•◊•
Excerpt from the transcript for Today in Sports with Charlie Bannister, ESPN, July 16:
Charlie: There’s nothing like the other side of the All-Star break to make teams start taking things seriously. In the AL Central, Detroit is still holding on to first place, but Chicago is knocking on the door. The Tigers were sitting pretty at the top of the division until they dropped two of three to the White Sox before the break, and now the White Sox are only a game and a half behind. At the other end of the division, the Royals continue their never-ending pursuit of mediocrity, losing two of three to the Orioles and then losing two of three to the Mariners. The only thing between them and last place is Cleveland.
Chapter Eight
•◊•
Once she saw Ed’s face in the catcher’s mitt and the tunnel of golden lines that led from her hand to the mitt, all Brenda had to do was focus on throwing the ball as hard and true as she could. There was no batter and no umpire, nothing to make her stop, nothing to pause the rhythm of focus, wind-up, throw, watch, catch, repeat. She had lost count of how many pitches she had thrown when she heard Munson’s voice as though coming from off in the distance, telling her that was great, they had seen enough.
She stopped, then stood on the mound for a moment, wondering what she ought to do next. She felt like she had just woken up from a deep sleep in the middle of a crowded airplane. David called her over to the baseline. She saw David look to the coach and manager on his right, who were exchanging a few quiet words, and to the front office brass on his left, who were having a slightly more animated conversation, and then back to her. The look on his face brought the phrase “shit-eating grin” to mind, and she knew they liked what they had seen.
Her hand was trembling and her arm felt weightless as she again shook hands with the front office guys and then with her new manager and coach. It seemed that there had to be a catch, a punchline somewhere, but there wasn’t. David and the team from Stratagem needed to iron out the details, but the major hurdle had been passed. Somehow, improbably, she was a professional baseball player.
It wasn’t until after she had left the ballpark, left David, and started on her way home that the magnitude of what had just happened really hit her. She was driving along the Shoreway, with Lake Erie in all its summer glory on her left, when her heart began to pound all over again. Even though she had tried to be mindful and remember every moment, it was already blurring in her memory—who said what to her, what pitch she had thrown first. She pulled off the Shoreway and onto the marginal road. Gordon Park was just coming up on the right. It was an older city park that was now too close to a “bad” neighborhood to be popular. Nonetheless, Brenda pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car. There was a short grassy incline that led to a small playground, softball and baseball diamonds, and an open flag football/soccer field. She started to walk toward the grass then sprinted, just because she could. Out of breath, she reached her arms up and out and spun around a few times, looking at the perfect blue sky above. And then she screamed “Yeeeeeesss!” as loudly as she could.
Finally, whatever internal fire inside that made her want to shout and spin and burst seemed to ease. She slowed down, stopped screaming, and just stood there in the middle of the park, trying to catch her breath.
“What the hell have I gotten myself into?” she said.
•◊•
Telling the boys that their mother had signed a professional baseball contract was more difficult than she might have imagined. Although she was generally a rip-off-the-Band-Aid-fast kind of person, she felt it might be better to ease into this conversation. She had already invited Adele over for dinner that night as a thank-you for taking care of the boys every Thursday evening and waited until all four of them were seated and eating before she casually said, “I got a new job today.”
“You did?” Jon asked.
“I didn’t even know you were looking,” Adele said.
“Did you get fired from your old job?” Andy asked.
“No, I didn’t get fired,” she replied. “I just found a much better job—one that pays tons more than what I’m making now.” David had told her that the Indians would probably offer her a low salary (although low in his mind was exorbitant in hers), with hefty performance incentives. “You’re an inexpensive risk,” he said, as if Brenda needed a reminder that most people expected her to crash and burn.
“How much more?” Andy asked.
“About fifteen times what I’m making now.”
Adele gasped and dropped her fork.
“Where are you going to work?” Andy asked. It was clear he knew something big was going on. It was equally clear from Jon’s expression that he had no clue how much she earned.
Brenda took a deep breath. This was as nerve-wracking as the tryout. “I’m going to play baseball.”
Jon jumped up and started screaming “Oh my gosh! That is so cool!” over and over.
“I knew it. I knew it!” Adele exclaimed, standing up and coming over to Brenda’s side of the table. “That’s wonderful.” Brenda found herself in a group hug with Adele and Jon, who was still trying to jump up and down. Andy sat at his place.
“You’re kidding, right?” he said.
“No, I’m not kidding. I had the tryout today. They signed me to a one-year contract. I’m going to start out in the minor leagues. I need to strengthen my arm and learn the ropes.”
“And then what?” Andy asked.
“It depends on how I do.”
“You will do beautifully,” Adele said.
“Then are you going to play for the Indians?” Jon asked. He was nearly leaping out of his skin with excitement.
“I don’t know.”
“You can’t. It’s illegal,” Andy said. “Women don’t play professional baseball.”
Adele gave him The Look, which was one step above The Finger Wag. “Your mother does.”
“Can I be excused, please?” Andy asked. He stood up, pushing his chair so hard that it fell over.
