Brenda ran the first batter to a 1-2 count before he grounded out to McGall on a breaking ball. She glanced over at the dugout as the next batter came to the plate. Munson was in his customary spot at one end of the dugout, both arms on the railing, watching. It looked as if he was going to leave her alone.
She delivered two quick strikes in a row to the next batter, Billy Carlos, the Orioles’ shortstop. He wasn’t much taller than Brenda—perhaps five eight. Brenda wondered if he had had a hard time on his way up or in the locker room because of his size. On another day, she might have felt some sort of kinship with him. “Today, Carlos, you’re out of luck,” she muttered as she threw the 0-2 pitch. Carlos hit it to deep right, but Bandkins was there to catch it.
There was no reason to bother glancing at Munson for the last batter. Brenda just faced him with the same poker face she had faced every other batter that night. The tidal wave of anger inside hadn’t ceased, and this was her last chance to throw tonight. She knew she would get this guy out and that would be it for the night. It was tempting to play with him just so she could get in a few more pitches, but that might make someone think he was stronger than she was. Tonight, she wanted to dominate, to crush anything and everything in her way. She hoped Ed was watching the game from home, hoped his lawyer followed baseball so he could see that he had made the wrong person angry.
“You fuckers,” she grunted as she threw the first pitch to the last batter. Two balls, one foul, and three strikes later, it was over. Everyone else on the team breathed a sigh of relief. Everyone else relaxed and goofed around in the clubhouse as they showered and changed. Everyone else had time to give a few smiling words to the media. Everyone else rode back to the hotel in a noisy, raucous mood. Everyone but Brenda.
•◊•
Excerpt from the transcript for Today in Sports with Charlie Bannister, ESPN, August 25:
In the AL Central, the Tigers seem to be crumbling a bit more every day, dropping three in a row to the Yankees. In a bit of monkey-see-monkey-do, Chicago decided it didn’t really want to be in first place and was swept by the Blue Jays. Meanwhile, the second-half turnaround by the Indians seems legit, as they smoked the Orioles tonight 4-5. The victory included a fantastic outing by rookie relief pitcher Brenda Haversham, who struck out the side in the eighth and then came back in for the ninth to close things out. Six batters, four strikeouts—not bad at all.
Chapter Eighteen
•◊•
Brenda managed to get through the standard journalistic hurdles and the frat house atmosphere on the bus on the way back to the hotel, but once she was back in her room, she felt the urge to move. She threw on shorts and a T-shirt and went to the hotel’s fitness center where she found two sad treadmills, one elliptical, and a weight bench with a sparse set of weights. She hopped on the elliptical and turned the resistance as high as she could stand. Once she got going, momentum and rage carried her for half an hour. She went back to her room, showered for the second time that night, and mindlessly channel-surfed until she finally fell asleep around three a.m.
When Brenda awoke the next morning, she had one brief moment of hope in the new day, then remembered her conversation with Beverly Vanderfeld the day before. “Not even out of bed, and already the day stinks . . .” she muttered. She checked the clock and saw that it was 10:15. She called the house but Adele and the boys were obviously out enjoying the last week of summer vacation.
She wasn’t hungry, so she just hung out in her room, reading and channel surfing. There was something else important going on today, but she couldn’t remember what. At around 10:45, it dawned on her that she was supposed to meet Charlie Bannister for lunch at 11:30.
She hadn’t given the date (was it really a date?) any thought or preparation. For a moment, she considered canceling but thought better of it. Maybe it would get her mind off the custody fiasco for a couple hours. She called down to the front desk and requested a cab, then turned her attention to what to wear, which was a mystery she would need to solve in the next twenty-five minutes. In a panic, she called Robin. “Hey, it’s me,” she said as soon as Robin answered.
“Hi,” Robin said. “I have a client in like five minutes, but what’s up? Is everything okay?”
“There’s no time to talk about it, but I need your help. I have a date.”
She heard a “WOOOO!” that was loud enough to be heard from Cleveland even without the phone. “I suppose I should ask with whom, but I’m just glad to see you’re interested in somebody.”
“Charlie Bannister.”
There was dead silence for a second. “Isn’t he that guy on ESPN? The one you did the interview with?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. I had no idea. How did this all come about?”
“We talked online some and then he called me. And we’re going out to lunch.”
“Honey, that’s great. He seemed like a really funny, smart guy. And I have to admit, when I saw you two talking before the interview, it looked like there might be something there. So when is the date?”
“In half an hour.”
“Oh my gosh . . . Why are you talking to me?”
“I don’t know what to wear. I don’t know what to do on a date. What do we talk about?”
“Wear a casual dress. You’re going on a lunch, eat lunch. Talk about baseball. Or books. Or art. See if he knows anything about anything beyond sports.”
“I don’t want to get too dressed up. I don’t want him to think I’m interested.”
“You accepted a date with him,” Robin said pointedly. “That in itself indicates a level of interest.”
“I only have one dress with me—that light blue sundress with the jacket.”
“Wear that. No jacket. Put your hair back in a clip because it shows off your eyes. And get the hell the out there.”
“Thanks for talking me off the ledge,” Brenda said. “Sometimes making decisions is just not what I want to do.”
