Throw Like a Woman

by Susan Petrone

  Brenda actually felt her jaw drop a couple centimeters. Ed had a habit of apologizing for all the little things and none of the big things. Burned the hot dogs at the cookout on Memorial Day? Sorry. Spilled something in the living room? Sorry. Coming home late and accidentally denting Brenda’s car because he was “a little” drunk? Nothing. Having a fling with a woman in his office? Nothing. And now here was a genuine apology, seemingly for all of it. Brenda felt her eyes well up with tears, and she almost looked away because she didn’t want Ed to see her cry, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.

  “Thank you.” She had thought that saying what was on her mind somehow meant she wanted Ed back. Now it just felt like honesty. “What really hurt me the most through all of this was that you seemed completely unfazed. No remorse, no regret, no grief. It was like you took a pair of scissors and just cut your family out of your life, and then suddenly you decided you wanted to paste the boys back into your life and . . . Geez, I’m sorry, that’s a really terrible metaphor.”

  “It’s a lovely little metaphor,” Ed said.

  “I’ve just never been able to figure out why you did this.” That, ultimately, was the question that had been nagging at her for the past year. Why? What was so horrible in his life with her that he felt compelled to leave?

  “I wasn’t happy. And neither were you.”

  “That’s the biggest cop-out I’ve ever heard.”

  “You and the boys were like this little triumvirate, this tight little unit, and I felt like all I was doing was paying the bills and fixing things.”

  “So it’s my fault? I pushed you away, yada yada yada . . .”

  “No, no, that’s not what I’m saying.” Ed looked pained. “Look, I just feel like we started growing in different directions. And when the affair with . . .” He took a deep breath. “The affair with Martina was a symptom and I let it be the reason. It was so much easier to just hide behind the affair and let you throw me out rather than face up to the fact that we had grown apart or to try and do anything to salvage us as a couple.“

  Brenda half-expected the anger to start bubbling up inside her, but she felt surprisingly calm. There was no need to get mad when she was actually getting the information she had been looking for. “Why are you telling me all this now?”

  “Because I realize I did something wrong and I’m trying to fix it. I’m not saying we should get back together—but it’d be nice if we could be friends. Or at least not enemies . . .” He again ran his hand through his hair—Ed always did that when he was thinking or was under the gun. It was a habit she used to find incredibly sexy, but now it just looked like the move of a man struggling for words.

  For a moment, she struggled with what to say too. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the fights and everything else,” she said finally, “I’ve been treating you like you’re horrible and selfish and immature and now I’m not sure if that’s because you are or because I just remember things that way. Just like the way you probably remember me as being a controlling, narrowly focused shrew.”

  “I think the word is ‘bitch,’ actually . . .” Ed said with a smile.

  Brenda dipped two fingers into her glass and flicked water at him. Ed laughed, and for a moment everything felt like it did when they were dating, when the silliness and teasing seemed to be their own private form of foreplay.

  “I tried to talk to you about this at Andy’s birthday party, but I’m withdrawing the custody challenge,” Ed said as the server came with their lunches. Brenda could only sit there across from him, not speaking, just staring down at the monstrous bowl of salad that had been set before her. It was as though a hundred-pound weight had been lifted from her back, and she just wanted to sit and savor the feeling of relief. The boys were staying with her.

  She heard Ed’s voice as though it was coming in through a scratchy, slightly off-station radio. “I do want them to start staying overnight at my place sometimes. I’m moving to a two-bedroom, so they’ll have their own room at my place. Make it more like home for them.”

  “That’s . . . that’s a good thing. Wow. I’m starting to think you’ve been replaced by an alien Ed . . .” Brenda picked up her water glass and took a drink, half-wishing it were something stronger.

  Ed grinned. “No more than you’re an alien Brenda.”

  The rest of the lunch was a breeze. Now that Ed wasn’t trying to take the boys, it was painless to come up with a shared custody plan they could both agree on. The boys would spend every other weekend, Friday through Sunday, at Ed’s (“Plus an evening here or there,” Ed added as a safety net, “In case we want to go see a movie or have a guys’ night out.”) and they’d switch off major holidays. It was as though this thing that had kept her tied up in knots for the past month had suddenly disappeared. She felt like she could breathe freely again. On her way downtown, she cranked the radio as loud as it would go and felt like a teenager who had just gotten away with something.

  At the ballpark, she holed up in the film room, watching video of Chicago’s batters, especially Jorge Racino and his .376 batting average, which led both leagues. When she went to her locker room, she found a copy of her Bam! sports bra ad taped to the mirror above her sink. A Post-It note was stuck to it with the words: “All that meat and no potatoes.”

  “Oh for crying out loud,” she said to the note. The pornography and the lewd comments were somehow easier to take than this direct commentary on the inadequacies of her body. She took a good look at herself in the mirror. “Never had much in the potatoes category, but there’s definitely less meat there,” she murmured and felt a burst of confidence in her physical self that was neither fleeting nor shaky.

  She opened her duffel bag and took out the photo of Pasquela (or was it Cipriani) naked from the waist down and one of the Sharpies she had learned to carry around for autograph seekers. Without thinking about what she was doing, for the first time since Ed left, she started to draw.

