly groomed. Courteous and polite language. You should walk, talk, and behave like ladies.”
“So in other words,” Connie Wisniewski said, “you want us to play like men, but look like girls.”
“Exactly!” Tommy exclaimed. “You see, men don’t want to come out to the ballpark and see women who look like men.”
“Are you saying we look like men?” Mickey said, taking one step toward Tommy.
“I didn’t say that,” Tommy replied, shrinking backward and holding his briefcase over his chest.
“Sure you did.”
“What difference does it make what we look like?” Ziggy asked. “I thought we were here to win ball games.”
“You are,” Tommy agreed. “But let me set you straight. You are entertainers first and ballplayers second. Don’t forget that.”
“Well, as long as we have our priorities straight,” Tiby snorted.
“Just in case some of you didn’t read our league’s rules of conduct, Mr. Wrigley requested that I post them for all to see.” Tommy pulled a sheet of paper out of his briefcase and tacked it up on the bulletin board.
RULES OF CONDUCT
1. ALWAYS appear in feminine attire. AT NO TIME MAY A PLAYER APPEAR IN THE STANDS IN HER UNIFORM OR WEAR SLACKS OR SHORTS IN PUBLIC.
2. Boyish bobs are not permissible, and your hair should be well groomed at all times with longer hair preferable to short haircuts. Lipstick should always be worn.
3. Smoking or drinking is not permissible in public places. Obscene language will not be allowed at any time.
4. All public social engagements must be approved.
5. All living quarters and eating facilities must be approved. No player shall change her residence without permission.
6. All players must be in their rooms two hours after the finish of each game.
7. Baseball uniform skirts shall not be shorter than six inches above the kneecap.
8. The members of different teams must not socialize at any time during the season.
9. Players are not allowed to drive their cars past the city limits without the special permission of their manager.
FINES OF FIVE DOLLARS FOR THE FIRST OFFENSE, TEN DOLLARS FOR SECOND, AND SUSPENSION FOR THIRD WILL AUTOMATICALLY BE IMPOSED FOR BREAKING ANY OF THE ABOVE RULES.
“What?”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Ten bucks?”
“You’re going to tell us where we’re allowed to eat?”
“You’re going to tell us where we’re allowed to drive?”
The Chicks were in open rebellion. I was afraid they were going to take the rules of conduct list right off the bulletin board and rip it up.
“Girls! Girls!” Tommy shouted, raising his voice and his hands to get their attention. “Simmer down. If attendance doesn’t go up, Mr. Wrigley is going to move the Chicks away from Milwaukee next season.”
“We’ve only played thirteen games!” Mickey said. “Give us a chance.”
“We like it here,” insisted Ziggy.
Tommy the geek pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead with it. He gathered up his suit jacket and hat.
“Look,” he said, “if the truth be known, Mr. Wrigley started the AAGPBL last year because he thought the war would mean the collapse of major-league baseball. Now we’re winning the war. It won’t be long until the DiMaggios and Williamses and Fellers and Greenbergs and all the rest will be coming home. When that happens, Mr. Wrigley just might shut down your whole league. I didn’t want to tell you this, but that is a fact.”
“He can’t do that!” Ziggy exclaimed.
“Sure he can,” Tommy said. “He owns the league. He shelled out two hundred thousand dollars of his own money for it already. He pays your salaries. And need I remind you that the average American worker earns ten or twenty dollars a week? The rookies among you get paid fifty dollars a week, and some of you are getting a lot more.”
“This stinks,” somebody in the back mumbled.
“If you don’t like the way Mr. Wrigley is running things, you are free to leave and go join some other professional baseball league for girls. Good evening!”
With that, Tommy put on his hat and left. Something told me there were no other professional baseball leagues for girls.
12
First Date
THERE WAS A SOMBER MOOD IN THE LOCKER ROOM AFTER Tommy the geek left. Some of the players were angry about what he’d said. Others felt that getting paid for playing baseball was the chance of a lifetime, and they didn’t mind putting on lipstick and putting up with a few silly rules to keep playing.
It was 9:30, according to the clock on the wall. Time for me to go. My cousin was home all by herself, and my father was in the hospital. I had to get back to Louisville, back to my own time.
Even though I’d had to put on a skirt, I’d had a good time. I’d stolen three
bases to win the game. I’d seen a bunch of girls naked. And who was I kidding? Nothing was going to happen between me and Merle. I was just a kid. She was a grown woman.
“I’d better be going,” I said as I wiped the lipstick off my mouth with my sleeve.
“Don’t go!” Merle, Connie, and Mickey begged.
“You’re our good luck charm,” Ziggy reminded me. “Stick around.”
“Whatsamatter?” Tiby asked. “Got to go home to mommy?”
“Is it past your bedtime?” Teeny smirked.
“No,” I said defensively. “I have to baby-sit for my little cousin.”
“How old is your cousin?” Connie asked.
“She’s nine.”
“Nine!” exclaimed Mickey. “When I was nine, my parents put me to work on the farm.”
“Your cousin probably put herself to bed by now,” Ziggy said. “What’s the rush?”
Merle sidled over to me and put an arm around my shoulder. Her curly blond hair brushed against my face.
“Won’t you please stay, sweetie pie?” she said, batting her eyelashes at me. “Come on, don’t be a fuddy-duddy. At least let me take you out for dinner to show our appreciation for helping us win the game. I’ve got my own car. Pleeeease?”
“Stop corrupting the boy, Merle!” Mickey said as she handed me my clothes from her locker.
Merle was asking me out to dinner! The Blond Bombshell wanted to be alone with me! She had a car! This would be my first official date with a girl!
“Okay, I’ll stay,” I agreed. My cousin could wait.
“Great!” Merle said, giving me a hug. “I’ve got to shower and change clothes. I’ll meet you at the front gate in fifteen minutes.”
“Where do I change my clothes?”
Merle took me down the hall to a big closet where mops, sponges, and cleaning supplies were stored.
“I’ll see you in fifteen minutes,” she said, giving my hand a squeeze.