Andy didn’t say anything in the parking lot, just put his bike in the back of the minivan when Brenda told him to and sullenly climbed into the passenger seat.
Brenda tried to think what Andy Griffith might do in a situation like this. She remembered watching The Andy Griffith Show as a child and thinking that he was the best father she had ever seen, far kinder and more understanding than her first-generation Slovak father, who rarely spoke and died before she was an adult. Andy Griffith would probably have taken Opie out for ice cream and had a long talk about right and wrong and all would have been well. But Mayberry was a long way away from South Euclid, Ohio. In the end, she brought Andy home and tried to talk to him about why he had stolen the baseball cards.
Andy sat on the sofa, sinking in among the pillows. His dark blond hair was almost the same hue as the sage green of the sofa, and there was something about this pairing of colors and the distractedly melancholy way Andy looked half at her and half at the ceiling that reminded Brenda of an Edward Hopper painting. She sat down on the other end of the sofa and didn’t say anything for a moment, wondering if perhaps Andy would offer some explanation. Her silence clearly got to him, because he blurted out, “Look, I know you’re not supposed to steal. I just wanted to see if I could do it. I won’t do it again.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you won’t do it again, but that doesn’t explain why you did it this time.”
“I told you, I just wanted to see if I could do it.”
Brenda took a deep breath, trying to stay centered and not lose her temper. “And now you know—you’re not a thief.”
Andy rolled his eyes. “No, I’m not a thief. Can I go now?”
“Not yet. I’m willing to look at this as a one-time mistake, but it doesn’t excuse what you did. And we still haven’t talked about your punishment for shoplifting.” It took everything she had to speak the word “shoplifting.” It sounded too much like what one would charge a juvenile delinquent with—not her son.
“I have my punishment. I can’t go back to the CVS,” Andy said indignantly, as though that was enough.
“That’s the store’s punishment,” Brenda said. “This is mine.” Truly, she had no idea what type of punishment could possibly convey to Andy how severe this was. She didn’t believe in corporal punishment and had never spanked the boys. But shoplifting . . . “Give me your mp3 player,” Brenda said.
“What? No!” Andy said. “No way.”
“Way. Hand it over. One week.”
Andy glared at her outstretched hand. “Mom, this isn’t fair,” he said.
“What isn’t fair? That I’m taking away the most precious item in your life as punishment for stealing? I think that’s perfectly fair.”
Andy reached into his pocket and pulled out the mp3 player. The ear buds were, as always, around his neck. He took them off and grudgingly placed the mp3 player into Brenda’s hand.
“I’ve told you not to listen to music while you’re riding your bicycle,” she said. “It’s incredibly dangerous.”
“One week starting now?”
“Yes, now.” She glanced at the clock on the DVD player. “You can have it back at 3:34 p.m. next Saturday.”
Andy slinked off to his room, still muttering that this whole thing was totally unfair. Brenda tried to convince herself that it was just a one-time mistake, that he was angry and confused and acting out. She didn’t know if it was easier to worry about Andy and not think about the tryout or to think about the tryout and not worry about Andy. She ended up doing both.
Jon came home from his day with Ed tired and cranky but full of the news that his father had taken him to see the Lake County Captains, a minor league team that played a short drive away. Despite having said that he was sick of baseball, Andy was furious that he had missed the game, a fact that Jon lorded over him for the rest of the weekend.
Keeping with the old adage of not saying anything if you can’t say anything nice, Brenda said “Hello” to Ed when he brought Jon home and “Good-bye” when he left and that was about it. She didn’t have the energy to tell Ed about the shoplifting. It happened, Andy had his punishment, time to move on.
She also didn’t tell Andy and Jon about the tryout. On Monday morning, she sent them off to camp and acted as though it was any other day. She didn’t have any personal days left at work and wasn’t about to tell her boss that she needed the day off in order to try out with the Cleveland Indians, so she called in sick. Then she was so nervous that she threw up in the downstairs bathroom, so it wasn’t as though she had been completely dishonest about being sick
She met David at the Stratagem offices at ten, and he drove them to Progressive Field. Brenda kept wanting to call it by its former name, Jacob’s Field. “New sponsor, new name,” she reminded herself, and wondered if the front office was progressive enough to sign her. Driving south on East Ninth Street, Brenda watched the white steel-beamed lights of the ballpark grow larger as they drew closer. Even though she had grown up going to the cavernous old Cleveland Stadium, it was hard to feel nostalgic for that behemoth when the graceful lines of the new ballpark were so visually appealing. It felt like an old-time ballpark, although Brenda was sure that the stadium lights’ resemblance to huge white toothbrushes standing at attention around the perimeter of the ballpark was a case of unintended whimsy. Even from a block away, she could see the huge banners featuring black and white photographs of the players displayed along the top edge of the stadium.
David caught her staring. “In a few weeks, there’s going to be a banner up there with your picture on it.”
“We’ll see,” she replied.
“Brenda, they wouldn’t be giving you a tryout if they weren’t ready to sign you.”
“Do you think so?” She was genuinely surprised. A large part of her—the cynical, jaded part—figured this tryout was just to satiate the public. Then the Indians could say: “See? We gave her a tryout and she wasn’t good enough. Now take down that stupid website.”
