Making My Pitch

by Ila Jane Borders

  When we got to the clubhouse, Glick said, “Aren’t you coming in?”

  “Hell, no,” I replied.

  He wanted to know why, so I explained that I was not here to change things up for the guys; I just wanted to play. Glick said that the guys already got that; they just wanted to get to know me.

  “Uh-uh, not in that way.”

  He laughed, and said, “No. This team is so relaxed. We like to joke around and have fun.”

  “I do, too, but not when I am pitching. I need to focus.”

  “The guys are going to joke with you to see if you take it, and there is no one here that will fault you for dishing it back. But they will if you don’t come back with something. Everyone here is part of the team. There is no rule about rookies having to do everything.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks for the info—hope you’re right.”

  “Hope you take my advice,” Glick said. “It will go a long ways.”

  After changing in the concourse bathroom, I headed for the dugout, where I sat, waiting for someone to come out to play catch with. I looked out at the field—I loved the old red brick schoolhouse atmosphere of this ballpark—thankful I was playing here. Then the door to the clubhouse opened and one of my teammates said, “Ila, George wants to see you.”

  George being the manager, I thought, What the frick have I done? I got ready to open the clubhouse door but first knocked on it, hard. I heard a knock back, and someone said, trying to sound like a girl, “Hello?”

  I knocked again

  “Open the door.”

  I stepped through, and the guy pointed me toward George’s office. When I got there, I looked in but, of course, the manager was not there. Those little shits, I thought. All I need is a reporter coming in now, and it would be a drama. I turned around to ask, “Where’s George?” and saw one of the players approaching. He was six feet two inches tall, and I could see he was well endowed—he happened to be butt naked. Several clothes hangers hung from his penis, and he carried more hangers in his hand. In a serious manner, he asked me, “How many hangers do you think I can hang on my penis?”

  Everyone around us watched.

  “I have some underwear and clothes in the dugout, if you need some,” I said. Then I spotted Glick in the background looking at me, as if to say, I told you, push back. I saw one of the religious guys coming my way, possibly to my rescue, but stepped in front of him to face the outfielder.

  “Give me a hanger, jackass.” I grabbed the remaining hangers from his hand and hung them on his penis. The answer to the number of hangers that fit was eleven. Trying to sound very scientific, I told him, “You must have been doing this way too often if you knew exactly how many hangers fit on your penis.”

  He burst out laughing and walked away. When we got out to the field he gave me a huge hug and said, “You’re an awesome sport.” From that point on, he was one of my protectors. He still liked to walk around naked in the locker room—he was quite proud of what God gave him—but that was the end of his trying to get under my skin.

  As I headed down the stairs toward the dugout, I turned, grinned at the guys in the locker room, and said, “I found George.”

  When Glick came onto the field, he was all smiles.

  “You passed,” he said. “The guys were all laughing after you left. They feel like they can joke around with you.” He added that there were two people I should watch myself around. “They like you, but they’re religious and just have different views of what women should be doing and wearing.”

  “That’s weird,” I replied, “because I’m a believer, too. But I don’t believe in judging others—I mean, I’m certainly not perfect myself.” I came to think that the religious guys were telling the nonreligious guys to have some respect for me and put some clothes on in the locker room. But these were the same guys who screwed around on their wives, so I doubt the others paid much attention. They just said, “She’s one of us, so who cares?”

  From that day on Glick and I became great friends. He usually was the first one on the field unless he was starting. During warmups I hated doing sprints because it was so damn boring, but throw me a football and I would sprint all day. So we developed a ritual. We would stand in the outfield on the foul lines, and he would yell, “Go!” I would sprint as hard as I could go for about forty yards, then break left or right, and he would throw the ball. I lived to make a diving catch. Sometimes a crowd gathered to watch. Once Glick got in trouble because he dove for the football and got grass stains and dirt all over his pants. At these times, I felt playful, like when I was twelve years old and snuck out of the house at night to play football with the kids down the street. Glick loved baseball like I did. He was a talented and disciplined player, and I admired him very much.

