Making My Pitch

by Ila Jane Borders

  The next day it poured as we drove through Colorado, soaking our luggage in the bed of the truck. Then we entered the breathtaking red rock country of Utah. We had planned to make it home that night, but by the time we reached Las Vegas, we decided to relax for one more day before returning to the realities of our lives. No gambling, we had just enough money for gas to get home, so we people-watched as we walked the Strip. We talked about what we would face when we arrived home. Glick would go back to his job delivering pizza, because it gave him plenty of time to work out and improve his pitching skills. He still had to live at home with his parents, because he could not make it on his own financially. Sometimes he stayed with a girlfriend, so he had some independence from his parents. The next day Glick dropped me off in La Mirada before heading north to the Santa Clarita Valley.

  For the first time since leaving for college five years ago, I was home. I planned to use my endorsement money to rent a place and return to college for four months. I needed to complete six more units to get my BA in kinesiology and become the first person in the Borders-Carter family to graduate from college, so this was a big deal. I would then pass the state teaching exam and substitute-teach while training for next season. I looked forward to reaping some rewards from all the hard work.

  Except it did not work out that way. In my memory, I waved good-bye to Glick, rolled my luggage up into the house, and began to tell Dad about my plans.

  “I’m ready for my money,” I said. “It will let me live on my own, and I can work less and train more.”

  He had negotiated with me to keep half of the fifty thousand dollars as his agent’s fee, because he had gotten more than they originally offered. I had wondered at the time about that—what agent takes fifty percent? But there was still my half, right?

  “No,” said Dad. His face didn’t look right, a combination of fear and guilt. “I had to use my half immediately to pay off the rest of Randall’s bills, plus your auto insurance for two years.”

  I did the math. “Auto insurance is only six hundred dollars a year, Dad. That’s a total of twelve hundred.”

  Dad’s face changed to anger, as if I didn’t care about the family’s needs.

  “I also tithed 10 percent of your twenty-five thou to the church.”

  Dad tithing was news to me and, when she found out, to Mom.

  All my money was gone. Dad said he would pay me back as he could afford it. In truth he went for many years without paying anything. He could not understand why I was so angry. I was told to be a good sport about it but that if I was going to be a sourpuss, then I was selfish and against the family. To me what he did was stealing, and it broke any trust I had left in him.

  It was not just about the money, though—there was a much bigger picture here. Mom and the rest of the family had always invested in the pretense that things in our family were okay. Mom said not to worry, that Dad would pay it back. I was furious that she did not back me up after I had stood up for her for so many years. Our family had the habit of not confronting one another with a complaint or trying to resolve the problem; instead they talked behind one another’s backs. Dad had his list of grievances: He felt disrespected by Phillip and Randall, but he was older now and too tired to discipline them, unlike when I was young. He was angry that his kids avoided him. Well, who wanted to be near him when we all lived in fear of his hitting us, kicking us out of the house, and generally making our lives difficult? He was upset with Mom’s weight gain and called her lazy for not contributing more financially. He felt like he was the only one working, with three kids living here for free, eating up all the food, and not taking care of the house. Well, teenagers tend to be that way.

  Mom was crushed because Dad was having an affair and everyone knew it, though he denied it. She sank into depression. My brothers were great dudes, but they were mad at Dad for his cheating and lying and had lost respect for Mom because she didn’t stand up to him. Meanwhile my sister Leah complained but did nothing about anything. And here I was, the firstborn, who not only hated lying, cheating, laziness, and talking behind each other’s backs but also was trying to face up to whatever problems came along. For this I was considered the black sheep of the family. Even so, I had always been the mediator. If someone had a problem, they told me. I was tired of the role. I learned that I was enabling the others to not grow. It was time to get out of the house and find a healthier way of living, but did that mean no more baseball for me? Or should I suck it up, live at home, and allow Dad to control me, so I could have more time to train?

  I transferred my credits at Whittier to Southern California College and enrolled in the six units that would fulfill my degree. When I walked into one of my classes, I was in for a shock. There was Shelley. She told me that she was not seeing her boyfriend anymore and asked how I was doing.

