Brenda took a breath. “My name is Brenda Haversham. I’m here for my physical with Dr. Parker.”
“You’re Brenda Haversham?” the guard said. “Well, I’ll be. You know, I saw that video of you on Charlie Bannister’s show but it was hard to see your face in that. Welcome to the Cleveland Indians.”
“Thank you,” Brenda said, awkwardly reaching through the car window to shake his outstretched hand. “What is your name?”
“My name is James,” he said. “They told me to be on the lookout for you.” He was surprisingly soft-spoken, considering he was built like one of those burly, homerun-machine hitters that everybody loves. He pointed to the same door she had used when she came for the tryout. “Go through the main door and down the stairs. Mr. Chimelewski is waiting for you.”
Brenda thanked him, parked, and went in the door and down the steep concrete stairs to that led to the interior of the ballpark. A cheery Jerry Chimelewski was indeed waiting for her.
“Hey, Brenda. Good to see you,” he said. “Let me take you down to the exam room so Dr. Parker can see you, then Mark and I would like to meet with you to talk a bit about the organization’s hopes for you and your development.”
“That sounds great,” Brenda replied. Jerry led her past the media room, the visitors’ clubhouse, and various storage and stadium employee rooms until they reached the Indians’ clubhouse. The outside was non-descript—just a double set of blue-painted steel doors much like the ones leading to the visitors’ clubhouse. The same sign forbidding entry to any female who wasn’t credentialed media was on the door.
They walked into a more dynamic version of the hallway she had seen in the visitors’ clubhouse. The hall turned and curved off to the left and had the look of something long and labyrinthine. Doors marked “Equipment” and “Laundry” were on her immediate right (after years of schlepping around Andy and Jon’s equipment and washing their uniforms, these two rooms were a welcome sight). An exam room and a door marked “Training” were on the left. Jerry introduced her to the team physician, Dr. Parker, who was tall, thin, and reminded Brenda of David Byrne from the band Talking Heads. He seemed nice enough as he took a medical history, sent her into the restroom with a plastic cup for a urine sample, and then conducted the physical. It was far more extensive than any physical Brenda had had before. He had her walk and run on a treadmill (“We aren’t going to do a stress test but I do want to get a basic fitness assessment,” he said), the entire time checking her heart rate and blood pressure. He checked her grip and her range of motion. The entire time, Dr. Parker didn’t say much, just “Great, now I need you to . . .” When it was all over, Brenda couldn’t help but ask how she did.
“You’re in reasonably good shape,” he replied. “I’m going to recommend that they start you on a strength and conditioning program. But I’ve seen plenty of veterans show up for spring training in worse shape than you are,” he added with a smile.
Brenda wasn’t sure if this was supposed to make her feel better or not. Jerry had been hovering just inside the door to the exam room, and now he and Brenda walked down to the manager’s office. Munson’s office bore the mark of a man for whom the verb “decorating” meant hanging the obligatory poster bearing the Indians’ mission statement (something about “relentlessly pursuing excellence”), one wedding photo, and one photo of his three children. No frills, no waste.
“Hi, Brenda. Good to see you. How’d the exam go?” Mark asked.
“I think it went okay,” she replied and looked to Jerry for confirmation.
“Richard didn’t see anything troubling. He’s sending the results upstairs.”
This got a big smile and an enthusiastic “Great!” from Mark. He couldn’t always be this enthusiastic with every new signee. But Brenda already knew she was different.
Jerry started things off. “My job is to help each player in the organization develop into the best player he—or she—can be. I evaluate player performance and offer recommendations to Mark and the front office about players moving up through the system, and I also help guide players through some of the challenges that come along with a professional playing career, such as financial management and dealing with the media.” He glanced at Mark.
“I’m not gonna sugarcoat it,” Mark said. “You’re going to get a lot of crap thrown your way.” He seemed to hesitate just a nanosecond before saying “crap,” as though he thought it wasn’t okay to say “shit “ in front of her. “You can’t let it get to you. At least not publicly.”
“I ought to play some of the messages on my answering machine for you,” Brenda replied. “I’m getting used to it.”
“I hate to say it, but it’s just going to get worse. A lot of people don’t think you belong here, and they will be very vocal about saying so. I don’t care if it’s a fan or a member of the media or a member of the opposing team, you cannot answer back. You can’t get angry. That’s non-negotiable. If you ever need to let off some steam, talk to me. Talk to your best friend, talk to your dog.”
“You get the idea,” Jerry added.
Mark nodded and continued. “Look, I don’t know if any female players are going to come after you. But there might be a couple someday, which means you need to be the ideal player and ideal citizen on and off the field. Personally, I don’t care what you say or do as long as you deliver on the mound. And I think you have the potential to do so. But the ball club looks at you as an ambassador. If you want any woman to ever have the chance follow in your footsteps, you’re going to have to be perfect.”
“So no pressure or anything,” Brenda deadpanned.
Mark gave her a half smile. “No pressure.” He leaned back in his leather desk chair and paused. “You have kids, right?”
“Two boys. The older one will be thirteen in August, and the younger one is nine.”