  When she was done, she made a quick stop in the locker room to tape the two pictures to the wall near the television set and then headed for the field. Players from both teams were on the field, stretching or playing loose games of catch. There were always a few journalists hanging around the field at this time, generally the beat writers who were busy getting quotes or interviews or just shooting the breeze with each other or the players. Today there were also more national media than usual. As Brenda walked onto the field, one of the beat reporters for the White Sox stopped her and asked a few questions. When she was done talking to him, she took a few steps along the third base line and was stopped by one of the national writers (she couldn’t even remember who he wrote for) who wanted to set up a lengthy interview. She told him to set it up with Stratagem because she knew she’d forget about it otherwise.

  She continued out to the bullpen to throw a few pitches and loosen up her arm. Bandershoot, the reserve catcher, was in the bullpen and she asked him to catch her for a few minutes. She threw about three or four pitches when he pulled off his mask and asked, “You feeling okay? Is your arm sore?”

  Earl was in the bullpen, watching Hodges warm up. She saw Earl, Hodges, and Bridges, who was catching, all turn their heads to her. One thing she had learned early on: Never say you’re hurt. Never say you’re sore. Brenda knew her right arm would need to be physically separated from her body before she could say she couldn’t pitch without somebody muttering something about weak women.

  “No, not sore at all. Just taking my time warming up, I guess.” She knew this was an unacceptable answer as well and took a moment to focus on Bandershoot’s mitt. The thought of Ed and the custody battle couldn’t muster up any anger, but there was still Charlie Bannister to think about. He actually didn’t make her mad. However the thought that perhaps she had thrown away something potentially good made her mad at herself. “You totally screwed that one up.” she grunted as she threw. The shot of angry adrenali
ne worked; she could feel the velocity as the ball seemingly jumped out of her hands and into Bandershoot’s mitt. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Earl nod approvingly and then go back to talking with Hodges.

  She threw sixteen pitches and felt fine. After thanking Bandershoot, Brenda started the long walk across left-centerfield back to the dugout. She was approaching third base when she heard a familiar voice say, “Excuse me! Brenda? Do you have a couple minutes for a quick chat?”

  She stopped walking and looked down at the brownish-red infield dirt. The owner of that voice should not be standing right behind her when he had a live show to do that night in New York.

  Brenda turned to see Charlie Banister. She heard herself gasp, “Oh!” and suddenly felt shaky and nervous. Not talking to Charlie for a couple weeks had made her hope she had gotten him out of her system; she wasn’t sure if she was dismayed or not that this wasn’t the case. She gave a quick look around. Anthony Fleetwood, Bandkins, Groggins, and Landers were in short left, playing easy games of catch and stretching. Just beyond them, McGall was running his customary wind sprints across center field. Teeset, Pasquela, and Stone were doing some stretches out in short right. Some of the White Sox were off along the first base line doing calisthenics and stretches. Members of the media and coaches and trainers moved among all these groups of players, giving the entire field the air of a beehive in full swing. One could either feel very exposed or very ignored out there. When she saw Charlie, Brenda felt exposed.

  Without thinking about it, she blurted out, “What are you doing here?”

  Charlie took a couple steps closer to her while still behaving like any other journalist talking to any other ballplayer. She noticed he didn’t have a cameraman anywhere in sight. “I’m a sportscaster, and we’re standing in a place where people play a sport,” he said with a little grin.

  “Don’t you have a show to do tonight?”

  “Yes, I’m doing it live from the ballpark. In case you haven’t noticed, this is kind of a big game.”

  He was now just a couple steps away, and Brenda was suddenly seized by an almost overwhelming compulsion to hug him, which bothered her. “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “I’m the stopper,” she said slowly. “I’m always ready.”

  Charlie’s smile turned mischievous. “Is that a come-on?”

  “No!” she said. It was infuriating that he was getting to her, but she reminded herself that being infuriated was okay. After working out the custody arrangement with Ed, she had been feeling good—too good, perhaps, to do her job well. A little argument with Charlie might help, except that once again, it seemed that Charlie Bannister wasn’t going to argue with her. “And this isn’t the time or the place to be flirting with me.”

  “Nobody is listening to us or even watching this conversation. They’re all too preoccupied with their own careers. And besides, I like that I made you flustered. It makes me think that I might still have a chance with you.”

  “You didn’t make me flustered,” Brenda said and tried not to stammer when she said it. And because he wasn’t giving her the argument she was looking for, added, “And no, you don’t have a chance with me. We never had a chance.”

  To her equal parts amazement and annoyance, Charlie smiled. “What’s that line from Macbeth? Methinks the lady doth protest too much?”

  “This is a hell of an interview, Bannister,” Brenda said.

  “I’m just getting started.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Ostensibly, I’m here because this series will decide the second wildcard spot in the AL playoffs and Today in Sports ought to be here to cover it. At least that’s what I told my producer. The real reason I’m here is to see you.”

  “That sounds sweet, but the fact remains that you live in New York and I live in Cleveland.” The echo of her own words to Lily the lovely P.F. Chang’s waitress rattled around her brain, but she ignored it. “I barely have enough time to see my kids as it is without adding in a long-distance relationship.”

