When Barry said that Mike Veeck was all about opportunity, it was real and true. I had not been offered a contract, just a chance to make the team. Best of all if I made the Saints, no one could say it was because they needed to fill their ballpark. Over the past three seasons, their home games had sold out. But the idea of bringing in a woman ballplayer had long been in Mike’s mind—he says he had talked it over with his father in the 1970s. He was just waiting for the right time.
Well, all I ever wanted was a shot, and now I was going to get one. I will always be grateful to Barry Moss, Marty Scott, and Mike Veeck for their open minds. Sportswriters said that my invitation into men’s professional baseball was history-making, but that’s not accurate. Others had gone before me:
1898: Lizzie Arlington became the first woman to sign a minor league contract, with Reading of the Atlantic League. She lasted a season.
1931: Jackie Mitchell struck out Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig in an exhibition game for the Chattanooga (Tennessee) Lookouts.
1936 and 1937: Frances Dunlap played two games of Class D minor league baseball in Fayetteville, Arkansas, going 1-for-2 and 1-for-3.
1952: Eleanor Engle signed with the Harrisburg (Pennsylvania) Senators but never played. George Trautman, president of the National Association of Professional Baseball Leagues, banned women from playing Organized Baseball.
1953–55: Mamie “Peanut” Johnson, Connie Morgan, and Toni Stone played in the Negro American League. (Stone played for the Indianapolis Clowns in 1953 and the Kansas City Monarchs in 1954. Johnson and Morgan played for the Indianapolis Clowns in 1954–55).
1994: Julie Croteau and Lee Anne Ketchum, of the Colorado Silver Bullets, played for the Maui Stingrays in the Hawaiian Winter League. Kendra Hanes played for the Kentucky Rifles of the Independent Frontier League, going 0-for-10.
1996: Pamela Davis pitched one inning of an exhibition game for the Class AA Jacksonville Suns against the Australian national team. She won the game. And Mike Veeck had tried to recruit Carey Schueler. She had no interest.
I hoped to last longer than one inning, one game, or one season. But lasting in the lower levels of professional baseball means a vow of poverty. If I made the cut and became a Saint, I would earn 750 dollars a month. And then I remembered the deal Dad said that he made my sophomore year. After SSK filmed the commercial at SCC, he met with Akiko and negotiated a deal: when I turned pro, the Japanese baseball equipment corporation would pay me three thousand dollars to use their mitt. That was fine with me—I had had been using their gloves ever since Little League. But Dad held out. He wanted fifty thousand.
“Wow,” I said.
When SSK agreed to his price, I was shocked. If I made the team, this money would set me up financially. I had few bills—no cell phone, no computer, and no car payments—only student loans that were deferred and auto insurance on my blue 1985 Mercury Topaz, which I planned to leave at home. With fifty thousand dollars in the bank I would not have to worry about living under Dad’s rules at home when the season ended. I was rich, I was free.
4
Mike Veeck and the St. Paul Saints
Game Day: Fourth Inning. In the top of the fourth, we score another run on three successive singles. While we’re at bat, the guys in the dugout joke around, but they continue to leave me alone. There are so many superstitions in baseball, one being that when a no-hitter or a shutout is going, don’t talk about it with the pitcher. Superstition counts for a lot in this life. To keep a streak going or to break a slump, players rely on ritual. Some players have special shaving rituals. One guy shaves with a razor, doing alternating strokes on each side of his face and then does his chin last. If they’re on a good streak, some guys won’t shave until they go hitless or give up a run. I’ve been told, though I am glad to say I never saw it, that one teammate always whacks off before he pitches, so he won’t be jittery on the mound. Others pop greenies like sunflower seeds or need their special dip or chew. We have one player who is like Nomar Garciaparra—at the plate he tightens his batting gloves, zipping and unzipping them I don’t know how many times. We give him so much crap for that. My own ritual is fairly minimal: Before each game, I put on my uniform in exactly the same way. Then I eat a Snickers bar and drink a can of Mountain Dew. I wear the same holey undershirt for the season but wash it after every game. Whatever it is, it seems like most of us need to have a ritual.