Mark smiled. “Ah, a teenager. What joy. My daughter is twenty, and my boys are twenty-three and twenty-five.” Brenda glanced at the photo of his children on his desk. It had to be at least ten years old. “At the risk of repeating myself, it’ll get worse before it gets better,” he added.
“Which? The surly teenage attitude or the media storm that’s about to hit?”
He laughed. “Both. How are your boys handling all this?”
“The younger one thinks it’s the greatest thing since the Wii, and the older one is . . . embarrassed.”
“My son Aaron was twelve in my last year as a player. I’ll be honest, I had a lousy year—I should have retired the season before. Aaron was so embarrassed by my batting average that he actually refused to go to a game that year.”
“That’s terrible,” Brenda said, even as she could easily see Andy doing the same thing. Jerry just laughed, although Brenda couldn’t imagine that he hadn’t heard that story before.
“If you do well—and I believe you can—he’ll come around. So will most of the hecklers and the media and bloggers and your teammates. The only way to shut them up is by throwing like you did in your tryout.” He paused, just to let this sink in. He leaned forward in his chair and for the first time looked like a regular, concerned guy instead the baseball manager. “Look, this is kind of an experiment. I think you can do the job, so does Jerry here, so does Earl, and so does the front office. I have no idea if the fans or the rest of the world are ready for a woman in the major leagues, but there’s only one way to find out.”
“Thanks for giving me a try,” Brenda said. She wasn’t sure what else to say. Her manager didn’t need to hear how nervous she was. The nerves and the anger she could keep to herself.
“We’re really pleased you’re here,” Jerry said. “Now I want to talk to you a little bit about Friday’s press conference. Mark and Louis will both be on the dais with you. They’ll talk first and formally introduce you to the media, and you’ll take questions for maybe twenty minutes. These kinds of press conferences are pretty
standard whenever the team signs a major free agent or otherwise acquires a big name player or prospect. However, I think this one might be a bit different. We’ve received inquiries from all over the place—not just the metro area. You’re making national news, heck, international news. Have you ever done any public speaking before? Theater? Anything?”
“Well, when I worked as a graphic designer, I had to present drafts of ideas to the clients.”
“Great, use that experience when you’re talking to the media.”
“Except instead of presenting an idea, I’m presenting myself,” Brenda said.
Jerry laughed. “Kind of. Normally I’m having this conversation with a nineteen-year-old kid with no life experience except maybe some college. It’s kind of refreshing to work with an adult. Just remember that having cameras and microphones stuck in your face can be unsettling. We do our best to keep it low-key and casual. Just be yourself.”
Mark added, “If there’s a question you don’t feel comfortable answering, pass it off to me or Lou. We’ve got your back.”
“Thanks,” Brenda replied.
“I didn’t know you used to be a graphic designer. Do you still draw?” he asked.
Brenda had to answer honestly: “No, no, I don’t.”
•◊•
Despite all the prepping, when Brenda walked into the Indians’ media room on Friday morning, she felt like Dorothy spinning around in her little farmhouse in the middle of a twister. Adele, Andy, and Jon were sitting front and center, David was just off to the side, and she knew Robin was hiding somewhere in the back. Her family and friend were surrounded by a standing-room-only crowd of reporters wielding a larger selection of recording devices than you might see at an electronics store—television cameras, flip cameras, cell phones, iPads, and voice recorders. She even noticed one or two old-fashioned types who appeared to have nothing more than a notebook and a pencil. They were charming oases of calm in the midst of their digital brethren.
She walked onto the small dais at one end of the media room, flanked by Mark and Louis Adams, who started things off by welcoming Brenda and her family and all of the media representatives. “It’s fitting that the Cleveland Indians, who integrated the American League by signing Larry Doby in 1947, are once again taking the lead toward equality by being the first major league team to sign a female player,” Louis said. There was some applause at this statement, which seemed out of place at a press conference. At first Brenda wasn’t sure where it was coming from, because the front rows of seats were packed to the gills with serious-looking male sportswriters and a tiny smattering of female writers. Farther in the back, she could just make out half a dozen young women and two younger men as the source of the applause. They clearly weren’t part of the traditional media.
Brenda was so focused on scanning the crowd, in shock at the huge number of people who had come out to see her, that she almost didn’t hear Louis when he said, “On behalf of the Cleveland Indians organization, I’d like to introduce you to our newest signee, Brenda Haversham.”
Her heart seemed to be pounding in time to the applause from the audience as she stood up and turned sideways so Mark could put an Indians jersey on her. When she turned to face front, she was blinded by the flashes from fifty cameras, but she remembered to shake Louis’s hand, then Mark’s. Then she just stood there for a moment and smiled, wondering how many unflattering photos would find their way into the papers or online. Jerry had said to “give it a second for the applause to die down,” and it did, but the cameras kept flashing, so finally she just sat down. Honestly, how many pictures of her—of any one ballplayer—did they need?