“You do know that no woman has ever played in the majors or even for an affiliated minor league team.”
“Of course,” she replied, trying to sound as though this was something she had known for a long time instead of something she had only researched online the day before.
“They wouldn’t jump through the huge number of hoops they’re being forced through if they didn’t want you.” Gary’s voice moved out of its familiar seductive purr into a tone that seemed almost businesslike. “I’ll be honest—I’m fairly certain their motivation is almost entirely financial. Yes, they want to win ballgames, but they also need to sell tickets. Ford Frick banned women from baseball in 1952 because he didn’t want teams signing women as a publicity stunt. You can see all the hype around you already, and you haven’t even had a tryout. If they sign you—and unless you completely choke, I’m pretty sure they will or they wouldn’t be wading through all the crap Major League Baseball is throwing at them—I have no idea if they’ll ever put you in a major league game. I’m fairly confident we’ll get you into a few minor league games, then you’ll either sink or swim. Either way, you’ll get a contract and endorsements and they’ll sell a boatload of tickets and merchandise, and that’s their bottom line.”
“Tell me again why I’m doing this?”
Gary smoothly turned his BMW onto Carnegie Avenue and made a quick right into a curved driveway that led to a fenced-in parking lot. “Brenda,” he murmured gently. “You’re doing this to make a buck, just like everybody else in the world.”
In all the times Brenda had driven past the field, she hadn’t really noticed this little parking lot perched almost directly on the corner but hidden from the street by trees and landscaping. David told her it was the players’ lot and to get used to parking there. When he said this, her stomach jumped. The beams of the stadium were almost directly overhead, and Brenda found herself momentarily wo
ozy when she stopped and craned her neck to look all the way to the top.
“Quit gawking. You’re on,” David murmured and motioned to the steel door where a security guard was waiting. Standing next to the guard was a trim, athletic-looking woman perhaps a few years younger than Brenda who appeared as though she could toss back a few drinks with the guys, bench press her own body weight, and still find the energy to steal your boyfriend.
She smiled at them as they crossed the parking lot to her. “Hi, I’m Sheri Donohue, Director of Baseball Administration for the Indians,” she said when they reached her, giving Brenda a firm handshake. “I’m really pleased to meet you.”
Brenda wasn’t sure what the job description for Director of Baseball Administration entailed, but having memorized the names of the Indians’ front office from the team website, she knew that Donohue was the highest-ranking female in the front office. It figured that they’d send the only woman out to meet her.
David and Brenda introduced themselves and allowed Sheri to lead them down a narrow, cinder-block stairway and into a wide, well-lit tunnel in the bowels of the building. The pipes and ducts that fed the ballpark were visible high above them. The cavernous hallway was wide enough to accommodate eight or ten people walking in a row. Brenda carried her small duffel bag with a pair of baseball pants (a splurge that she found on sale at the sporting goods store), a T-shirt, cleats, and her glove. She had gone back and forth that morning about what to wear. David had told her to look professional and respectable, so she wore the navy pantsuit that she had worn to job interviews the previous fall. It seemed neutral.
“We’re all very excited to have you try out,” Sheri said as she led Brenda and David down the tunnel. Brenda murmured a polite “thank you” and let David make his smooth brand of small talk as they walked. “We’re going to do quick introductions, then have you throw. After that, we’ll go upstairs for some lunch, and you can talk more at length with some of the front office brass,” Sheri said. “You can use the visiting manager’s locker room to change. With the All-Star break, it’s pretty quiet around here right now.”
“Great,” Brenda said. “Thank you.” The reality of what she was about to do was growing exponentially. She was actually walking through Progressive Field about to have a tryout with the Cleveland Indians. She had always thought it was lack of strength or training or experience that kept women out of the major leagues—not an out-and-out ban. This changed things. It was one thing to be kept out of the club because you weren’t good enough. It was entirely another thing to be forbidden even to try simply because you were female. This thought helped to counter the nervous energy that was making her limbs tremble.
As they walked, she saw a couple of forklifts loaded with palettes of stadium food parked near a set of double doors marked “Media Room.” A bit farther on, they stopped in front of a set of double doors marked “Visitors’ Clubhouse.” Brenda couldn’t help but notice the large white sign on the deep blue door stating that only male family members and credentialed journalists were permitted.
Sheri didn’t mention anything about the sign. She just passed her keycard in front of the sensor mounted to the left of the door and then unlocked it. Sheri opened one of the double doors and led them into a wide hallway that ended in a concrete stairway. It was clean but utilitarian, painted white with a lone beige stripe along the top portion of the wall standing in for design. Brenda figured it probably didn’t do much for the visiting team’s psyche to have such a boring color scheme.
Sherri showed Brenda to a door immediately to their right. A small outer office held a sofa, desk, and chair. A secondary room held a sink, toilet, shower, and a cubbyhole-like locker with a couple shelves, a rod with a few empty hangers, and a small cupboard at the top. Brenda had to admit that it was kind of cozy. Sheri made sure she was settled and then left her alone. David waited in the hallway, no doubt charming Shari to see if she would give any information regarding the front office’s preliminary thoughts.
