David put one hand lightly on her shoulder and led her farther down the hall. “Go out and buy yourself a new phone and a big, juicy data package,” he said in a quiet bedroom voice. “I just closed a deal with Bam! Sportswear for you. Sports bras—print, TV, and online. Huge deal.”
“I have to model bras?” Brenda doubted whether there was a sum of money large enough to make her feel comfortable being photographed in a bra, sport or otherwise.
“It’ll be fine. I’ll give you the details later. Right now you need to talk with Charlie Bannister. It’s only fitting that you do your first interview with him.”
They went back into the now-nearly empty media room. Adele and Robin were waiting by the front row of chairs. “There she is!” her mother said proudly.
“Hi, Mom. Hey, Robin. Thanks for being here.” She was about to introduce David to Robin when she realized the boys weren’t there. “Where are Andy and Jon?”
Robin pointed a thumb to the back of the room. “Jon wanted to make a new friend, and he made Andy go with him.”
“I think Andy might even be a little bit impressed with you now,” Adele added.
Brenda scanned the back of the room. Two camera crew guys were setting up some lights around a couple of chairs and checking light and sound levels. Andy and Jon were standing by someone seated in one of the chairs and they were both laughing. “Excuse me,” she said.
As she walked closer, she saw that the boys were talking to Charlie Bannister. She heard Jon say, “Do you know Francisco Jimenez?” Everybody in Cleveland knew Jimenez, even the ones who didn’t follow baseball. He had saved the game that won the division series three seasons ago by striking out the side in the bottom of the ninth on a mere thirteen pitches. Since that time, it seemed that every time you turned around he was on a billboard or in a commercial or a public service announcement for everything from National City Bank (“Francisco knows how to save”) to Hough Bakery (for a baker’s dozen of Dugout Dippers, which were long, skinny donuts that Andy thought looked like monkey tails) to the Cleveland Public Schools (“Save your future—stay in school”).
“Yep. Interviewed him his rookie year. Nice guy. He’s really quiet, but he does a mean karaoke version of ‘Born to Be Wild.’”
“I don’t know that song,” Jon said.
“It’s like this old hippie song,” Andy said to him.
Now it was Charlie’s turn to laugh. As Brenda walked up and put a hand on Andy’s shoulder, Charlie stood up and said in mock horror, “Old hippie song? What are you teaching these children?”
If it had been someone else, another almost-stranger, Brenda might have been taken aback by how familiar Charlie was. He acted as though they already knew each other. Somehow, he didn’t come off as presumptuous or too forward. Just friendly. Maybe it was just a journalistic trick to get her guard down and make her spill her guts, but she did feel as though she already knew him. “We haven’t done the chapter on classic rock yet. We’re still working on punk and Brit pop”
“Hmm, a chronologically unsound approach, but I like it.” Charlie had a roundish face that seemed perpetually on the verge of breaking into a smile. While he was typically seated behind a desk on his show, in person, she saw that his hips were easily as wide as hers. Even though men could carry extra pounds more easily than women, it was still comforting to see that he was as physically imperfect as she. “Hi Brenda,” he said, giving her a warm, two-handed handshake. “It’s great to meet you in person.”
“Thanks, you too,” she replied.
David, Adele, and Robin had joined them by now. “We genuinely appreciate all the support you’ve given Brenda,” David interjected. “You helped to show that the public is ready for women in major league ball.”
“I just think people ought to be given a chance,” Charlie said. “If the talent is there, it should be used.”
“Hear, hear,” Adele put in. Brenda made some quick introductions then gratefully allowed David to shoo her family out of the room so they could do the interview.
“Now don’t be nervous,” Charlie said as they got settled. “We’re just going to have a conversation. Think of the camera as that one friend who hangs out but doesn’t say much.”
“Okay, only I’m usually that one friend.”
Charlie gave her an amused look. “Thanks for giving me fair warning.”