“Yes. Just pick up your chair, please, and you can be excused,” Brenda replied. Without a word, Andy righted the chair and left the room. Jon was still jumping up and down and pumping his fists, yelling, “That is so cool!” Adele gave her a questioning look but Brenda only shrugged. She was in no mood to try and deal with Andy’s anger at that moment. With that, Adele turned and started jumping up and down with Jon. Brenda began clearing the table. She told herself she’d talk to Andy later, after he had cooled off.
Her contract was contingent upon the results of a physical, which was scheduled for Wednesday. A major press conference was scheduled for Friday, and she was due to report to the Class A Lake County Captains on Saturday. Everything had seemed theoretical before, but now she had to find someone to take care of the boys during road trips and answer questions from anyone who cared to ask, and actually go out and play baseball. And before she could do any of that, she had to quit her job.
Brenda considered calling in sick again or quitting over the phone or just not showing up and mailing in a resignation letter, but she didn’t want to take the coward’s way out. She resolved to go into work, speak with Tony, the president of the company, and highly scented Frank, the vice president, first thing in the morning. She’d just tell them she was quitting and taking another job. That was all she owed them—they’d find out the truth soon enough anyway.
She tried to slip into work early the next day, but she had barely turned on her computer when Derek popped into her cubicle and asked her how she was feeling.
“Great,” Brenda replied without looking up. She was sitting at her desk, debating whether it was worth it to bring home a cheap silver Christmas ornament that Rachel two cubes over had hung in her cubicle last December. Brenda had inadvertently mentioned that it would be the first Christmas without Ed in the house, and Rachel had left the
ornament with a little note reading, “This is a new and improved Christmas ornament to decorate your new and improved life.” The note had been lost in the black hole that seemed to exist in the back corner of the cubicle where the power cords lurked, but the Christmas ornament remained. It was amazing how cluttered her cube had become in less than a year of working there.
“So you’re feeling better?” Derek asked.
“What? Oh, yes, yes, I am,” Brenda said.
“Oh, I was just wondering . . .” He let his voice trail off provocatively.
Brenda turned to face him. “What’s up?”
“Do you ever read MajorLeagueRumors.com?
“No.”
“Oh, well you should,” and here Derek could no longer mask a smile. “So when are you quitting?”
“What?” She spun around and quickly opened her web browser. “What’s the name of the site again?”
“MajorLeagueRumors.com,” Derek said calmly. “Do a team search if it’s not on the front page anymore.” It was. Just a small item in a list of related baseball rumors: “The Cleveland Indians have reportedly offered a minor league contract to unsigned amateur pitcher Brenda Haversham, tweets Charlie Bannister of ESPN.”
Brenda was incredulous. “How the hell did he find that out?” she said.
“So it’s true? Oh my God!” Derek lowered his voice, “That’s amazing.”
Brenda glanced at her watch. It was ten after nine. Tony and Frank would both be in their offices by 9:30. She could talk to them, pack up her things, say her good-byes, and be out of there in an hour if she played her cards right. Even sooner if she didn’t have to go around and give the whole spiel twenty different times to twenty different people. And why do that when she had Paul Revere crouched down in her cubicle? “Yes, it’s true, but please don’t tell anyone until I talk to Tony and Frank. I have to give them my notice.”
“Wow, congratulations. Dreams really do come true,” Derek said.
“I guess so, but I never really dreamt of playing professional baseball before this summer.”
“Never?”
For a second, Brenda had an image of her father standing in front of her, holding a beat-up catcher’s mitt, an ancient catcher’s mask on the top of his head. “If you can just make the four-seam fastball fly as it wants to fly, you could be . . . anything,” he’d said to her.
Brenda had been about ten at the time and answered, “Anything? Even a baseball player?”
“Yes, a baseball player,” her father had replied. “If you want. Or an artist or an engineer or a circus clown or something else. But first you must loosen your grip. If you hold on too hard, it won’t do what you want it to do. Gentle.”
Brenda blinked and suddenly remembered that Derek was standing in her cubicle. “Well, yeah there was a brief time when I was a kid that I thought I wanted to be the first woman in the major leagues. But that only lasted about ten minutes.”
“You’re going to do it. I know you are,” Derek said. His words were echoed by all of her co-workers as she gave her notice and said her good-byes. Former co-workers, she had to remind herself. The encouragement was humbling. How strange to have so many people rooting for her. Leave for any other new job and you’ll get a slew of clichéd wishes for good luck. But play baseball, and it’s as though you’ve taken a job walking on water. It was all she could do to say “thank you” to people, trade phone numbers, and get out of the building.
When she got home, Brenda carried the copy-paper box that contained all of the photos, drawings, knick-knacks, coffee mugs, and other detritus of her short-lived stint at the insurance company downstairs to the rec room. Most of it was office-related, so it seemed better suited down there, near the computer, than in her bedroom. And she wanted to investigate Twitter. While the page was loading, she called Robin.
“Hi, can you talk?” she asked.
“I have to leave for a client meeting in about twenty minutes, but I always have time for you,” Robin replied.