She glanced over at Mark, who nodded to her. She leaned forward toward the microphone—not too close—and said, “Thank you for the warm welcome.” She knew she had to say more. These people were here to see her, to hear what she had to say. Jerry and Mark had told her to just be herself, but herself—her real self—had nothing to do with baseball. “I’m really happy and honored to be a part of the Indians organization because I’ve been a Tribe fan all my life,” she said. That seemed safe enough. She looked around the room and saw Jon give her a little wave. “So . . . what would you like to know?”
Two dozen hands immediately went up in front of her. Louis had said he would call on the reporters for her because he knew just about all of them. “Chuck,” he said, pointing to a guy with a bushy salt-and-pepper moustache.
“Hi. Chuck Farley, The Plain Dealer. Brenda, welcome to the Indians. You’re breaking some sacred ground here. Do you think more female players will follow in your footsteps?”
Brenda didn’t want to be known as the dumb blonde jock who vacuously said: “I don’t know” to every question, but who the hell could answer this accurately? “Gee, I don’t . . . know if I’m the right person to answer that question. I’m sure there are plenty of other female players out there, but whether or not they get a chance to play isn’t up to me. You should ask the front offices of the other twenty-nine teams.”
This actually got a little chuckle out of the room. Mark called on someone else. “Hi, T.J. Hoffman, MLB.com. Brenda, you didn’t play high school or college ball. In fact, the only organized baseball you’ve played is in a recreational league. Do you honestly think you have what it takes to make it in professional baseball? Isn’t this really just a publicity stunt to sell tickets?”
Brenda stared at T.J. Hoffman from MLB.com for a moment. He looked like he might be kind of tall when he stood up and had pretty broad shoulders and long arms. A failed ballplayer himself? She didn’t know. She also wasn’t sure how honestly to answer the question. Hell, she wasn’t sure she should honestly answer it.
She heard Mark clear his throat and glanced over at him. “Yes. No,” he said simply. Poker-faced, he briefly caught Brenda’s eye. She figured she now owed him one. He called on another person. “Hi, Daryl Goodman, Fox Sports. This question is for Mr. Adams. Will you be releasing the results of Ms. Haversham’s physical, including the results of testing for banned substances?”
Great, people thought she was doping. Louis deftly handled the question, promising that the organization would release what results it could, although he made a point of adding that Brenda had tested negative for any banned substances and would be subject to the same testing as any other player.
Mark called on a woman next. She looked like a reasonable person. “Hi, Brenda. I’m Connie Covington from ABC. What type of accommodations are being made as far as changing areas for you? Will you be in the locker room with the other players? If not, how do you think that might affect your ability to function as an effective part of the team?”
“I’m told that with the Captains, I will be changing in the manager’s office. As far as the second question, I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to throw strikes.” Maybe that sounded harsh, but it was true.
Then she heard Mark say, “Charlie, how about you?” Charlie? She looked around and saw a face she had seen on television a hundred times on the left-hand side of the room. If it had felt odd messaging him, having him stand and ask her a question as though he knew her felt even stranger.
“Hi, Brenda,” he said, sounding more conversational than any of the other reporters had thus far. “Can you tell us a little bit about your baseball history? Who taught you to pitch?”
As she said the words, “My Dad,” Brenda suddenly felt her father’s absence more acutely than she had in years. “He would take me out to the park just about every weekend, and we’d play baseball. When I was pretty young, he noticed I had a good arm and started teaching me how to pitch. I grew up watching the Indians with him, which makes signing with the team now such a treat. If he were here, I think he, more than anyone I know, would appreciate this moment.” The way Charlie smiled and nodded at her answer, as though they had a shared understanding, made her want to talk to him more. She had to stop herself from asking, “Do yo
u have a follow-up?”
Mark called on someone else, a tall, thin guy from Sports Illustrated.com who asked: “You’re at the age when most athletes are thinking about retirement, not jumping into professional sports. Are you worried about your age and your ability to compete?”
Even as she was saying, “Sure I’m a little worried, who wouldn’t be?” Brenda knew it was probably the wrong answer. Not wrong factually—she was worried—but she shouldn’t be showing any sign of weakness, no lack of confidence. “But I suppose that’s natural. A little fear is a good motivator, right?” she added with a bit more gusto than was probably necessary.
Other questions followed. The kids in the back (who, it turned out, ran a couple of Indians blogs), wanted to know what she thought her best pitches were and if the coaching staff had her adding any pitches. A woman from National Public Radio asked if Brenda thought female players would add a new element to the game. The beat writer for The Lake County Herald asked what she thought of the Chief Wahoo logo. Brenda tried to answer the questions as best she could, but after a while every person seemed to be asking variations of the same question: Why are you here? She was grateful when Louis said, “Last question” and called on another blogger, who wanted to know what she thought fan reaction would be to having a female player on the field.
As the reporters and cameramen began shuffling out of the media room, Brenda followed Louis and Mark off the dais and into the back hallway. Somehow, David met her there—she hadn’t even seen him moving through the crowd. “Not a bad first press conference,” he said. He said hello to Mark and Louis and asked to “borrow” Brenda for a while, adding, “Media Day, Part Two.”
“What part two? I thought this was it,” Brenda said.
“You’re doing a one-on-one interview. This just came up last night. I sent you a text about it.”
“I keep telling you, my phone is just a phone. I don’t text.”
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