  “Great,” I said. “I’m doing great.” Still upset with her, I was civil but distant, as if we had never been friends.

  With my degree in hand and my teaching exam passed, I began to work as a substitute instructor in high schools around L.A. I also worked as a janitor and taught pre-K at Mom’s preschool. I had little time to train and was not at all sure whether I could play next season. Once again I reached out to God. “Lord, help me out,” I prayed. “You gave me a gift to play baseball and you gave me a very determined spirit. If it is still your will, please give me a way to pursue my dream, and I promise to work my ass off.”

  After living with friends here and there, I met a woman through my sister Leah. Kelly Deutsch was a huge Yankees fan. During the mid-1970s, Kelly was among the first girls to play Little League in Passaic, New Jersey, and pitched for the boys junior varsity high school team at Collegiate School before switching to softball. By the time we met she was back to her first love, baseball, playing on Leah’s women’s team. I think Kelly loved the game more than anyone I have ever met. She would listen to the Yankees on the radio and would race home on her motorcycle from her work as a producer in Hollywood to catch a game on TV. Kelly also was out-of-the-closet gay, light years ahead of me that way. She understood this difference between us. We dated a couple of times, but I think she knew I was not emotionally ready for a relationship. By mutual agreement we agreed to continue as friends. She became my confidant, the one who knew stuff about me. I admired her in so many ways.

  Kelly invited me to move into her apartment in Hollywood, covered my share of the rent, and gave me food. In return I cleaned the apartment and coached her in pitching and hitting. We lived for the weekends, when we drove to Beverly Hills High School and practiced baseball for hours. We also watched a lot of baseball on TV, and I would explain the game to her and what was going on. She showed me around Hollywood and Los Angeles, and got me a job as an assistant producer, even though I had not a clue what I was doing. Because of Kelly I was able to train hard for the upcoming season.

  That winter photographer Annie Leibovitz called. She had been taking pictures of various women for a book she was working on with Susan Sontag, and I was someone of interest to her. She wanted to come to California and take pictures of me pitching. She arrived in town with a bunch of assistants and three large trailers of equipment. She did her usual amazing work, shooting one overcast afternoon on the field at Whittier College. What I remember most about Annie was her kindness. I had always been a fan of her work; now I became an admirer of the woman she was: talented, famous, and gracious. The off-season had started with a bitter financial disappointment, but it ended on a high. Sure, there were people like Dad in this world, but there were also people like Annie Leibovitz.

  Then a letter dated November 6, 1998, arrived. The Dukes wanted me back. This time, I told myself, I’m taking two suitcases and lots of warm clothes and packing like I’m not coming back. I am determined to get a win.

  6

  The Dukes

  Nailing a Win

  Game Day: Sixth Inning. Three up and three down for us in the top of the sixth. People are talking at me, cameras are
in my face, but in my head there’s a calm rage to win. My veins feel like they’re bubbling with fire. I’m still in the zone. I know exactly where the ball is going. This is crunch time. I also have a health worry that I haven’t dared to mention to anyone, one that makes me wonder if this will be the last game of my life. So I tell myself, in this sixth inning, to give everything I have and more.

  Steve Hine comes to bat. I’m aiming to get a ground ball. I throw a fastball to the outside corner of the plate, which he hits between first and second for a single. Well, I got a ground ball, and it was a good pitch. Still, it doesn’t stop me from swearing. Now their hottest hitter is up: Johnny Knott. I throw to first a couple of times to keep the speedy Hine honest. I offer Knott a screwball, which he grounds to third—could be a double play. Chris Briller bobbles it in his desire to get the lead runner at second, then has to throw to first, barely getting Knott for the first out. Dang—we can’t give this team opportunities like this. Instead of two out and nobody on, it’s a man on second and only one out.