  Our manager must have known what was going on in the clubhouse. A few games into the season, Mitterwald called all of us into the locker room and laid out the rules. Unlike in St. Paul, my using the stadium bathrooms to change was not going to work here, so I was to use the umpire’s room whenever it was open. I was to be welcome in the clubhouse any time, where some players would be fully dressed, some with towels wrapped around them, and some in their underwear and jock straps. I learned to announce my presence by saying loudly, “Housekeeping. Me fluff your pillows?” I do think that sometimes the guys pretended that we were going to have a clubhouse meeting, just so they could hear me say that.

  It was clear that I was on a very different sort of team in Duluth. The Saints had been older and quieter; these guys were young and rowdy. (Think of the Saints as the dignified New York Yankees and the Dukes as the crazy Boston Red Sox during the 2004 season.) Stuff happened. One evening it was so cold down in the bullpen that we could not feel our feet or hands. How could we keep warm if we were called in to pitch? We dug a hole in the dirt, got a white towel out of the locker room and pieces of a broken bat and lit them on fire. We were having a heck of good time but doing everything possible to not let the fire get too high. We ended up sitting all around it so no one in the dugout or the stands could see the flames. Toward the end of the game, who got the call to come in? Babe. I got two quick outs and joined the guys in the dugout. People were laughing as the cameras went off, though I did not understand why until I looked in the mirror later and saw that my face was covered with soot, with only a couple of patches of skin showing. The press loved it. The next day, some of the guys mocked me by wearing, all over their faces, the antiglare stuff we put under our eyes for day games. After that, management no longer sent towels down to the bullpen.

  The guys could see I loved playing and wanted to win, that I was not a man-hater or someone interested in being famous as the “first woman ever.” And I kept my mouth shut about those who were popping greenies like sunflower seeds or taking steroids—and about the groupies that were everywhere. I could laugh off my teammates’ practical jokes. I don’t know how many times I got a hotfoot, or shoe polish in my cap, or slime in my mitt. The only thing I escaped was towel whipping, thank goodness. Guys would come out with welts. No place was sacred from clubhouse pranks. The trainer might be stretching you out before a game when a teammate would come by and fart as loud as he could. It did not matter who you were—you were easy bait if you were getting stretched out. As long as they had underwear on and I did not have to see their hairy butts, it was all good. I can imagine some of you thinking how gross and rude that is, but I took it as a compliment. I wanted them to treat me like another player. Well, that is what I got.

  As the second half of the season got under way, the Dukes went on a roll. We had been dead last when I came to the team; now we were moving up to second place. I say this not because of anything I contributed but because it was plain exciting to be winning. We were a bunch of misfits who happened to play well together. Wins, of course, help a team to mesh, but even before that we all got along. We were definitely the melting pot of the Northern League. We had homegrown Texas white boys, a tattooed Cali guy with chin hair
, three African Americans, clean-cut though not necessarily devout Christians, an Asian, a Canadian, ex–major leaguers, rico suave ladies men, several Dominicans (some speaking no English), and me, the girl. Our pitching coach, Mike Cuellar, fit right in. He walked with a swagger, wore a gold necklace, and liked to have fun. He was still in great shape after his fifteen seasons as a four-time All-Star and an American League Cy Young winner. There were limits to our communication, though. Mike was from Cuba and sometimes struggled with English, especially at important moments. One day he ran to the mound to chew me out. “You Think, You Stink,” he hollered over and again, spit foaming at his mouth. I fought down a belly laugh. If I was not getting as many innings as I had hoped, I was having a heck of a good time.

  The bullpen was like a private community. Our conversations ranged from talking baseball (players’ weaknesses and strengths, past seasons with other teams, and the use of steroids, testosterone, and human growth hormone supplements) to arguments over where we could get the best coffee—most of us agreed on Dunkin’ Donuts—and how many times a week married couples should have sex. And always, the guys were scanning the stands for women. I often got cast as the judge of these debates because I was considered the fairest person.