I head out for the bottom half of the inning to face the heart of the order (the third, fourth, and fifth batters in the lineup), for the second time around. This is a huge inning. Coaches tell their pitchers that what we do after our team scores is pivotal. It’s about momentum. I need to shut down the opposing team fast and give us a chance to put more runs on the board, boosting everyone’s confidence while killing the RedHawks’ spirit. They’ll start to feel the pressure not to lose to me. They’ll swing at bad pitches, thus making the strike zone bigger. Well, I need every little edge I can get, not because I’m a girl but because I am small for a pitcher who wants to make it in professional baseball.
I look to the sky as I face home plate, grateful it’s a night game. During day games in Fargo, the center fielder and pitcher get no relief from the sun’s glare in their faces. It’s so bad that if a pitch is lined straight back at the pitcher it would be hard to react fast enough. That very thing happened in May, when the Baltimore Orioles pitcher Mike Mussina was hit in the face by a line drive and fell to the ground, bleeding. He didn’t move for nearly two minutes. Mussina’s nose was broken and he had a cut above his eye, but he didn’t lose his eyesight—every pitcher’s fear. Any time I throw an outside corner pitch my mitt ends up by my melon. I learned that lesson—to always be ready—from Dad when I was ten years old.
I throw my last warmup pitch, and the catcher throws the ball around the horn. Chris Briller underhands the ball to me, then approaches the mound from third base. Covering his mouth with his glove so people can’t read his lips, he gives me an order: “Fuckin’ kill ’em.”
I give him a devilish smile back. I feel the positive energy around me. My shortstop and second baseman are toe-tapping the dirt because they can’t remain still. It’s like they’re saying, “Hit the ball to me. I want it.” My first baseman stares toward home, all business. I look back at the outfield. Everyone’s ready to go.
After Steve Hine flies out to left and Johnny Knott flies out to right, I decide to go after Marc Fink. I throw a two-seamer fastball away, and he hits a high chopper between first and second. Base hit. Oh, well, I figure—he’s slow and unlikely to steal. He just pulled an outside corner pitch, and it got through. Tip of my cap to him. I can sense his relief as he stands on first, a big smile on his face. The crowd starts to chirp.
Chris Coste is up next—he has smeared black under his eyes. He pushes his helmet down on his head and checks down the third base line for the coach’s sign. To keep the guy at first honest, I throw to first but make it look like crap. The first baseman doesn’t even try to tag him. Soon as I get the ball back, the runner takes a bigger lead. And I think, Okay, you fucker, keep doing that. I hold the ball a little longer and give a better move to first.
Even though I know I am not going to throw the ball to home, I look in for the sign. Javier flicks his thumb toward first again. It’s all about rhythm. So I come to the pause in the stretch, and hold the ball until the hitter finally calls time. I want the runner to feel a little heavy in his legs. The fans start to boo. Someone screams, “Throw the ball, Sally.” Others yell, “Turn the other page . . . She’s scared . . . She’s done . . . Pull her, coach.”
Seated just behind the visitors’ dugout is a woman of about fifty, dressed in red and waving a small flag, who has not shut up the entire game. I figure she buys a ticket just so she could heckle the RedHawks’ opponents. Every town has a fan like that. She is all over our team when we hit. She screams, “Go back home,” when I run into the dugout.
A regular ball of fire. Now she sits quietly. I think to try s
omething that a lot of pitchers do, but it’s dangerous. I call Javier out and tell him I want to hang a curveball inside and let this guy rip it foul. We have done this before, so he says, “Okay, whatever you feel comfortable with.”
Why does a hanging curve go foul? A lazy curve, one without a good break or spin on it, thrown up in the zone goes inside. When the hitter connects—and he usually does—he will try to blast it and it can only go foul. If he does hit it fair, he’s somehow missed it and it’s an easy pop-up. But most of the time he gets a long foul drive for his trouble. As the ball approaches the plate, I can see Coste’s eyes getting big. As expected, he rips it foul. I imagine everyone is thinking, Holy crap, what was that?