  Our catcher, Javier Rodriguez, comes out to the mound again, along with our manager, George Mitterwald. I tell them that with first base open I want to put Marc Fink on and pitch to Chris Coste. I know that puts the winning run at the plate, but I feel like I have Chris’s number today. I tell George I feel good and to let me get out of this. George leaves me in the game, saying just don’t give Fink anything good to hit. Javier takes his place behind home, and gives no sign. My straight change begins to tail beyond the outside corner, and Fink swings: a high pop up to short. I count to forever, waiting, until the ball lands in Brito’s glove. Sweet, two outs.

  Chris Coste comes up, and Javier suffers a passed ball, letting Hine take third. I don’t care about the runner, but I do care if Coste gets on. The count goes to 2-and-2 before Javier waggles three fingers, the sign for a screwball. Coste swings and misses—strike three—and slams his bat into the dirt. I jog toward the dugout, unashamedly wallowing in the praise coming my way. Javier: “Holy shit, that was a nice pitch.”

  Mitterwald: “Way to go, Ila.”

  Jackie Hernandez, our hitting coach: “Girl, you are on fire. Good job!”

  I put on my jacket, take my place on the bench, and let the sweet sense of relief wash over me: no runs, one hit, no errors, one left on base.

  I think back to a game earlier this season and how we came together as a team. I don’t recall who we were playing, but our shortstop, Tyler Bain, was fielding the throw to second base when the runner slid into him—actually it was more of a tackle than a slide—and dislocated Bain’s shoulder. He was out for the season. Our pitcher offered payback: his first pitch hit the next batter. Both dugouts cleared, and the brawl began. I hadn’t been in a good fight since sixth grade and was happy to wade into the middle of this one. I was going to stick up for the injured Bain and all my teammates. After the umpires restored order, I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Whoa,” said one of my teammates. “I thought you would just sit back on the bench and watch.”

  I could tell he was impressed I’d joined in, and so I smiled at him as if to say, “Of course.” After that the guys on the team treated me differently, with more respect.

  Now, with 60 Minutes filming every pitch, and Doug Simunic spitting his distaste for me, I’ve pitched six scoreless innings against his first-place team. That makes a string of twelve consecutive scoreless innings.

  After we make the first out in the top of the seventh, George comes over to me and says, “Great job, Ila. You made a believer out of me. I’m going to bring in our setup guy for an inning, and then Giron to close it out and get this win for us. You did your job. You can stay here and watch or get cleaned up if you want.”

  I had no idea George had someone warming up in the bullpen. I say what a pitcher is supposed to say to the manager: “Okay.”

  But being a starting pitcher, my opinion differed. I want one more inning. Sure, I would be going through the lineup again, but I would give them something different to swing at. In my head, it’s one inning more and then Emiliano Giron, our closer and the best in the league, will mow them down. When Maury Wills gets to his coach’s box at first base, I smile at him from the dugout, in thanks for the good word last inning.

  So I watch the game unfold from the bench, where I am utterly powerless, the outcome being out of my hands. To avoid obsessing over it, I reflect on the season. Progress has been made. I had started in pro ball as a spot reliever facing left-handed batters, gone on to long-distance relief (three-plus innings when the starting pitcher gets into trouble early), and now am starting—and winning—games. Maybe the confidence I brought into this season began when I realized I was not just a one-season novelty.

  May 1998, Duluth, Minnesota. As I had vowed, I packed plenty of warm clothing for my second season in Duluth. Reporting to camp, though, brought a chill in several ways. The weather was still cold, but I was prepared, with tights, long sleeves, short sleeves, and a jacket. What I didn’t anticipate was losing our MVP of last season’s championship team, Allen Halley, who had died after a seizure in March at age twenty-six. We loved Halley and his fierceness, and his death devastated us. Our team was different now. Some of the guys were new, and there wasn’t the same mesh as last year. After dating last summer, my relationship with Dave Glick changed, too. We were back to being just buddies. The team started out well, though I wasn’t getting many innings. And then, on July 24, I was tapped to start the game. Excited, I went deep into the zone that day. And here is the bizarreness of memory. I remember speaking to Javier Rodriguez and to pitching coach Mike Cuellar. After the game I remember going on the radio via a hookup with my parents. That’s all I can recall. I had won my first professional baseball game, and I had little memory of it. I pitched six shutout innings against Sioux Falls, giving up three hits and two walks, and notching two strikeouts. Of the seventy-three pitches I made, forty were for strikes. The game went into the books: a 3–1 victory.

