Throw Like a Woman

by Susan Petrone

  Howie: You really are serious.

  Charlie: Heck yeah, I’m serious. Why not give her a chance? Somebody somewhere once gave you a chance, didn’t they? The Twins gave you a chance back in ’78 when no one else would sign you.

  Howie: Thanks for reminding me.

  Charlie: The point is, they took a gamble on you. The old WDHO in Toledo gave me a chance when I got out of college with nothing but a bachelor’s degree and an attitude to my name. Let’s share the wealth and give this woman a chance. All I’m asking you to do is visit SignBrenda.com and add your name to the petition, okay? Thank you, America, and thank you, Howie.

  Howie: Can we talk about MLB now, Charlie? Because the Braves are on a hot streak that is not to be believed.

  Charlie: Anything for you, buddy.

  Chapter Five

  •◊•

  So many people were calling about Charlie Bannister and the video and the website that it seemed like the phone hadn’t stopped ringing for a week. Andy refused to answer the telephone and had taken to giving one-word answers to anything Brenda asked. Every morning he would greet her with a sullen “Hi,” eat a silent breakfast with his brother and her, and ride his bike with Jon to the sports camp. The boys got home a couple hours before Brenda got back from work. That time was always fraught with worry for her but she figured it probably felt like freedom to them.

  A few days after the second video aired on Charlie Bannister’s show, Brenda came home to find Jon in the living room playing his DS. She could tell right away something was wrong by Jon’s face. She was already exhausted. She hadn’t expected to start out Monday morning with the president of the company calling her into his office to ask if she was quitting (the answer was “no”) and then to try and recruit her onto the company softball team (the answer was also “no”). And she hadn’t expected virtually every male and half of the females in the office to come by her cubicle and ask if she had seen SignBrenda.com (she had and found it lacked basic design principles but was shocked to see it already had seventy-five thousand signatures), whether she knew Charlie Bannister personally (two people asked if she was sleeping with him), if it was true that she was going to sign with the Indians (which made her snort back a laugh), why she hadn’t told them she played baseball, could they go and watch, how she learned to throw, was the video real, and if she wanted to go out to dinner (the latter was asked by Frank, a vice president who wore enough cologne that his scent preceded his physical presence by a good ten seconds; Brenda said no). On top of all this, she came home to have Jon tell her that Andy had gotten into a fight at camp.

  “Don’t tell him I told you,” Jon whispered. “He’ll kill me. Andy’s really mad.”

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” Brenda said, sitting down next to him on the sofa. “I know Andy’s angry, but he’s angry with me, not you.”

  “He acts like he’s mad at everybody. Some kids were teasing him about you, and then Madison Gallagher said she thought it was great that you played baseball and had your video on ESPN and stuff, and that’s when he hit her.”

  “He started a fight with a girl?” Brenda’s stomach dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of her ankles, but she tried not to sound as concerned as she was. Andy was getting big enough and strong enough that he could inflict real damage on someone smaller.

  “Well, she’s not really a girl. She’s a lot older—she’s like sixteen or something.”

  “Sweetie, the camp is only for kids twelve and under. A girl that old wouldn’t be enrolled.”

  “Madison’s a CIT.”

  “Oh Jesus Christ.”

  “You said we aren’t supposed to use the Lord’s name in vain,” Jon said as she stood up.

  “You’re right, Jon. I’m sorry,” Brenda replied. Inwardly, she swore a blue streak. Andy had gotten into a fight with a counselor in training. There was no way they’d let him back into the sports camp, which meant she was going to have to find something for him to do all day for the rest of the summer. She didn’t even want to think about the potential legal implications.

  “Jon, did Madison get hurt?”

  “No, I don’t think so. She’s really big—she plays basketball for Brush High School. Dante Jackson’s sister goes to school with her and he said Madison’s six feet tall.”

  While this fact didn’t excuse Andy’s actions, it made the situation appear a tiny bit less dire. Knowing she’d have no time to make dinner that night, she ordered a pizza (vowing to make an extra-healthy dinner the next night) and knocked on Andy’s door.

  Clearly, he was expecting the knock, because he said, “Hi, Mom” through the closed door. Sullen though it was, Brenda took that as an all-clear to enter. Andy had a bruise on his right cheek that threatened to turn into a genuine shiner, a scraped elbow, and some miscellaneous tiny scrapes and bruises here and there. Although he claimed to have iced it when he got home, Brenda put an ice pack on his eye and hydrogen peroxide on his elbow, but wasn’t sure what would heal his pride. Once she had played medic, it was time to talk. The pizza hadn’t arrived yet—Jon was stationed by the front door to wait for it—and she sat Andy down at the kitchen table.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?” she asked.

  “Not really,” Andy replied, avoiding her gaze.

  “I’d like to get your side of the story.”

  “Madison wouldn’t leave me alone.” Brenda nodded to keep him talking. “All day long she kept going on about you and that stupid video on the news and ESPN and the petition and she wouldn’t shut up. Then she asked if she could come over and meet you. I mean, that’s like an invasion of privacy, right?”