“I love making decisions as long as they aren’t for me,” Robin replied. “Now go enjoy yourself.”
They hung up and Brenda headed for the elevator. When it got to the lobby, Brenda froze. Landers and Bandkins were standing just past the elevators. She’d have to walk by them to get outside. Head down, pretending to be engrossed in her own thoughts, she briskly walked past them.
“Hey, Brenda!” she heard Bandkins say. “How’s it going?”
She slowed down but didn’t stop, just turned and took a few steps backwards as she said, “Fine, thanks.”
“Where you off to, Haversham?” Landers asked.
“Oh, I’m having lunch with my aunt. She lives out here. Well, Annapolis,” Brenda said, surprised that the lie came as easily as it did.
“Have fun,” Bandkins said.
“Don’t miss the bus,” Landers added. “By the way, what’s his name?”
Brenda pretended not to hear, just turned and walked straight out of the lobby, praying they wouldn’t follow her. Given Landers’ last remark, maybe she didn’t lie as well as she thought.
The restaurant was only a five-minute cab ride away in the Inner Harbor neighborhood. Had she realized how close it was, she would have walked. Charlie was waiting just inside the front door of the restaurant for her. Brenda wasn’t quite ready for his broad smile when he saw her, even before she was close enough to say hello. She also wasn’t ready for the little lift she felt when she saw him. On the air, he always wore a sport coat and tie, but now he just wore khakis and a deep blue shirt that made a nice contrast with his medium brown complexion. He looked good. Not having been on anything she would call a “date” in years, she chalked up the little pirouette her stomach did when she saw him to nerves.
“Hi,” Charlie said. She said “Hello” back, and they stood looking nervously at each other until the hostess came and ushered them out to their table.
&nbs
p; The restaurant was called Abundance and featured locally grown produce. She and Charlie sat outside in little courtyard behind the building. The outdoor dining area was divided into different sections by waist-high, narrow planters that contained trailing nasturtiums, herbs, and lettuce. She didn’t know if Charlie had deliberately chosen a restaurant that would afford them a decent measure of privacy, but she appreciated it. It wasn’t necessarily a conflict of interest for her to go to lunch with him, but she knew that people wouldn’t think twice if it were a male player and a male journalist going out to lunch.
They were seated and made the usual small talk—commenting on the menu, the courtyard, how great it was to have some of the food growing alongside them. Then they ordered and the server took their menus and it was as though someone had taken away their cue cards.
Brenda wanted to say something, but she wasn’t sure what. She didn’t need to impress this guy, didn’t feel the need to be witty or clever or flirtatious. For a moment, Brenda was content just being there with him. Charlie had a comfortable presence that made it seem as though they had known each for a long time. She reminded herself that it was his job as a journalist and an interviewer to make people comfortable so that they would open up to him. Her eyes momentarily scanned the courtyard, taking in the other tables—a younger couple holding hands at the table behind Charlie, a group of four laughing women and lots of white wine opposite them, two men and one woman having an incredibly earnest business meeting just over her left shoulder. When her gaze came back to Charlie, she noticed he was staring at her, a tiny, lopsided grin on his face.
“So have you figured out why you’re here yet?” he asked.
That was certainly a different conversation starter. “First I need to figure out how I’m supposed to interpret that question,” she replied.
“In case you were wondering, yes, this is a date, and yes, I’m interested in you. You intrigue me—not as a ballplayer or as a story, but as a person.” Charlie said this matter-of-factly, as if he was noting that the restaurant grew all its own herbs.
Brenda was momentarily speechless. She wasn’t sure if Charlie was being too forward, perfectly honest, or something else. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him yet, but she had to admit that having him virtually hand all the leverage in the conversation over to her was incredibly brave on his part. It made her like him a little more. Charlie didn’t look nervous as he sipped his glass of water and waited for a response. “I don’t think I’m used to this level of candor,” she said finally.
“Nobody is,” Charlie replied, and he almost sounded apologetic. “But you should be. Everybody should be.”
It only took Brenda half a second to remember any number of times someone had lied to her or told her a half-truth and she couldn’t help but agree with him. “You’re right,” she said. “Thank you. In the interest of fair play and equal candor, I feel compelled to add that I have to question your judgment. I’m not intriguing as a person. As a ballplayer, I’m, at best, just an interesting footnote.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You’ve made history. I’m thinking you’ll get at least two paragraphs in The Baseball Encyclopedia plus a couple footnotes.” Brenda let herself smile ever so slightly at his bad joke. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile,” Charlie said. “Of course it’s just a polite smile instead a real one, but it’s a start.”
“Has anyone ever told you that your bluntness can be a real conversation killer?”
“Yes. But I’m willing to muddle through if you are.”
She couldn’t figure Charlie Bannister out. He was funny, good-natured, honest, intelligent, and made her feel as though she knew exactly where she stood with him. It occurred to her that this was what it was like to be with a genuine adult. He made her want to be as honest and direct as he was. It was almost like being with Adele or Robin—there was an honesty that seemed to stem from sincere concern rather than an ulterior motive. But he was still a male and a journalist to boot, so by definition he had an ulterior motive. He had to. She retreated to safer topics.
