Throw Like a Woman

by Susan Petrone

  Her cell rang about twenty minutes before the team bus left for Camden Yards. It was from Cleveland’s 216 area code and looked familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Thinking that it could have something to do with Andy or Jon, she answered.

  “Hi, Brenda? This is Beverly Vanderfeld,” an apologetic-sounding voice said. Vanderfeld was her divorce lawyer and had been so wishy-washy that if she weren’t a friend of Adele’s, Brenda would have thought she was secretly working for Ed. Brenda hadn’t had occasion to speak to her since the divorce was finalized in December.

  “Hi Beverly. Is everything okay?”

  “Well, actually, no. Well, let’s say, it’s going to be okay, but there’s a little problem now—just a little blip, really. I have to tell you that I’ve been contacted by Ed’s lawyer because Mr. Haversham would like to make a change in the custody arrangement.

  Vanderfeld’s habit of saying in fifty words what could be said in ten was usually annoying, but now Brenda wished she’d just ramble on a while longer. It would delay her having to hear this.

  “What kind of change in the custody arrangement?” Brenda took a deep breath. “I’m sure you’ll remember from the divorce proceedings that Ed never expressed any desire to have the boys live with him—he only asked for visitation.”

  “He’s filed for primary custody,” Beverly said with a little sigh that made it sound as though she herself were to blame.

  Brenda struggled to make a coherent sentence, but all she could say was, “Primary? Why?”

  “Well, I think they said something about the recent incident in which the boys were nearly assaulted on their way home, and that Andy has been involved in some fights and was caught shoplifting. And they’re also concerned that your current schedule has you out of town nearly fifty percent of every month, and the end result of all those things is that—and this only according to their statement, I’m not saying this—Ed, that is, Mr. Haversham is concerned that you are not providing the boys with a safe or stable environment.”

  “No,” Brenda said. She wanted to scream and cry and kick something but she just repeated, “No,” even as her heart started pounding. “The boys are fine, and Ed doesn’t have space in his apartment for them. He doesn’t even have a bedroom for them.”

  “His counsel stated that Mr. Haversham has plans to move to a larger home in order to properly accommodate the boys when he has primary custody.”

  “I would maybe—maybe—consider joint custody. But Ed will never have primary custody of my children,” Brenda snapped, then caught herself. Vanderfeld was just the bearer of bad news; there was no reason to yell at her. “I’m sorry, Beverly, I didn’t mean to snap at you, but Ed hasn’t discussed this with me. This comes as a complete surprise.”

  “I’m sure it must be very shocking,” Beverly said, sounding like her mother rather than her lawyer. That was Vanderfeld’s problem throughout the divorce proceedings—she was too sympathetic to human beings in general to effectively represent one person against another. “They seem to think Andy especially would be better off with a strong male role model.”

  “Then they’d better find someone other than Ed for him to live with.”

  “Let’s just hope he’s trying to be a better father.”

  Brenda took a deep breath. Arguing with her own lawyer was not going to get her anywhere. “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “Well—and this is assuming that you wish to retain me as counsel—we respond and then they’ll schedule a hearing. Of course it might be easier if you and Ed could just sit down and talk this out . . .”

  “At this point, I don’t think that’s a likely possibility. He could have done that before going to his lawyer.”

  “Agreed, agreed . . .”

  Brenda suddenly found Vanderfeld’s easy-going, solicitous personality grating. She didn’t need amiable and understanding; she needed cunning and cut-throat. Without even realizing she had made a decision, she said, “Beverly, I think I’m going to seek other counsel for the custody hearing. You’ve been wonderful, but I think it would be best if we made this switch. I hope you understand.” She only half-heard Vanderfeld’s lengthy but polite response. All Brenda could think about was that she had thirteen minutes before the team bus left and wondered if that was enough time to find a barracuda from three hundred fifty miles away.