  My teammates’ sense of humor helped me relax. For most of them it was not do or die, like it was for me. They enjoyed playing baseball, but most knew it was not going to be their life. If it did not work out, they planned to go back home into the family business or some other job. They felt like they had nothing to lose, because most players don’t even make it to professional baseball, and they had achieved that. To move higher was often a matter of politics or good luck, so they just gave it their best and let whatever happened happen. But they saw the extra scrutiny and stress on me. And I could see that my Cuban teammate, Ariel, had a lot more pressure riding because he had to keep his job or he was going back to Castro’s country.

  One night at a game in Iowa we were fairly deep into a scatological discussion when Mike Cuellar gave the hourglass sign. When I got to the mound, I saw small brown frogs everywhere. The field was brand new and well groomed, but it was surrounded by farmland. August in the Midwest is hot and humid—I guess this was frog weather. Well, better this than the cold of May and June. I notched a strikeout and got out of the inning with no runs, but when I came into the dugout I ran into a plague of frogs of near Biblical proportions. When my teammates saw me dodging the frogs, I was in for it. The guys were all over me for being afraid. I denied it, saying I just did not want them all over me and did not want to kill them. No mercy. Back on the mound, I opened my glove and there was a frog, which I laid on the grass behind the mound. From the eighth inning on, I had frogs all over my gear and my body. Dang, I thought. Just give ballplayers a little opening, and you are toast.

  After we won the game, I was safely settled on the team bus when I heard noises coming from my baseball bag. When I unzipped it to check, about twenty frogs hopped out.

  “Damn it,” I muttered, “Those little shits” (meaning not the frogs but my prankster teammates). I tried to gather all the frogs that had jumped onto the bus floor. I was all over the bus trying to get those suckers. Then I stepped off the bus and put them in a grassy place nearby. I could see some of the guys who were talking to local Baseball Annies peer around and laugh.

  Other teammates just said, “Ila, what the fuck have you done now?”

  Having done my deed of kindness, as I headed to the back of the bus I stuck my slimy hands out, darting at the freshly showered players as if to touch them, all of them yelling, “Get the fuck away from me.”

  After taking two games out of three from the Sioux City Explorers, we returned to Duluth, where I learned that the club had found a place for me to live. I had loved the anonymity of living in a hotel room and treasured my privacy, which I considered important to my mental health. The house, though, was convenient for someone like me without a car—right across the street from the stadium. My hosts were a divorcée who was a retired cook with grown kids in the area and a single woman with a boyfriend. How was I going to live with two women in a thousand-square-foot two-bedroom house? Whenever I was in town, one woman gave up her bedroom and slept in the living room. They were the nicest women, and I could tell they wanted to hang out with me, but by the time I got home I just wanted to chill. Sleep was what got me through. My hosts did their best to give me the space I needed.

  As I settled into my role with the Dukes, some of my bullpen mates began asking for pitching advice. Because I didn’t have ninety-five-mile-per-hour speed, I had to pitch smart, with a lot of movement on the ball. I also threw a heavy ball, according to teammates I played catch with. They saw that I understood mechanics. (Some coaches, like Mike Cuellar, were so good back in their day that they couldn’t relate to pitchers whose styles were different from theirs.)

  All through August, the Dukes continued to win. The guys were happy because now even more groupies were lining up for them. We finished the season in first, one game ahead of the Saints. Now we would face them in the best-of-five semifinals. No one expected us to win—the Saints were considered unbeatable against a team like ours: fifth in the eight-team league in hitting and batting, and sixth in pitching and fielding. I started to pray, “Please God, please . . .”