  “I don’t know.” She paused. All she wanted to do was cuddle her son (even though he would refuse to be cuddled) and tell him that she was sorry for doing anything to hurt him and sorry that his father wasn’t here and that she felt horrible seeing him in pain. But all she could say was: “Did you hit her first?”

  Andy took a deep breath, and Brenda could see the beginning of a tear welling up in his unbruised eye. “Yeah. I know you’re not supposed to hit a girl . . .”

  “I’d be just as angry if you had gotten into a fight with another boy. You hit another human being, Andy. Fighting is . . . it’s not the way people should treat each other. No matter how angry someone is making you, violence isn’t the answer.” She tried not to feel hypocritical when she said this. After all, she took out her anger on baseballs.

  “I know,” he replied with a sigh that was hard to decipher. Her older son had become such a mystery to her, it was mind boggling.

  “Do you want to talk to your dad about this?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Okay. I won’t tell him either. You and I will figure out your punishment later.” Brenda got up to get some plates and glasses out of the cupboard for dinner. “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”

  For a moment there was only the sound of Brenda placing three plates on the table. Then Andy asked: “Why are you playing baseball?”

  “Because it’s . . . fun,” Brenda said.

  “You don’t act like you’re having fun.”

  “I just came home to find out that my son got in a fight with a counselor in training—I’m allowed to be a little peeved.”

  “I’m sorry,” Andy said.

  “I am too, sweetie. I never thought that my playing baseball would affect you. I just thought it would be something interesting to do. If it really bothers you, I won’t play anymore.”

  “That’s okay. If you like it, you should do it,” Andy said, and for a moment he looked like a little adult sitting in the kitchen, reversing the parent and child roles just as she sometimes did with Adele. Then came Jon’s voice ringing in from the living room, shouting that the pizza had arrived.

  Later that night, Brenda sat down to get the messages off the answering machine. Since the
news report and SignBrenda.com, she occasionally got irate messages from strangers (almost always male) telling her that she had no business trying to play major league baseball, as though she was campaigning to play.

  Of the eleven messages on the machine, one was, predictably, from the sports camp asking her to meet with the director in the morning when Andy arrived (she prayed they’d let him return with promises of good behavior). One was from Robin. One was from Adele. One was from Carl asking if they could drive together on Thursday because he was having car problems. Five were from strangers telling her they had signed the online petition, which was kind but made her feel at a loss for how to respond. Two had actually left their phone numbers, as though expecting Brenda to call them back. She erased them all. One was from an irate man who said that she had terrible delivery, had obviously rigged the radar gun, should stay away from the pitcher’s mound, and that he would cancel his season tickets to the Indians if they signed her. His voice was high pitched and slightly wheezy, as though he were speaking through a leaky bellows instead of a telephone, and it sounded as if he’d had a few drinks before calling.

  She thought both boys were in bed, but when she had had enough and hit the “delete” button on the machine to erase the message, she heard Andy’s voice behind her. “That guy sounds like a real asshole,” he said.

  “Andy, what are you still doing up?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. Who was that guy?”

  “Just somebody who found our number and decided that he had nothing better to do than call up a stranger and insult her,” Brenda said.

  “So he really is an asshole.”

  “Andy, please try to watch your language.”

  “Just calling them like I see them,” he said with a self-consciously casual sigh and plopped down on the sofa.

  “Back in bed, please. And tomorrow morning, I’m driving you and Jon to camp. You and I have a meeting with the director first thing.”

  Andy’s determinedly impassive face suddenly looked worried. “We do? Is that because of the fight?”

  “Yes.” She was tempted to say more—to tell him to please stay out of fights, to learn to control his temper, to not let his anger get the best of him, to look appropriately penitent and apologetic when they met with the camp director—in short, to give him another mom lecture, but she restrained herself. Instead, she hit the play button to listen to the last message.

  She heard a voice so smooth it sounded as though it could pick the lock to your front door with nothing but its pleasant timber saying that the speaker was a sports agent named David Samuels who wanted to discuss possible representation.

  “Representation for what?” Andy asked.

  “Me,” Brenda replied, more than slightly amazed. “It sounds like he wants to be my agent.”

  Andy snorted a laugh. ”You don’t need an agent. That’s only for people who play baseball professionally, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, not you.”

  “No, not me,” Brenda said. And she left it at that, ignoring the little voice in the back of her head that whispered on and on about possibilities and potential and why not her.

  She and Andy managed to get through the meeting with the director of the sports camp relatively unscathed. Madison’s parents agreed not to file any charges as long as Andy was switched out of her group. Andy was allowed to remain at the camp for the remainder of the summer on a probationary basis—if he was involved in any other altercation, he’d be out. The director also reminded Brenda that the next installment for the boys’ tuition at the camp was two days overdue. She had no choice but to write a check on the spot, feeling as she did so that the minute she tore it out of the checkbook, it would bounce out of her hands and out the window, never to be seen again

  “Would it be too much to ask for you to wait until Friday before bringing this to the bank?” she asked cautiously. “I hate to ask after how kind you’ve been in letting Andy stay. It’s just that payday isn’t until Friday and . . .” she let her voice trail off, embarrassed to have to admit to this man that she didn’t have enough money to pay what was owed and to have to say this in front of her son.