Brenda stood in the locker room, just breathing, trying to steady her nerves. She realized she was perhaps the first female ever to remove her clothes in that room (unless some visiting manager had ever hired a stripper or snuck in a groupie). Brenda tried not to waste time, but quickly changed her clothes and made a last emergency pee break. As she washed her hands, she got a good look at herself in the mirror above the sink.
While the new black baseball pants were better than the old sweatpants she had been wearing, she didn’t cut a very imposing figure. She had actually lost a few pounds that summer—probably due to her inability to eat much of anything on game days—but she was still just a housewife with a size six top, a size twelve bottom, and a lousy attitude.
“This is it,” she murmured to her reflection. She thought that the moment should give her a lift of some sort, some kind of Rocky-like momentum that would carry her out to the field, but all she got was the same reflection she saw every day. There was nothing to do but go outside.
Sheri led her and David down two short flights of stairs. Brenda wondered how many stars, everyday players, and cups of coffee had clomped down the same steps. “We’ll go out through the visitors’ dugout,” Shari said as they entered a dark, somewhat dank concrete room that clearly functioned only as an unimportant place between two important places. Brenda saw the door to a bathroom off to the left. In front of her were three concrete steps, painted dark green. Sheri led the way up the steps. Brenda hesitated, so David followed.
“Let’s not keep them waiting, Brenda,” he said over his shoulder.
She climbed the steps, took a sharp left at the top, and found herself in the visitors’ dugout. It looked smaller and shorter than it did on television. There was the long bench and small cubbyholes set into the wall and a rack for bats. She turned to the right and saw the field and her heart skipped about six beats.
This was the lift she had been seeking. She couldn’t help it. After years of seeing Progressive Field—when it was under construction, watching the occasional ballgame on TV with Ed, and going there with the boys—she had wondered what it would be like to walk on the field. She had a flash of memory back to when she had helped paint sets for a play when she was in college. During a rehearsal, the set designer had asked her to walk out on stage to look at a set piece. The idea of walking on someone else’s stage seemed intrusive, like walking into the bathroom when someone is in the shower. She thought she’d have the same feeling when she walked out onto the red dirt of the infield and then onto the grass, but she didn’t. It felt natural, as though the baseball field had been waiting for her to arrive.
Sheri introduced her to the big brass. Mark Munson, the manager, was familiar. He had played for the Indians when Brenda was in college—he was probably only a few years older than she was. Munson had always reminded Brenda of a huge walking rectangle—big head, big shoulders, no discernible waist, and thick legs. He had been a first baseman and always provided a sizable target for the rest of the infield.
“Good to meet you,” he said as they shook hands. He seemed as straightforward and decent in person as he did in interviews.
The General Manager, Louis Adams, was familiar from the news. He was only a few inches taller than Brenda, and his barrel chest and broad shoulders actually made him seem smaller rather than bigger. He had an impish, mischievous quality that wasn’t apparent in photos or on television. When he shook Brenda’s hand, she felt like the most popular boy in fifth grade had just convinced her to play a prank on the teacher.
Jerry Chimelewski, the Director of Player Development, gave her an enthusiastic handshake, as though he was testing her grip. “It’s great to meet you,” he said. “I’m eager to see what you’ve got.”
Brenda almost said, “Me too,” but stopped herself. “Glad to be here,” she murmured. It was starting to feel like a mash-up of a job interview and a cocktail party. She was introduced to Earl Donald, the
pitching coach, and Roy Bridges, the bullpen catcher, who would be catching for her. Once they had made a few minutes of small talk, primarily around Brenda’s arm, how she was feeling, and whether she needed to stretch, there was nothing to do but get started.
Walking out to the pitcher’s mound was the longest sixty feet, six inches she had ever trod. She knew David was standing somewhere along the baseline with the front office brass, schmoozing them into a signatory mood, but she didn’t look at them. She tried not to look at the overwhelming size of the stadium, at forty-two thousand empty seats that seemed to be staring back at her in anticipation. It occurred to her that she really had to do this, that she really had to throw good, hard pitches on demand. Playing in the Roy Hobbs league was fun, but it never felt serious. Those games didn’t matter. Yes, it was fun if they won, but all they got were bragging rights over the other team. No one else cared if the Lightning won or lost. This . . . this was another planet.
For a moment, the thought of how much depended on this moment was overwhelming.
“Breathe . . . breathe . . .” she murmured to herself, trying to counter the pounding in her heart and the sudden feeling of numbness in her limbs. She allowed herself one quick glance at David and the front office brass. They were still chatting quietly, but all eyes were on her. What did they want from her? Was she a ballplayer or a way to sell tickets?
“I’m not a token,” she mumbled to herself as she kicked at the pitching rubber. “I’m not their publicity stunt.”
She stood on the mound and looked over her left shoulder to home plate. She knew it was Roy behind the plate holding her target, but she didn’t look at him. And she didn’t look at David or the front office brass, or Sheri—the token front office female. She just looked at the target, waiting for Ed’s face to appear in its pocket, just like it always did. It occurred to her that this was the only time she could ever count on Ed.
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