  The people of Duluth were friendly, die-hard fans who reminded me of Green Bay Packers football fans. They knew to show up with blankets and parkas to night games, no matter how warm the day had been. They wore replica jerseys. Some locals started the Ila Borders Fan Club. They showed up at the park for every home game and even followed the team on some road trips. The flip side to the adulation came as we began to lose more games. On the road in the visitors’ bullpen, our backs were usually to the fans and up against the beer garden—easy targets for drunks to dump beer on us. Others would ride us hard, commenting on our looks, family, baseball, or anything else they could think of to get a reaction. If that did not work, there was always more beer to spill on us.

  Stalkers were another problem. Duluth is a small town, and people knew where I lived. Jim Wadley had arranged to move me to a remote farm owned by the Lothenbach family. My teammate Chris DeWitt saw guys hanging around my car in the parking lot. One night I noticed a car tailing me as I drove home. So Chris made it a practice to walk me to the car, and then he and his wife would follow me home. At six feet five and 215 pounds, Chris was an intimidating deterrent, but he could not be there every moment. I did not call the cops or tell the front office about these incidents, for the same old reason: doing so would feed the argument that having a girl in baseball caused too much drama. I had always handled threats and stalkers by myself. The difference now was that I had guys like Chris DeWitt at my back.

  Ever since I was a kid, I had tried to prepare myself in every way possible for a life in baseball. What I had not prepared well for was romance, which gets confusing when you’re in the closet. I had always gotten along with guys as friends, but whenever one tried to hit on me, I would send the vibe that I was not interested. Guys hate being rejected, so with varying degrees of success, I always tried to present that I just wanted to be friends. I hadn’t read much about being a gay athlete, so I didn’t fully understand the dynamics. As Carol Berendsen wrote in Loving Women, “Women athletes will rarely achieve an egalitarian r
elationship with a heterosexual male, because once the average straight male has perceived that a woman doesn’t need stud service, it’s scary for him.”

  That left only women to date, and I was not doing it well. I knew the sort of woman I liked—someone smart and independent who enjoyed music, art, and books—but had not grown up with a clear understanding of how to treat a woman I cared about. I had a lot to learn about what a healthy relationship looked like. Besides, playing baseball allowed little time for dating. When people tried to set me up, it was easy to say, “No thanks, too busy.”

  By my second season with the Dukes, I was scaring myself because I felt most myself when alone.

  So I could see why the guys often went for one-night stands rather than a steady girlfriend: convenience. But I had to wonder, How am I going to find love that way? Being in the closet only made it worse. If you have ever tried to keep secret the person you are seeing, you know how exhausting it is to plan a date. You are on edge, stressed out, and telling a lie or sidetracking questions to move the conversation to other subjects. I never understood why the media wanted to know about my romantic life—I didn’t want to know who they were dating.

  Living in the closet also complicates finding someone available to date. When a woman I liked asked me out during baseball season, I had to fake that I was not interested or flat out say, “No, I date men.”

  Talk about sending mixed messages. When I dated in the off-season, I would avoid being seen in public twice with the same person. I would say, “I cannot hold your hand in public, you cannot go to special events with me, and if we go out to a banquet, you cannot sit with me.”

  Since most of my dates had been in the closet, too, that was okay; but by the late 1990s more gay men and lesbians were coming out and resented having to be hidden. I came to see that my skittishness was unfair to the women I dated. It was one-sided and selfish on my part. I once attended an athletic ceremony with a woman I was dating. It was killing me not to sit with her, but I did not want anyone to take a picture of us together. When I received my award, I would not openly hug her—we ended up hugging in the women’s restroom. We both laughed at that, but I could sense her frustration. My secrecy and untruthfulness got to her, and eventually she was gone. I put my career in baseball above love, over and over again.