  The director gave her a begrudging “I’ll see what I can do,” and that was it. Andy was still in the camp for the summer, and Brenda felt like she had just bought her son another six months of therapy once he was an adult. At least her childcare issue was settled. As she said good-bye to Andy and watched him jog off to join his group, the word “childcare” seemed highly inappropriate. She knew he wasn’t a child anymore. But the thought of a burgeoning adolescent on his own all day every day for the rest of the summer was as worrisome as hoping the check wouldn’t bounce.

  That night was Little League night for both boys. Brenda was fortunate that their games fell on the same night and were close by. Jon played at Quarry Park in their city, while Andy’s team played across the street at Denison Park in neighboring Cleveland Heights. It was just a question of going back and forth between the two. She generally dropped Jon off first, then Andy, and walked across the street and through the park to watch Jon’s game, since the younger kids played shorter games. Afterward, she and Jon walked back through the park and across the street to watch the last innings of Andy’s game.

  Jon wasn’t exactly struggling in his new league, but Brenda could see that he was still a little intimidated by the older, bigger kids and by the opposing pitchers. He was facing kids who could afford to be meaner and throw harder than any parent. The nine-to-eleven league still had some female players—a handful of sturdy little souls who never caught soccer madness like their friends and hadn’t yet lost the confidence to go after a bouncing grounder on the run or face a boy pitcher who still thought girls had cooties. There was actually a girl on Jon’s team and two on the team he was playing. Just about every team had its token girl. In Andy’s entire twelve-to-fourteen league, there were only two girls. That was all.

  Brenda had never really wondered if those girls would have a chance to keep playing baseball when they got older. For now, they were just other children playing a game with her children. Then one of the girls came up to her near the end of Andy’s game. She was about thirteen, with long, dark brown hair in a single braid going straight down her back. Andy’s team had played hers the week before, and the girl had jumped like a pixie at second base, stopping everything that came her way. She was tanned and angular with a bright smile. If Brenda had had a daughter, she would have wanted her to have this confidence and strength.

  “Excuse me,” the girl said as she walked up to where Brenda was waiting for Andy just beyond the bleachers. The girl was in her uniform—their game must have just ended over on the other diamond. “You’re Brenda Haversham, right?”

  Brenda tried not to look too apprehensive or surprised. “Yes, I am.”

  “My name’s Emma. I play baseball too. I just wanted to tell you that I signed your petition and watched your video on YouTube about a gazillion times. And my mom watched it too, and now she doesn’t ask me if I want to switch to softball anymore.” The girl smiled. “Softball is boring.”

  “Thank you. And I’m glad to hear your mom is supporting your baseball career.” It was one thing to have her mom or friends say ‘You’ll be a role model,’ it was overwhelming to realize that she actually was one.

  The girl nodded, still smiling broadly. “I hope the Indians sign you.”

  Brenda wasn’t sure what to say to this. It would be rude to say that she didn’t really want to be signed by the Indians and that the petition wasn’t her idea and that it wouldn’t do any good anyway because no major league baseball team was going to sign a woman. “Well,” she said, “it won’t be the end of the world if they don’t. We play because we like it, right?”

  “Yep! Baseball’s the best game ever.”

  Brenda thanked the girl again, then Andy and Jon came over and she
made a graceful exit. She tried to ignore the extra attention people had started to pay her, just as she tried to ignore the curious bystanders who continued to come to Lightning games to see her pitch. She also tried to ignore the phone calls from David Samuels, the smooth-voiced agent who had called her every day at varying times, obviously trying to catch her in person. Brenda listened to the messages and promptly erased them. She didn’t think about him again until Thursday night after the Lightning game.

  Brenda went in for the last two innings, struck out three, and allowed no runs, no hits, and no walks. She had a great game and kind of wished the boys or Adele and Robin and Dan had been there to see it. The number of curious and incredulous people in the bleachers had been growing throughout the summer. There were even more this week, no doubt thanks to Charlie Bannister’s show. In addition to friends and family of the team, tonight there were three couples—two who looked retired and one in their twenties—a trio of men who looked like young retirees and who refused to be impressed by anything Brenda did, a group of six older women who made sure to cheer after nearly every pitch Brenda threw, and a lone man who looked to be in his early fifties. Brenda thought he might be a friend of someone on the opposing team, so she was surprised when, at the end of the game, he started strolling alongside her as she headed toward the parking lot.

  “At last I get to speak with the elusive Brenda Haversham,” the man said. There was no mistaking the silky voice, which sounded as though it was going to pick you up and tuck you into bed.

  “Mr. Samuels?” she asked.

  “In person.”

  She briefly appraised him. He had closely cropped curly hair that was so dark it looked almost blue in the fading light. His creased jeans (who still had creased jeans?) and linen shirt made it clear that his casual outfit cost more than Brenda’s best suit. “I’m not that elusive,” Brenda said. “You didn’t seem to have any trouble finding my telephone number or finding me.”