Come Back to the Ballpark, Maisy Gray

by Cynthia Tennent

  It had been going through the clubhouse. His catcher had caught it the next day. Sam had ripped on the cleaning staff and told them he wanted the clubhouse hosed down and decontaminated from now on or he was terminating their contract.

  “So, this Maisy showed up and Halderman pitched a no-hitter.” Sam was slowly getting it. But it was stupid.

  “Exactly.”

  “And this is a big deal now?”

  “To the fans. Yes. Didn’t you notice the signs in left field before the team went on their West Coast trip earlier in the week?”

  “No.”

  “There were at least half a dozen people holding signs that said, ‘Come back to the ballpark, Maisy Gray.’”

  “Seriously?” Fans always amazed Sam. Their face paint. Their wacko posters. The way they would make out for the kiss cam at the drop of a hat. Whatever made them famous on the jumbotron.

  Tristan slapped the newspaper. “They think this Maisy is Halderman’s good luck charm. And based on these stats, they are right.”

  Sam had no time for this bull. He moved to the door again. “I guess Kevin’s got a lucky rabbit’s foot to catch.”

  “No. We do. It was the talk on 97.1 Radio yesterday. They made it a segue into sports and superstition. The conversation lasted half the Bert Ives show.”

  “You should have phoned in and told them they were all delusional then.”

  Tristan raised his hands. “One in four Americans is superstitious and half of them are baseball fans. You can ignore it. But I suspect unless Halderman finds another win like he had last week, this is going to grow.”

  Crap. Kevin had tanked in Oakland just last night. Tristan’s argument would be stronger now. Another reason Sam hated numbers. They could be used to prove any point, no matter how ridiculous.

  “I don’t really see what we can do about it. But thanks for telling me.”

  Tristan shoved the newspaper in Sam’s hands. His hooded eyes and curt tone told Sam he was making a mistake. “Just doing my job, boss.”

  Sam hurried back to his office and tossed the newspaper on his desk. He was late. Grabbing a folder and popping a piece of gum in his mouth, he barely glanced at the image on the front of the sports section. He was halfway out the door when he froze and turned back. He picked up the article about Kevin’s lucky ex and took a closer look.

  The black-and-white picture was grainy. But there was no mistaking the shoulder-length bob, the wide-set brown eyes, and the magic smile.

  The only thing Maisy Gray was missing was a remote control and a shot of tequila.

  Chapter Four

  The corridors of Turbos Stadium were quiet. The mad rush for nachos and the bathroom would come when the disastrous second inning was over. The Red Sox had scored four runs in the top of the second and the Turbos were currently lackluster at bat. Hopefully, the pitcher could get through the next inning without being pulled.

  Sam was exhausted. He had just spent the morning at the Indianapolis Economic Club glad-handing local dignitaries and corporate ticket holders. He’d given a recycled speech after a VIP luncheon, explaining all the ways that the Turbos were going to be in contention by the end of September. After that he’d participated in a closed-door meeting in which the budget was twisted and stretched in a million different ways, except for the one way he wanted it to go. He couldn’t help wondering how long he could wait out another Halderman losing streak before suggesting a trade.

  Tristan caught up with him before he entered the press box. He held a frozen parfait covered in berries that Sam didn’t even know they served at the stadium. “The whole bleacher section was chanting for Maisy Gray last night.”

  “The whole bleacher section was drunk,” Sam said.

  It was also three-quarters empty this afternoon. The Turbos’ other losing pitcher, thirty-five-year-old Romeo Lopez, was on the mound tonight. He’d come cheap from Cleveland and Sam had hoped he’d get another few years out of him before he hung up his glove. Unfortunately, the man didn’t seem to have anything left in the engine. He’d be lucky to last five innings tonight.

  Tristan held up his smartphone. “The buzz has started again. Talk radio covered Halderman’s good luck charm for a full segment. Ricky Minolta says Halderman hasn’t been able to find his own nostril much less the strike zone since Maisy left the game three years ago. Even Kevin is telling people she’s always brought him luck.”