  She knew getting rid of Vanderfeld was the right move. If Ed had expressed any desire for shared custody during the divorce proceedings, he would have gotten anything he wanted. As it was, Brenda ended up with five years’ worth of alimony and child support payments that equaled minimum wage, circa 1982. All of her friends said that the boys had been robbed. Moreover, there were no provisions for health insurance or any type of college funds for the boys. Brenda wondered if Ed had a “My lawyer can beat up your lawyer” bumper sticker.

  When she hung up the cell phone, she collapsed on the bed and almost let herself cry but knew there was no time for crying. As much as she worried about hurting Beverly’s feelings (and Adele’s), she had to find a new lawyer. Then she thought of David. His entire existence depended upon having a coterie of lawyers within arm’s reach at all times.

  By rights, her first phone call should have been to Adele, but that would have to wait. She couldn’t be late for the team bus—especially not when she had had such a bad outing the night before. Feeling like a D-list actress portraying herself in a movie, she punched in David’s number (putting him on speed dial just seemed too intimate). David’s silky voice was a momentary balm on her anger.

  “I know just the person,” he purred after she told him the whole story. “Alex Clemowitz. He’ll eat Ed’s lawyer for lunch and then spit the gristle in Ed’s face as the judge rules in your favor.”

  That was all it took. One call and she immediately had the most aggressive divorce lawyer on the southern shore of Lake Erie at her disposal. She didn’t want to think about what Clemowitz’s hourly rate might be, but with the Bam! endorsement, she would be able to afford the services of ten Alex Clemowitzes, if necessary. This was a sobering thought, and one that carried her in silence down to the lobby and onto the bus.

  Inside, she was still seething with rage at Ed. How could he possibly think she’d agree to give up primary custody? And to top it off, he didn’t even have the decency to call her first and talk about it like an adult. She didn’t speak to anyone on the bus or in the locker room or in the bullpen. She didn’t even notice the jock strap Cipriani left in her usual spot at the far end of the bullpen dugout. He had written “PORK” on it with a Sharpie, just to make clear for whom it was intended. She glanced at the jock strap, then calmly picked it up and threw it over her shoulder toward the other end of the bullpen dugout. The “What the hell?” she heard from Anderson Sparks made it clear that the jock had hit an innocent party.

  None of the usual bullshit in the dugout or the bullpen mattered. Not when there was even the remotest possibility of losing the boys. Brenda just sat and simmered as the Indians made a valiant stand against the Orioles. Hodges started and pitched his usual five solid innings before falling apart in the sixth, giving up three runs on six hits and beaning one batter before being relieved by Anderson Sparks, who gave up another run. By the top of the seventh, the Indians were down 4-2. A solo home run by Doug Stone and a double by Pasquela that scored Dave McGall and Johnny Gonzalez gave the Indians a 5-4 lead, but they would need to stave off Baltimore’s bats for three more innings. Sparks struck out one batter then gave up a couple hits and walked the bases loaded in the seventh. A double play got them out of the inning without allowing any runs, but it was clear Sparks was getting shaky. Then he started off the eighth inning by giving up a double and two walks in a row.

  Both Cipriani and Brenda were up and throwing in the bullpen after the first walk. After the second walk, Munson went out to the mound. She and Cipriani only had about three minutes to prepare, but that
was two minutes more than Brenda needed. She was throwing smoke from her first warm-up pitch. It was as though a geyser of rage was bubbling inside her as she pictured Ed’s smug, spiteful face in the middle of the catcher’s mitt. It didn’t matter that she had almost no idea what the Orioles’ starting lineup could do. She was right where she needed to be.

  She saw Earl studying her and Cipriani, trying to decide which right-handed reliever to send in. Cipriani glanced over at her and threw one last warm-up pitch. Rather than take one more pitch, she looked at Earl. With her hands at her side, palm and glove open, she motioned ever-so-slightly toward herself, as if to say, “Pick me. Tonight I will not disappoint.”

  Earl gave a quick glance between Brenda and Cipriani, then barked her name. “Haversham! Get in there. Phil, stay warm.”