•◊•
Excerpt from the transcript for Today in Sports with Charlie Bannister, ESPN, July 17:
Charlie: Good evening, sports fans. Tonight I’m pleased to bring you the first major interview with pitching phenom Brenda Haversham. She’s set to join the Cleveland Indians Class A Lake County Captains tomorrow, making her the first woman ever to play for a major league affiliate. Hi Brenda, it’s great to finally meet you.
Brenda: Thank you. It’s nice to meet you too.
Charlie: Well, here you are, officially the first woman to be a member of a major league organization. How does it feel?
Brenda: Kind of surreal, actually, but it feels great. It really does.
Charlie: Now our viewers know I’ve been a fan of yours since the beginning, but in case there are a couple of people out there who still don’t know your background, can you take us through the series of events that brought you to this point?
Brenda: Well, I’d been throwing batting practice for my sons during the spring. In April, we went to an Indians game and my younger son, Jon, said I should try the test-your-speed pitching game. I did, and just for kicks, really gave it everything I had, and the pitch was clocked at eighty-two miles an hour . . .
Charlie: That’s pretty darn good for an amateur.
Brenda: Someone took a video of it and posted it on the Internet—and that’s where you stepped in. Thank you for your support, by the way.
Charlie: You’re more than welcome.
Brenda: I started playing in a local Roy Hobbs League, just for fun. Then a local news station did a story on me and clocked me at ninety-three, and that video made it to the Internet. Things just sort of snowballed from there.
Charlie: I’ll say. I think it’s safe to say that you are the best-known female athlete in the country at this moment. Now the first thing I have to ask you is: How do you do it? Ninety-three miles an hour is impressive for a pitcher half your age. I don’t know that any woman has ever been clocked throwing that hard. How do you summon that kind of heat? Do you lift weights? Eat nothing but protein shakes and raw eggs? Inquiring minds want to know.
Brenda: No, nothing like that. It’s just a lot of concentration and good genetics, I guess.
Charlie: One of the elements that makes your story so charming but also troubling to some people is that you’ve essentially come out of nowhere. You didn’t play high school or college ball, correct?
Brenda: No, I didn’t.
Charlie: You’re about to join a minor league team, but conventional wisdom says you’re on the fast track to The Show. It’s like a big fairy tale. But there are guys in the minor leagues who’ve been working at their game and dreaming about the big leagues for years. Is it fair for you to go from amateur to the majors when you haven’t paid your dues?
Brenda: I don’t know that it’s fair that women have been banned from professional baseball for nearly sixty years. It seems like all the talented girls get sent off to play softball. How are they supposed to pay their dues when the door has been closed to them?
Charlie: Good point, but I think you’re side-stepping my question. Is it fair for you to jump over the heads of all the guys who’ve been sweating in the trenches in the minors?
Brenda: Honestly? Of course not. But I’m on my way to the minors too. I don’t know how long I’ll be there, but I’d be foolish to give up this chance. If I get the chance to move up, I will. And it’s not as if another player would step aside for me.
Charlie: Jackie Robinson, Larry
Doby, Billie Jean King, Arthur Ashe, Brenda Haversham. How does it feel to be part of a long line of barrier breakers?
Brenda: Wow, I’m honored to be mentioned in the same sentence with those athletes. But the Indians’ ball club is the one taking the chance and breaking barriers. I just feel very lucky, and I’m very happy to be given the chance to play.
Charlie: When you signed that contract, a hundred thousand little girls all across America decided they could grow up and become baseball players . . .
Brenda: They did?
Charlie: Oh, they did all right. Now that you’ve blazed the trail, do you think more women will follow you into the major leagues?
Brenda: That would be wonderful, but I don’t feel qualified to make any predictions.
Charlie: Well I do. Brenda Haversham, I predict you are going to have a fantastic career.