  “Kevin still believes in Santa Claus. And sports talk radio has twenty-four hours of commentary to fill. It’ll die down,” Sam said.

  “Whatever you say,” Tristan said before digging his spoon into the parfait.

  “Don’t you have some numbers to go count somewhere?” Sam left Tristan to his snack and nodded to the security guard stationed at the foot of a short stairway in front of the press box.

  Dealing with the media was one of Sam’s least favorite parts of the job. It ranked up there with finding illegal drugs in the clubhouse or sending a thirty-five-year-old back to the minors. Seldom did he agree to be interviewed. It wasn’t him the fans were interested in anyway. Zoom’s exaggerated anecdotes and dizzying monologues were far more entertaining than he could ever be.

  Mercer Fazio greeted Sam with a wave. His occasional partner on the air, Luther McLean, leaned backwards in his chair and covered his microphone while Mercer kept talking.

  “Sam,” Luther McLean said. His blue eyes lit up as brightly as his red hair.

  “Luther.”

  Beside him sat Sam’s boss. Charlie Zumaeta. Zoom. At six foot six, Zoom towered over the broadcasters, even seated. With his dark, thin hair combed over the top of his elongated, egg-shaped head and a nose that looked like it had been broken several times, Charlie Zumaeta was imposing in an unconventional way.

  Forty years ago, Zoom had taken five thousand dollars he had made as part owner in a popular Chicago pizza restaurant and invested it in a small Midwest donut chain. With a strong background in marketing and a large personality that won him friends and influential people, Charlie Zumaeta had grown the business into a nationwide phenomenon. When the health craze had threatened to end donuts, he’d introduced deluxe coffee, breakfast sandwiches, and drive-up windows to make Donut King a giant of the industry, up there with Dunkin’ Donuts and Tim Hortons. When Indianapolis was chosen by Major League Baseball to host an expansion team, Zoom had swung his weight (and his money) around and helped make it happen.

  Zoom knew nothing about baseball and everything about success. Just being in his presence made Sam feel like a kid again. He reached in his pocket for a piece of gum.

  Mercer adjusted his headset and made a call as the Red Sox second baseman caught an infield pop fly to end the second inning. He gave the teaser for tomorrow night’s game, promoted the online auction for the annual Indiana Summer Gala, and promised an interview with Zoom after the station break. Then he went to commercial.

  Sam leaned against the back wall and watched as Zoom was miked.

  “Sam, do you want to join us for the interview this evening?” Luther asked slyly.

  “I am joining you. Just not on air.” Sam hadn’t spoken to Luther since the article he’d written about Maisy Gray. After he’d made his unsettling discovery, Sam had thrown the newspaper in the bottom drawer of his desk. Except for once or twice a day, when he opened that particular drawer, he barely thought about Maisy Gray.

  Zoom checked himself out in the mirror at the side of the booth. “Sam is too ugly and boring to make the airwaves.”

  “That’s not what some of the ladies at the station say.” Mercer winked at Sam.

  “He’s not old enough to date yet. Right, son?” There were a lot of things about Charlie Zumaeta that Sam tolerated. Having to suffer through the constant reminder that Sam was young for his position was one of them.

  At thirty-six years old, Sam was one of Major League Bas
eball’s youngest general managers. Zoom had given him a big break when he hired him. He never let Sam forget that. Sam didn’t return the favor by pointing out that he had given Zoom a break, too. Cheap labor. His salary was the lowest in the league…by far.

  The three men in front of the camera were momentarily distracted as the lights came on and the producer did a final voice check on Zoom’s mike. The third inning was beginning. Mercer and Luther introduced Zoom and started the play-by-play.

  On the field, Romeo Lopez began his windup. Sam watched it on the monitor and tried not to cringe when it went so wide that Blake Alokar, the catcher, almost lost it. A familiar surge of adrenaline coursed through his body when pitchers threw wild. The challenge for a catcher was to calm his man down and get his head back in the game. That’s how it had been for him once.