  “Is geography the only thing stopping you from taking a chance on me? We have telephones, Skype, email. Plus people move every day. The way I envision my future career, I can live anywhere. Remove that obstacle. What is it really? Caution? Fear? Join the club.” He paused for half a second and gave her a look that made Brenda’s heart stop. “At the risk of making a fool of myself and getting hurt more deeply than I ever thought possible . . . I’m in love with you. I realize you likely don’t feel the same way, but I had to say this to you, in person.”

  For a moment, the rest of the world stopped. She didn’t hear her teammates talking or the faraway muffled thwump of balls sinking into gloves or the breeze that rattled around 42,000 empty seats. Everything else seemed blurry and out of focus except for Charlie. Brenda tried to stay angry, but her stomach and spirits felt a little lift when Charlie said this, and involuntarily, she felt herself smile. It was like being poised on the edge of a cliff, about to dive into a clear blue ocean. And here was Charlie Bannister standing next to her, asking if he could jump in and share the adventure with her. It all felt very unreal and yet very natural at the same time.

  After playing it safe for nearly forty years, she had spent the last six months doing things that scared her, and in spite of the harassment and the loneliness and the separation from her family, the chances she had taken had worked out. She was supporting her family on her own. She was playing baseball and doing it well. Perhaps this new bird could fly if she could only stop clutching onto her old life so tightly.

  “There’s always hope, Charlie,” she said. Charlie looked hesitant, as though he wasn’t sure how to read what she had said. “Let’s try this.”

  Brenda had always thought that the tiny little laugh lines around Charlie’s eyes when he smiled were one of his best features. She gazed at them now, a dozen or so adorable creases pointing at his eyes, which seemed to emphasize that he was looking right at her. Seeing that smile and those laugh lines on a regular basis might be kind of nice.

  She heard Greg Landers’ voice off to her right, loudly saying something to the effect of, “Over my flat white ass, you will!” and Bandkins, Groggins, and Fleetwood laughing. She saw the four of them crossing the infield heading toward the dugout.

  “Hey Charlie! How’s it going?” Fleetwood said, walking over to where they were standing.

  “Hi Anthony,” Charlie said, shaking hands all around. Brenda watched as he chatted for a moment with her teammates, asking some standard journalist questions and looking nothing like a man who had just bared his heart and soul. She noticed Landers tried to catch her eye, but she ignored him. If it were any other journalist, she would take this shift in conversation as an opportunity to leave. That’s what any other player would do. Landers had an amused little grin on his face that grew wider and more amused the longer Brenda hung around.

  Charlie was asking Art Groggins about doing a retrospective interview after his retirement at the end of the season. Brenda waited for a pause in the conversation then, forcing herself to sound as casual and natural as possible, said, “Hey Charlie, nice chatting with you, but I need to get going.”

  Charlie turned to her, his voice professional but his eyes soft. “Thanks for your time, Brenda.”

  “No problem.” With her heart pounding, she added, “I’ll have some time after the game to finish the interview.”

  “That would be great. Thanks very much,” Charlie said, and she got another full dose of his cute laugh lines. Bandkins and Fleetwood had wandered away already. With all the self-control she could muster, Brenda turned and started to walk toward the dugout. She heard Groggins’ deep bass voice tell Charlie to have the show call him and Charlie replying. Then she heard Charlie call her name. She stopped and turned, trying not to look too eager.

  “Forgot one thing,” he said, trotting a fe
w steps to her but stopping far enough away to appear casual to any observers.

  “What do you need?” she asked.

  He extended his hand toward her. She looked at his hand, then at his face. He lowered his voice so that she had to strain to hear it. “I just wanted an excuse to touch you,” he said quietly.

  Brenda reached out and shook his hand, nodding as though she was answering a mundane question. “I’m glad you found one,” she replied softly.

  “Okay, thanks,” Charlie said in a normal tone of voice and turned around. Brenda did the same. She hoped no one noticed that her legs were trembling as she walked away. Walking down the dugout stairs and into the tunnel leading to the locker room, Brenda felt as though she had a secret. It reminded her of when she first learned she was pregnant with Andy, but she and Ed didn’t tell anyone for a couple months. Carrying that news around had been a private joy. She wasn’t sure what to call what she was feeling now. In time, maybe she would call it love.

  Brenda headed back to her locker room to review scouting reports and hitters on the iPad and didn’t go back to the locker room until just before game time. When she walked in, she saw Hodges and Bandkins standing near the television, shaking with laughter. A few other players were in the locker room, and most of them glanced over at her as she entered. They were already dressed, so she knew that wasn’t why they were looking at her. It had to be the pictures.

  Pasquela, Landers, Sparks, and Cipriani were in their usual spots in front of the television, playing Grand Theft Auto. Other players were sitting by their lockers making last-minute adjustments to their cleats or gloves or doing whatever else they needed to prepare for the game. Other players were hanging out at the three round tables immediately in front of the main door where Brenda entered. She surprised herself by not feeling nervous or scared. “There’s nothing he can do to you,” she said to herself. “You’re just returning something he left in your locker room.”