“New client? Old client?”
“Newish—one of the big law firms downtown. They want to do a one-day art therapy workshop to help their new associates find meaningful, productive ways to deal with the demands of the job.”
“They want them to replace booze with art?”
“Something like that. Anyhow, what’s up?”
“Um, are you on Twitter?”
“Yeah, although I don’t tweet too often.”
“Well, you’re one up on me.”
“A Luddite is one up on you.”
“I’m not a Luddite,” Brenda protested.
“You refuse to even text.”
“It’s a phone. I use it to call people.”
“Someday we’ll bring you over to the dark side. So what’s up?”
Brenda told her about the Charlie Bannister tweet and resulting rumor. “Can I send him a message about this?”
“Yeah, Twitter has a direct message function, but you can only message someone who’s following you. But how the hell did he find out about your tryout and the contract? There weren’t any media there, were there?”
“No, just people from the Indians.”
“What about your agent? He sounds like the kind of guy to leak information. You know, to create a buzz?”
Brenda paused. She hadn’t thought about David. He was her agent, so presumably he was on her side. But he was also in the business of selling. “You may be right. I’ll talk to him, but I’m still going to email Charlie Bannister.” Somehow she had the feeling that Charlie Bannister would give her a straight answer. She hung up with Robin and set up a Twitter account (@BrendaHav). The first person she followed was Charlie Bannister (@CABannister). Out of curiosity, she Googled her name and was surprised to see a ton of hits, mainly linking to baseball blogs and other sports sites. Some referenced the YouTube videos, while most merely quoted MajorLeagueRumors. Brenda chose one of the links at random, which took her to an Indians fan blog called Wahoo Warriors. Someone calling himself “Jason” had written a long diatribe on why no team should offer a contract to a woman. It relied on the most simplistic of logic, saying: “It’s traditional not to have female ballplayers, and baseball is all about tradition.” There were fifteen comments—twelve supporting the author and three saying, “Why not give her a chance?”
Even though the original post was poorly written, seeing herself being written about by random strangers made her stomach lurch. She went back to Twitter and was surprised to see a notification that @CABannister was now following her. She sent him a direct message. It took a few tries, because she kept using too many characters. Instead of being polite, she was forced to be blunt: “Not to be rude, but who told you I had a contract with the Indians?”
His reply was quick and to the point: “Being direct is never rude. Was the info wrong? If so, I’ll redact.”
“Way to throw the ball back in my court, Charlie,” Brenda muttered. She wasn’t sure how to respond. It was weird to be sitting there in her basement, sending messages to a guy she had seen on television dozens of times. Somehow that made him seem like less of a stranger. She replied: “Thanks, but still wondering about your source.”
She received an immediate reply back: “Don’t you know a journalist never reveals his sources?” Followed by: “What would have happened if Bernstein & Woodward had revealed their sources?”
Brenda couldn’t help but smile a bit at that. “We wouldn’t have had to wait thirty years to find out who Deep Throat was,” she wrote back.
“Your agent leaked it. They do stuff like that all the time. Comes w/ the territory,” Charlie wrote back.
“Thank you,” she wrote and logged off.
•◊•
Excerpt from the transcript for Today in Sports with Charlie Bannister, ESPN, July 17:
Charlie: Ladies and gentlemen of the vi
ewing audience, history was made this week. Real life textbook history, not just some funky statistical anomaly. For the first time ever, a major league baseball team has signed a contract with a female player. For those of you who’ve spent the last few days under a rock and don’t know—the Cleveland Indians held a secret tryout with amateur pitching phenom Brenda Haversham during the All-Star break. She has been signed to a one-year contract and is scheduled to join the Class A Lake County Captains this weekend. A handful of women—and I’m talking a baby-sized hand, here—a handful of women have played at the minor league level for unaffiliated minor league teams. This is the first time a major league team has signed a woman. I don’t know about you, but I think that’s pretty cool.
Chapter Nine
•◊•
Are they going to give you a shot at your physical?” Jon asked.
“I don’t think so, no,” Brenda replied as she got two cereal bowls out of the cupboard.
“How come you have to get a physical in the first place?”
“They want to make sure Mom’s not going to fall apart or tear a ligament or something,” Andy said. Brenda heard the silent “idiot” at the end of this statement, but didn’t say anything. It was so rare for Andy to give anything more than a one-word response that she was just happy to have him join the conversation.
“What’s a ligament?” Jon asked.
“They’re like rubber bands that hold your bones together. And sometimes if you move the wrong way they SNAP!” Andy’s delivery had the desired effect; Jon was startled enough to spill the milk he was pouring on his cereal all over the table. Brenda grabbed a dishrag.
“Thank you for that enlightening explanation, Andy,” Brenda said as she wiped up the milk. “Now both of you need to eat and get out of here or you’ll be late.”
Once lunches were made and the boys were on their way to camp, Brenda drove to the ballpark for what she was told would be an extensive physical exam. She pulled up to the gate of the Players’ Lot and rolled down the window to speak to the security guard at the gate.
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