  I cannot recall every game of the playoffs, but I remember Game Five, played in Duluth on a frigid night with about two thousand people in the stands. Starting for us was our ace, Allen Halley—six feet one, 195 pounds, and a ball of fire. With a shaved head, a soul patch below his lip, and a ruddy face, Allen always looked like he was out to kill you. It was his habit to dip or chew, he popped greenies like candy, and he drank coffee like water. Though he had a huge temper, he was kind to me and superfunny. We also had a hot bat in designated hitter and outfielder Mike Meggers.

  Before the game, we in the bullpen played our ritual game of flip. You could use only your mitt and body to bounce the baseball off you and onto the other player. If you hit another player and the ball hit the floor, he was out. Every part of the body but the head was “in.” I never won that damn game. After the ball game started, the bullpen was quieter than usual. We were all ready to come in at the first sign of trouble, but that night the Dukes were on. Mike was crushing the ball, and Allen was dealing big time.

  In the top of the ninth, we stood together in front of the wooden bench, jumping up and down or toe tapping to keep warm, anticipating the win. When the last batter struck out swinging, I rushed the mound with the rest of the guys. Some of us ran with our arms raised, others jumped up and down and hugged while champagne flowed. It felt great but also weird, because I still felt a sense of loyalty to the Saints.

  For the best-of-seven championship series we faced the Winnipeg Goldeyes, who had edged out the Fargo RedHawks in the other semifinal. During the series, both stadiums were packed with fans going nuts. We took a game, they took a game, and then we pulled ahead three to two. We knew we had to get them in Game Six, at home in Duluth. As the game got under way, both starters were dealing, and fielders were making plays that seemed impossible. Who was going to take this game? Both teams deserved it. There was no kidding around in the bullpen that night—we all paced, ready to go if called in. We tried to do this only when the Dukes were in the dugout, not wanting our starter to think he might be coming out. We just wanted to be ready to contribute.

  Top of the ninth, we were ahead. In the bullpen I hunched over, close to Glick, biting my fingers, praying to God, “Please . . .” Our closer was in now, the best in the league, but the Goldeyes had the best hitting in the league. Fly ball. One out. I hit Glick on the shoulder: next hitter up went to a full count before grounding out. Two outs. I shook Glick, who gave me the look, like “you’re a freak.” When the umpire motioned strike three, I slapped Glick on the back. Then the entire bullpen rushed the mound, where we transformed into a dog pile of exuberant kids. I was just grateful to be on top of the pile and not the bottom. The Dukes
—the misfits of the League—had won the pennant. And I, perhaps the biggest misfit of all, had survived my rookie season. I had my own baseball card. And soon I would be wearing a championship ring. Look at me now, all you naysayers!

  I remembered to whisper a quick prayer, “Thank you, God, for watching over me, and for teaching me to aim high and put no limits on You . . . Please Lord, prepare me to get a win next year and to go as far as I can go in this beautiful game.”

  Holy Shit, I kept saying to myself, Holy Shit.

  “We Are the Champions” blared over the PA. Then we players went on the microphone to thank the fans for their support. For more than an hour we celebrated on the field, helping to make the fans feel a part of this. Finally the guys started to head to the showers, and I realized that the season truly was over.

  The following day I hopped in Glick’s green S10 Chevy truck and headed west with him. We both resigned ourselves to going from an ultimate high to ordinary life back at home—though I would have the security of my money from the SSK contract. With that I would have the time to train and get stronger. Trading the wheel every four hours (whoever drove got to choose the music), we wanted to see as much of the countryside as we could. The first day, we traveled through the cornfields and small Scandinavian towns of Iowa before stopping in Lincoln, Nebraska. No romance then, though we dated later that winter. If ever I was going to go hetero—and I prayed that I could—Glick would be the guy. On our dates we would talk baseball and sports, ride the roller coasters at Six Flags Magic Mountain, and talk about our futures. But we both knew we would not last together. I understood that he needed to date other girls and was not close to settling down. I knew I loved him, though not physically.