Javier and I look at each other with one thought: Cool. He comes out, hands me a new baseball, and says, “Nice pitch. We know this guy will be looking away. He’s seen everything you have. Let’s trust your stuff and give him what he wants.”
I agree but say that I first want to throw my two-seamer off the outside corner plate, so he can’t whale on it, as well as to set up the screwball away. Agreed. Javier heads back to the plate, puts his mask on, and signals “no sign.” I throw my two-seamer, putting it close to five inches off the outside corner. Coste leans in with his entire body, watching it all the way in, but takes it for another ball: 2-2. He figures I’ll come after him with my best pitch for a strike. I will, but it will be a ball. I throw my screwball as hard as I can right down the middle to where it looks like it’s going to be a strike, but at the last moment it tails away and sinks. He swings and taps a harmless grounder to third. No runs, one hit, no errors, one left on base.
Our bench erupts with praise. It’s only the bottom of the fourth and we have a lot of game to go, but there’s a stillness in the crowd now. The RedHawks and their fans are thinking, Holy crap, she might beat us. For that they can blame the man who was not afraid to take a chance on me, Mike Veeck.
May 14, 1997, St. Paul, Minnesota. As the plane descended over Fort Snelling Pass, I saw Midway Stadium, home of the St. Paul Saints, set against the city’s skyline. In the distance was the Metrodome, home of the Twins. I could not believe I was getting to play at Midway, a ballpark that held the immense (to me) number of seventy-six hundred people. I had spent the flight evaluating my readiness for St. Paul. Baseball-wise I was arriving in town with a seventy-something fastball, a good curve, a screwball-like change-up, and precision control. Mentally I felt prepared, having dealt with pressure situations from Little League through college. I had even prepared myself emotionally by taking my own virginity with that dildo in college. Spiritually, I thought I was okay. I am all right with failing as long as I did my absolute best, figuring it wasn’t something that was supposed to happen. I would have done my part, and the rest was up to God. I saw God as my best friend, though I would come to learn I also needed to learn to be my own best friend. And financially the SSK contract represented freedom and a break from my fiscally starved past. Now, about ready to start spring training, I felt like nothing could break me. I was going to find a way to get to where I wanted to be: a professional baseball player who helped her team get wins. No publicity gimmicks, no media games, but a woman who would stand the test of time in professional baseball.
After I picked up my big red suitcase from baggage claim, I walked outside to find my ride. Holy crap, it was cold. I was a California surfer girl, used to living in board shorts. Growing up, our family never traveled outside Southern California We usually vacationed at Big Bear Lake in the San Bernardino National Forest, a two-hour drive from home. But through baseball I had been to Japan and the plains of Canada from Calgary to Winnipeg. Now I was in beautiful, green, but frigid Minnesota. As I stepped into the fresh air, I remember thinking, It’s May, why so cold here? All I’d packed were summer clothes. I made a quick U-turn and ran back into the airport to buy a sweatshirt at one of the shops. I pulled my new gray sweatshirt, with “Minnesota” on it, over my one pair of jeans, and quickly spotted my driver, who was holding a sign that read, “St. Paul Saints—Ila Borders.” He greeted me with a handshake and said, “Welcome to St. Paul, Ila.” I thought we would wait for the other players to arrive, but he loaded my suitcase into the trunk of the sedan, and we took off. “We’re going to stop by the stadium to meet Mike Veeck,” he said. “He wants to talk with you before spring training camp starts tomorrow.”
Cool, I thought. Here I am, on my way to meet the president and co-owner of the Saints. Along the way I got lost in the greenness of the landscape, filled with cedars, hemlocks, and firs and ash, maple, and oak trees. I saw several lakes—a great novelty to a Southern Californian—and the architecture of the old buildings downtown spoke of culture. I could not wrap my mind around the fact that the houses had no fences around them—everything was open. There were still patches of snow on the ground, but people were out Rollerblading, running, and biking in the parks. Lakes and trees, four seasons, open space, culture—this was Grandma’s state, and it was, I decided in a moment, a good place to be.