Chapter Ten
•◊•
When media day was finally over, Brenda retreated back home with the boys. She was due to report to the Captains early the next day and was expected to suit up for that evening’s game. There was a game Sunday afternoon, then the team left on a road trip Sunday night. All afternoon and into the evening, as she puttered around the house doing laundry and cleaning and figuring out what to pack, her mind was racing. Before dinner it was: “twenty-six hours from now I’ll be at the ballpark, getting ready.” When she was cleaning up from dinner, it was: “twenty-four hours from now, the game will be starting.”
Jon was, in theory, helping her load the dishwasher, although he was doing more dancing around and asking questions than helping. “What number are you going to wear?” he asked.
“Number twenty-nine,” Brenda replied.
“Num . . . berrrr twen . . . ty . . . nine . . .” Jon sang, plopping a piece of silverware into the dishwasher with each syllable. “Why Are You Num . . . berrrr Twen . . . ty Nine . . . ?”
“Because I like that number. And it was Satchel Paige’s number.” Brenda replied.
“Who . . . Is . . . That . . . ?”
“He played for the Indians and he was old too. Jon, could you please not throw the knives?”
“I’m a Knife Thrower!” Jon said. “Like in the circus or something. Whomp! Whomp! Whomp!”
“Gentle. Please.”
“I am.” Jon threw a fork, missed the silverware rack, and hit the glass that Brenda was putting into the dishwasher. It shattered.
“Jon! Why—?!” Then she saw blood on her left hand and said, “Shit!” and felt guilty both for getting mad and for swearing.
“I’m sorry. I’ll help you clean it up,” Jon said, reaching for a piece of broken glass.
“Honey, not with your bare hand.”
She heard Andy’s voice from the kitchen doorway. “What happened?”
“We had a little accident with a glass. Could you please grab a plastic bag?” Brenda shooed Jon out of the way and grabbed a paper towel for her hand.
“Are you okay?” Andy asked.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. It’s not my throwing hand.”
She heard a little gasp from Jon. “I’m sorry,” he said again, much quieter than he said it the first time.
Having spent the last almost thirteen years worrying about her children and the many ways they could hurt themselves, Brenda had almost forgotten that she herself could be hurt. It’s not my throwing hand . . . she repeated to herself. The fragility of her own body, the reality that so much depended on her and the well-being of her body hit her with the same shock as the glass breaking.
“Do you want me to help clean up?” Andy asked.
“I’ll help too!” Jon piped in.
Brenda took a deep breath. There was no reason to be angry with them. It was an accident, and she was all right. “That’s okay. It’s really a one-person job,” she replied.
After cleaning up all the broken glass (and running a wet mop over the kitchen floor just in case), Brenda took a better look at her hand. She had a small cut on the ring finger of her left hand. The Band-Aid was in almost the same spot formerly occupied by her wedding ring, but she didn’t have the energy to ponder any ironic analogies.
Early the next afternoon, Brenda drove half an hour out to Classic Park, a snug little ballpark that had been plopped down into the middle of a commercial district on Route 91. Somehow it fit into the landscape. Brenda could only hope that the homey, good feeling would continue once she was inside.
She pulled into the parking lot and walked past the broad white concrete steps and open plaza where the box office and administrative offices were. She had been to the ballpark once before, when she and Ed went to a game a few years back. Walking past the main entrance and around to the players’ entrance made her stomach start jumping. It felt equal parts first day of school, first day at a new job, and jumping out of an airplane without a parachute. This wasn’t some rec league; this was professional baseball.
There was the door. Just a non-descript steel door painted a dull red. There was nothing to do but open it.
Inside it looked like a Lilliputian version of Progressive Field, with a tunnel-like hall that ran half the length of the ballpark. Palettes stacked with boxes, presumably of ballpark food, lined the walls. A wiry guy who looked to be in his late forties or early fifties was walking toward her.
“Hey, you must be Brenda,” he said as he approached. “I’m Stuart Radcliffe, the Pitching Coach. I’m here to help you get settled in, and then we’ll do a bullpen session before tonight’s game.”