  Charlie Zumaeta, always the savvy schmoozer with the press, ignored what was happening on the field and started the interview with a suck-up compliment. “I can’t tell you how much I enjoy being in the booth with two of the best again.”

  “Thanks. You know we love having you, Zoom.”

  Zoom adjusted his bright orange tie over the purple plaid shirt that somehow seemed to match. Sam was always amazed at how he seemed to make color work for him. Zoom was flashy and just this side of tacky. Sam’s clothing, in stark contrast, was muted. He’d spent the whole day in a dark gray suit and white shirt that felt like a straitjacket. In the seats below the press box, a group of men his age in T-shirts and baseball hats drank oversized beer and acted like total bozos. He couldn’t help but envy them.

  “So, Zoom, we’ve talked at length about the Turbos’ prospects for making the play-offs in October. What do you, as the owner of this young franchise, realistically expect will happen?”

  “I think we’re going to slide into the World Series like icing on a glazed donut. I’m so sure about it I’ve already got a new flavor for October. It’s gonna be called Championship Chocolate.”

  Luther McLean cast his eyes toward Sam and exhaled a tiny puff of doubt that the camera didn’t pick up.

  “It’s not exactly looking like that at the moment, Zoom. We aren’t even at the five hundred mark,” said Mercer.

  Charlie’s smiling face filled the screen as he continued to spout the same optimism that had won him customers and investors. “April, May, and June are the months when we let our boys find their feet. They’re like our donuts. Everyone has a flavor they love, but they have to taste a dozen to know which one it is. I’m betting our boys are going to be in the running come September and there will be no looking back.”

  Luther leaned in. “Speaking of finding the right flavor, we all thought Kevin Halderman had discovered his arm after that brilliant no-hitter. But after his last two outings, it seems like he’s ordering the wrong donut again. What do you think of that?”

  Zoom’s smile wavered and then curled up and stayed. “A no-hitter is an amazing accomplishment. I couldn’t be prouder of that young man if he were my own son.”

  Luther raised one eyebrow and zeroed in on Sam. Sam maintained an impassive face. They were both thinking the same thing. Zoom’s son, Stefan, was probably drinking his fourth rum and Coke in the owner’s box. He was as unpopular in the corporate offices of Donut King as he was in the clubhouse.

  Luther commented on a very deep fly to center field that was thankfully caught. Then he spoke up as if Sam wasn’t standing three feet away. “Sam Hunter has made no bones about the fact that the success of the team pivots on the pitching staff. Are you thinking of making any trades any time soon?”

  For the first time since the interview started, Zoom squirmed. Sam had discussed trading Kevin with him. Zoom had been opposed to the idea from the get-go, but especially now that Kevin had thrown a no-hitter. “Kevin’s our man. Born and raised in Indiana. Just a few short hours from this stadium, you know. We’ll get him back into shape in no time.”

  The camera was on the ball game again and Mercer picked up the play-by-play. Lopez walked the player on four bad pitches. The next batter took his time at the plate.

  Luther’s face twisted as he reeled Zoom in further. “Rumors have been flying that the only reason Kevin pitched the no-hitter was because his ex-girlfriend was in the stadium. She’s his lucky charm, it seems. I wrote a column myself about it.”

  Shit. Sam ran a hand around his collar and tried not to flick Luther the finger.

  Zoom didn’t listen to talk radio and he certainly never read the newspaper unless the article was about him. He had no idea what Luther was talking about.

  Zoom shifted uncomfortably. “I must have missed that column, Luther.”

  “The fans in the upper deck are holding up signs that say, ‘We want Maisy.’” On cue the camera showed the fans Luther was talking about. Tristan had mentioned it, but it was the first time Sam had actually seen one of them.

  “Look at that…” Zoom put a hand on his tie and tugged it.

  “Are you superstitious, Zoom?”