  Without a second look at Cipriani, Brenda trotted out to the mound, where Munson was waiting for her. The sold-out crowd in Camden Yards erupted into a conflicting chorus of boos and cheers when her name was announced. As it had been at every game since she signed, home or away, Brenda sold tickets. Fans were still mixed on her, but front offices uniformly loved her.

  Munson met her at the pitcher’s mound. As he handed her the ball, he asked, “How are you feeling? Think you can put them away tonight?” It was kind of a silly question, because it wasn’t as though he was going to put in Cipriani if Brenda told him she wasn’t feeling well.

  Brenda took the ball from him. “I’m going to strike out the entire cock-sucking side,” she said.

  For half a second Munson looked surprised, then replied, “Do it.”

  Gonzalez signaled for a sinker. Although she was dying to throw as hard as humanly possible, Brenda decided to go with whatever Gonzalez suggested. She was on, and instinctively knew that the ball was going to go where she wanted it to go. It was as though her will had been added to Newton’s laws of motion: Objects thrown by Brenda Haversham will sail unmolested to their intended target.

  With every pitch, she thought of Ed and his attempt to take Andy and Jon away from her. There was no reason for her to be here, throwing this ball, if not for the boys. Strike. To think that Ed would just try and steal them away was beyond reprehensible. Strike. He didn’t even have the decency or the guts to speak to her about it himself. Strike.

  The first out came so quickly Brenda was almost disappointed. She rarely worked more than an inning, and Jimenez was almost always the go-to guy in the ninth. But she felt as though she could throw all night long, working off the infinite reserve of anger that was burning through her insides. After the second strikeout, it felt like the inning was going too fast, she wanted the chance to throw more. But she took one look at Carl Maladente, the Orioles’ right fielder who had just come up to bat, and decided that a swift and cruel strikeout would be best. Maladente was built like a Redwood tree. Brenda had heard through the clubhouse grapevine that he had been arrested twice for spousal abuse. Brenda had never seen him before, never played against him before, but as he stood in the batter’s box, she decided that Maladente looked like the kind of guy who’d hit his wife—overly developed chest and arms and an arrogant bearing that said he expected to be treated like a king wherever he went. Here was a man who deserved to strike out.

  Brenda took her time, savoring the moment as Maladente stared right back at her from sixty and a half feet away. He raised his head—his chin, really—ever so slightly in a gesture of cocky defiance.

  “You stinking wife beater,” Brenda mumbled, and threw, wondering if the slapping of the ball in the glove was anywhere near as hard as the slapping of Maladente’s hand across his wife’s face. The look on Maladente’s face after the called strike on the outside corner almost made Brenda feel better. She had to break him, make him realize that female force was something to be reckoned with and respected. Then she had a momentary twinge of panic—the Orioles were at home. What if Maladente struck out and went home and took out his outrage at striking out to a woman on his wife?

  She stepped off the bag and made a “time out” signal with her hands. Gonzalez came trotting out to the mound, obviously thinking that she wanted to have a quick chat about how to pitch to Maladente. Brenda looked over at McGall at short and motioned for him to come to the mound too.

  McGall and Gonzalez approached her with puzzled faces.

  “What the hell do you need me here for?” McGall asked.

  “I have to ask a question about Maladente,” Brenda said to him. To Gonzalez she said, “Just keep calling the pitches like you have been. I trust you.”

  Gonzalez nodded and muttered “Thank you,” in his quiet, accented English.

  To McGall she said, “Are those stories about Maladente you told true? That he’s been arrested for hitting his wife?”

  “Yeah, they’re true. Why would I lie?”

  The normal response would have been, “Because you’re crazy, McGall,” but Brenda just said: “Nothing. I just . . . I don’t want to strike somebody out if he’s going to go home and smack his wife.”

  McGall threw back his head and laughed. He sounded like a donkey. “Haversham, you slay me,” he stammered. “Worrying about shit like that.”

  “Why is this funny?” Gonzalez asked. “A man who hits a woman is a weak man,” he added, taking a glance over his shoulder at the formidable Maladente, who was standing just outside the batter’s box, leaning on his bat in an annoyed manner.