“Great. It’s nice to meet you,” Brenda said, and extended her hand. She touched his hand first as they shook hands. As they began walking down the tunnel to the clubhouse, Stuart put his hand on her shoulder, just for a second, then removed it. He pointed out the door to the Visitors’ Clubhouse, which was at the far end of the tunnel, and they entered the Captains’ Clubhouse through another steel door, this one painted the same deep blue as the Captains’ uniforms.
He held the door open for her, and Brenda’s shoulder accidentally brushed against his elbow as she walked through the doorway. Stuart again quickly but gently touched her shoulder. It seemed that every time she accidentally touched him, he touched her back. It happened a few more times as they walked by the training room, the locker room and showers, and the manager’s office (“You’ll be changing in there,” he said). Everything was clean and serviceable. The facility didn’t have the swagger and size of a major league clubhouse, still, it was going to be home.
The door to the manager’s office was open, and Brenda saw a man who was roughly Stu’s age in a room that was just large enough to hold a desk and two chairs. An attached bathroom held a toilet and shower.
“Scotty? Haversham’s here,” Stuart said.
Scott Hudek, her new manager, stood up to greet her. She vaguely remembered his name as having played a season or two in the majors. He still had an athlete’s build but sported a pot belly that seemed to be developing a mind of its own. “Hi, Brenda. Well you made it,” he said.
She wasn’t sure how to respond to this, so she just said, “Yep. And I’m happy to be here.” Happy wasn’t the most accurate description of how she was feeling, but it was, at least, polite.
“I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes. Why don’t we do that now? When we’re done, you can get a bullpen session in with Stu before the rest of the guys show up.”
Stuart left them alone, saying that he’d see her in the bullpen. She sat down in the one other chair in the room, a simple wooden captain’s chair that had a subtle slope to the back that kept the design from being boring. As she pulled the chair out to sit down, Scott glanced at her hand. “Your finger okay?” he asked, nodding toward the Band-Aid on her hand.
“Yes, I accidentally cut it last night. It’s not my throwing hand. Nothing to worry about.”
“Great.” He leaned back and smiled
. Brenda did the same. Mirroring someone’s body language was supposed to build rapport. Anyway, it couldn’t hurt. She waited for him to start the conversation, although she had a pretty good idea of what he wanted to talk about. “Well, glad you met Stuart—you’ll be working with him a lot.”
“He seems like a great guy,” Brenda said. Actually, “quirky” would seem to be a more accurate word. “I’m eager to work with him. I have a lot to learn.”
Scott nodded. “I know you do.” He paused for a moment that made Brenda feel a little uneasy. Maybe this wasn’t going to be the same talk she had had with Mark and Jerry. “Brenda, I’m a traditionalist. I don’t like designated hitters. I don’t like inter-league play. I don’t like instant replays. And frankly, I don’t like the idea of having a female player on the roster. That being said, the folks downtown tell me you have talent. And you’re here, so we’ll do our best to get you some playing time and see what you can do.”
A grudging welcome seemed better than a false one. Nonetheless, Brenda had to swallow her ego a bit as she replied, “That’s all I can ask for.”
“We’re kind of limited on space here, so for home games, you can change in my office.”
“Thank you. When we’re on the road, I can just as easily change at the hotel,” she added.
“And wear your uniform to the ballpark spring training-style? Not a bad idea.” He added, clearly appreciative of her suggestion. This seemed like a good sign. She didn’t need him to like her. She didn’t need any of them to like her, but they didn’t need to think of her as a prima donna either. “Look, the guys on the team know that you’ll be joining them. I know some of them don’t like it, and some couldn’t care less. But you’re part of my team. If any of them give you a problem, you just let me know.”
Even as he said this, even as she said, “Thank you, I’ll do that,” Brenda was certain that she would never, ever let Scott Hudek—or anyone—know if she had problems.
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