As we turned off Energy Park Drive into the parking lot, I saw train tracks behind the left- and center-field wall and a fire-training center with a burn tower behind the right-field fence. A state-of-the-art scoreboard loomed over left-center. Inside the ballpark, as I stood at the front desk, a man emerged from his office, dressed in black slacks and a black trench coat. Mike Veeck was taller than I’d anticipated. After we introduced ourselves, he said, “Hey, let’s take a walk.” I followed him into the parking lot, where, Mike told me, people liked to tailgate before the game. We talked for maybe twenty minutes about relaxing, having fun, making the most of the experience, and how the people here were for me. Mike talked about expectations, believing in myself, and how I was going to have to earn a spot. It is very tough for rookies to make it here. Playing in the Northern League is like skipping rookie ball. People compare it to Class A minor league ball. This was a hitter’s league. If I made the Saints and survived the first year, that would mean success to me.
“Anything you need,” he said, “Just ask.”
I mentioned that in college the media attention had driven my joy in the game away. Mike replied that I would not have to say yes to every interview request. I quickly saw a man who wanted to see me succeed—he reminded me of my junior high coach, Rolland Esslinger.
“All I want is a shot, sir,” I said. I wanted to make this man proud for taking a chance on me. Not a lot of people are that gutsy, but that’s Mike Veeck. I would come to admire Mike as a husband and father, a smart businessman, a funny though quiet guy, and a great communicator. It felt good to talk with him about spring training camp and to have a chance to chill out before the big day.
I thought I’d be staying at a Motel 6, but it turned out to be a Radisson, ten minutes from the stadium, in Roseville, right next to some train tracks. When I got to the hotel, I decided to go for a jog, popped on my headphones and listened to Sarah McLachlan as I ran alongside the train tracks. I am never more at peace than when I’m hiking by myself, listening to music. It’s my way of calming down. I visualize myself being successful on the mound, having the correct release points, hitting the correct spots, and watching the hitters swing and miss my pitches. On game days, though, I want Metallica or AC/DC blaring from my Walkman, and I go from feeling peaceful to wanting to rip my opponent’s head off and shove it down his throat. I always had to be careful about flipping that switch when competing. Still do! Then, when I want to sleep or relax after a game, I’ll tune into slow music and it works every time. And when I get upset, I’ll play a song in my head, usually “Dancing Queen.” Then I calm down and smile.
On the way back to the hotel, I stopped at a convenience store. I had been told that each day a bus would pick us up for practice and take us home afterward, but for anything else we were on our own. Because I would not get paid these two weeks, I didn’t have much money for food—ten dollars in my bank account and fifty dollars cash. Before I left California, Dad had explained
that he didn’t want me to worry about anything while I was in Minnesota, so he would hold on to my fifty thousand dollars, pay my car insurance, and settle up when I got back home. Now I called to tell him I was broke and needed some money, but he replied that he didn’t want me to blow it all. “Go,” he said. “Play ball, and give it your all.”
I suppose it’s hard to understand why I didn’t continue to argue with Dad for my money. I just knew from my childhood days that it was an argument I would never win. So here I was, ready to play ball but hungry. So it was a couple of jars of peanut butter and jelly, bread, packaged sandwiches, cereal and milk, and anything else that was cheap and filling. After I ate, I sat down with my copy of the Saints’ preseason roster. Fourteen pitchers would compete for ten spots. Each club in the league was required to include six rookies on their roster. I looked over the players’ names and marked those I thought would make it and those who would not. I left the space by my name blank. That night I barely slept. Spring training camp runs pretty much on military time. The handout we players were given was hour-by-hour and detailed. Baseball was my life at this time. I staked my value on how I did in the latest game, not on who I was as an individual or a child of God. What if I overslept and missed the bus? What if I didn’t read the weather right? What if I failed at spring training camp? I would let down not just myself but also my family, Mike Veeck, sports, and everyone else rooting for me. I had no backup plan; this was it. I used to be able to shove the pressure to perform behind me and go forward, but this time it felt more difficult to do that. For one, the media attention was even more intense, more international.
Making My Pitch Page 13