  “He is,” Brenda said.

  “All Maladente is thinking right now is that there’s another woman making him wait. Did you ever think that getting struck out by you might make him see the world a little different? Strike his ass out. Strike a blow for feminazis everywhere.” McGall had this way of talking that made every conversation with him sound like the prelude to a revolution or a manic episode.

  “Where do you get off calling me feminazi, McGall? Don’t spout that crap on my pitcher’s mound.”

  McGall snorted out another donkey-like laugh. “Now that I have you good and riled up, strike his fat ass out,” he replied and trotted back to short.

  “You are a very angry woman, no?” Gonzalez said.

  “Yes,” Brenda said, feeling a bit wary.

  “Mi madre tells me always that I should . . . Canaliza tu ira. Um, use my anger to make good instead of bad.” Brenda wasn’t sure what to say to this. She just nodded. Gonzalez said, “Let’s go,” and trotted back to home plate.

  That whack-job McGall had her number. And so did Gonzalez. Was she that transparent? Or maybe anger was part of the game face and the zone. Maybe all of these guys were quietly harboring inner cesspools of festering anger. Maybe some, like Maladente, were so angry they even took it out on the people they supposedly loved. She glanced over at the dugout and saw Munson standing with one foot on the top step, a sure sign he was debating going out to the mound. Brenda just nodded at him and then turned her attention to the sign from Gonzalez. Fastball, low and outside. Brenda saw Ed’s face in the catcher’s mitt, felt a new jolt of anger surge through her, and threw.

  Striking out the side in bottom of the eighth with the bases loaded was not nearly as satisfying as it should have been. Brenda decided that was because she wasn’t done yet.

  Gonzalez and McGall and a couple others gave her high-fives or pats on the back as they left the field, but Brenda couldn’t smile. Striking out the side didn’t change the fact that Ed was trying to get full custody of the boys. She had nothing to smile about.

  Munson gave her a pat on the back when she reached the dugout. “Nice work,” he said. “Go hit the showers.”

  “No,” Brenda replied, not even worrying about the fact that she was openly disagreeing with her manager. “I’m staying in.”

  Munson lowered his voice, as though he didn’t want the rest of the dugout to hear a confrontation. He wasn’t the type to dress someone down in front of the rest of the club, but he always did just enoug
h to remind the team that he was in charge. “I think that’s my decision.”

  “Please leave me in,” Brenda said, enunciating each word slowly, as though Munson merely hadn’t heard her properly the first time.

  Munson considered her for a moment. “How does your arm feel?” he asked.

  “Like I could do this all night long. Please leave me in,” she repeated.

  “You can start the ninth,” he said finally. “Jimenez and Cipriani are both warmed up. If it even smells like you’re running into trouble, I’m pulling you.”

  “I won’t get behind on the count on anyone,” Brenda said. The anger was like a drug, making her feel clear-headed and alert and focused. When she said she wouldn’t get behind in the count, she knew it was true.

  Munson sighed. “Okay.”

  Saying “thank you” felt too soft, as though the anger would dissipate if she let herself be the least bit polite. She nodded and sat down in the far corner of the dugout. No one bothered her; whether that was due to respecting a pitcher who was in the zone or the standard Avoidance of Haversham protocol wasn’t clear.

  An insurance run when the Indians were at bat would have been nice, but it didn’t happen. As they walked out to the field in the bottom of the ninth, Doug Stone patted her on the back. “Keep on doing what you’re doing, Brenda,” he said as he jogged past her on his way to left field. The infield looked energized, and Brenda wondered if that had something to do with her and how she was pitching. When she glanced over at McGall, he gave her a thumbs up, although coming from him, you had to wonder if he was being ironic.

  There was no question in her mind as to whether she’d be able to retire the side one-two-three. With every pitch, she could almost feel the ball being led to Gonzalez’s mitt, like two magnets pulling toward each other and then connecting. No matter where he placed it, the ball would find his mitt.