“How did you get into journalism?” she asked. “Or rather, how did you end up hosting a major TV sports show?”
“I majored in journalism at the University of Toledo—did you know I’m a Buckeye too?”
“No, I didn’t. Did you grow up in Toledo?”
“Yep. Anyway, I got into journalism because Jim Harkins, the station manager at WDHO, was broad-minded enough to give me a job and put me on the air. I graduated in 1984—we had The Cosby Show and Al Roker, but that was pretty much it for African Americans on TV then. He gave me a job as a sports reporter. I got all the scut work, mind you—I was the one standing on football fields in two-degree weather—but I was happy because it was me standing on that football field with a microphone. Then I got jobs in bigger and bigger markets and, I don’t know, made a name for myself and got hired by ESPN.” He paused for a moment, giving her space to speak. When she didn’t, he asked: “Now what about you? I’m guessing you didn’t start out wanting to be a ballplayer.”
“And you would guess right. I used to be an artist and graphic designer. I took time off to have a family and then, well, you pretty much know what happened.”
“Graphic design? Cool. So were you one of those paint-splattered art students I’d see walking around campus?”
“It wasn’t always paint,” Brenda said. “Sometimes it was oil pastels.”
Their food arrived and they ate and talked. Charlie told her about growing up in Toledo with three younger siblings, an overworked mother, and no father (“none to speak of” was as much as he would say) and the book of essays on baseball he was trying to write and the woman he had almost married six years ago who decided at the last minute that she didn’t want to be married after all (“at least not to me,” Charlie added). Brenda told him about her sons and her divorce. She didn’t tell him about her anger or how she pitched or the harassment from the other players, but still wondered if she had revealed too much.
After lunch, they walked a bit around the Inner Harbor area. It was a mecca for people—families, couples, big groups of friends. Walking alongside Charlie, for a brief instant Brenda felt like she was part of a couple and it was all she could do not to take his hand. There was a feeling of anticipation between them that was new and familiar at the same time. It wasn’t the angry, adrenaline-fueled anticipation she had grown used to in the bullpen; this was quieter, subtle, and, in its way, more powerful than anything she had felt in a long time. She made a conscious decision not to touch his hand—that seemed like a can of worms that didn’t need opening—and instead headed toward the water. Charlie followed.
It was a typically humid Chesapeake Bay summer day, but the slight breeze off the water was delicious. “Aaahh . . .” Charlie sighed into the breeze. “Makes me wonder why I ever decided to work indoors.”
“I’ve definitely grown to enjoy spending my workday outside,” Brenda said. She was going to tell Charlie about working in the cubicle farm at the insurance company when a big, hulking figure at the far end of the pier caught her eye. Charlie followed her gaze.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing, it’s just that the big bald guy over there looked familiar. Do you see? He’s wearing a green T-shirt and is walking with a woman and a child.”
“Oh, that’s Carl,” Charlie said. To Brenda’s puzzled look he added, “Carl Maladente. I’ve interviewed him once or twice. And you struck him out last night.”
Brenda almost missed the amused wink Charlie gave her as he said this. She was engrossed in staring at the little Maladente family. The wife was probably in her late twenties, slim, fairly tall, and from where Brenda stood, attractive although not model-glamorous like many players’ wives. The child looked to be a bit younger than Jon—he still had a little kid’s fidgety, excited way of moving in four directions at once. Looming over both of them
was big, bad, bald Carl Maladente. His light-green shirt made him look like an atrophied Incredible Hulk. Brenda said as much and got a full taste of Charlie’s rollicking, giggle-like laugh.
She watched as Maladente and his family came closer. The son had a huge cone of hot pink cotton candy, to which Maladente senior liberally helped himself. Brenda watched the interaction between the adults. At one point, they held hands briefly. Another time they stopped for a moment as their son pointed to something on the water, and Maladente picked off another piece of cotton candy and fed it to his wife.
“Do you know anything about him or his family?” Brenda asked.
“Not about his personal life,” Charlie said, sitting down on a nearby bench. “He came up about eight or nine years ago. He’s been with the Orioles the majority of his career, has a bit of a reputation as a badass. You know the type—the one who likes hazing the rookies, isn’t above spiking somebody if he doesn’t think he’ll get caught.”
Brenda stayed standing so she could keep Maladente and his family in her sights, but took a few steps closer to the bench where Charlie was sitting. “I heard rumors that he had been arrested for domestic abuse.”
Charlie nodded. “That was quite a while ago from what I understand—he was still in the low minors. They made him go through some sort of anger management course when they brought him up. I haven’t heard of anything since then.” Charlie gently patted the spot on the bench next to him. “Why don’t I introduce you? They’re headed this direction anyway.” Feeling like she had been caught cheating on an easy test, Brenda sat down next to him. “So are you worried that you might have embarrassed him in front of his son and scarred the little guy for life?” Charlie joked.
“No, I just . . .” The real reason she was interested in the Maladentes suddenly seemed very silly. “Okay, I didn’t want to be the woman who strikes out a guy who’s in the habit of beating his wife . . .”
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