  “Superstitious? Sure. Why do you think I wear these colorful ties? I’ve got a whole closet full of lucky ties, and if we win, I wear them again. If we lose, I put them in the giveaway bin. Drives the missus crazy.” True to form, Zoom had recovered from his surprise and was ready to talk about his favorite subject—himself.

  Mercer slapped the table. “Now that we know your secret, we’ll be looking for the next tie.”

  The batter sent a grounder to the third baseman, who set up a double play.

  After commenting, Luther returned one more time to the topic of luck. The man was like a dog that would dig in the dirt all day if given a chance. “Maybe you need to bring more than a new tie to Kevin Halderman’s next game, Zoom.”

  They cut to commercial.

  Sam was five steps out the door when he heard Luther. “Hang on a sec, Hunter.” He stomped toward Sam, his green jacket waving behind him.

  Sam kept walking. “Don’t you have a game to call?”

  “I’m taking a break. Say, Lopez is looking a little wild out there, don’t you think?”

  “It’s early in the game. He’ll settle down,” Sam remarked.

  “The fans are getting restless. They think that little good luck charm is going to put them back in play.”

  Sam said nothing as Luther fell in step with him. He was remarkably fast for an old, snaggle-toothed tiger. And in decent shape. Unlike Sam, Luther wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

  The old-timer was fierce with his opinion and had no qualms about ripping the management of the Turbos into shreds. Sam could fill the whole stadium with Luther’s biting analysis of the Turbos and the poor trades they had made in the past few years. It wouldn’t have bothered Sam except for one thing. Luther was usually right.

  “I guess Zoom was surprised back there, huh? He didn’t know who Maisy Gray is.”

  “Here’s an idea, McLean. How about you focus on baseball. Not that gossip rag crap.”

  “That’s my point. The fans want baseball. And the way your team is playing, they aren’t getting it right now. Why is that?”

  “Gee, it never occurred to me to look into it,” Sam bit back sarcastically.

  “Maybe it’s a looney owner and a budget the size of his dick.”

  “Planning to let Zoom know how you feel, Luther?”

  “Not yet. But you can sit down for an interview and we can discuss the real problem with the team.”

  Sam stopped and glared at him. “No.”

  “You haven’t given an interview in months. You and I both know your budget is sucking the life out of the team. Sports radio is too occupied with the Colts’ off-season draft picks to give it much airtime. But I’m not into football right now.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “That no-hitter screwed up any chance of getting Halderman off the payroll. You must have been sweating out
your eyeballs when that game ended.”

  The man was an evil genius.

  Sam reached for a piece of gum and realized he already had three pieces in his mouth. “Did you come up with that one all by yourself, McLean?”

  Luther grinned, the kind of grin that told Sam he was better at this game. “Maybe it’s more fun to write about this Maisy Gray for a while. What do you think, Hunter? It’s the kind of story the fans love. Crossed lovers. A famous baseball player who’s slumping farther than a hundred-year-old man. And a pretty girl we all wish lived next door.”

  Funny. Sam didn’t think of Maisy Gray as the girl next door. He’d called her wholesome, but she belonged in a much sexier place than a house with a picket fence. More like a hotel room with red silk sheets.

  He shrugged. “Print what you want. It’s your paper.”

  “Not mine. I just work there. Kind of like you work here.” Luther leaned his head to the side. “Either one of us could be out with the wrong move.”

  “I guess that’s a hazard of the job. Maybe you should get yourself your own good luck charm, McLean.” Sam walked away, stopping at a trash can to spit out his gum.

  He was almost at the elevator that led to the front office when Luther called out, “Just let me know when you want to do an interview. Until then, maybe I’ll take out my lucky pen and write about our golden girl again. She’s the only interesting thing that’s happened to the Turbos in years.”

  Sam was so irritated he made a sharp left and ran up the stairs, willing his Fitbit to mark his steps. When he reached his office, he checked his mileage. Shit. Nowhere near his goal. He slammed the door, shutting out the press and the fickle crowd that was booing over what was likely another Turbos strikeout. He turned on the game, opened a protein bar, and put his feet up on his cluttered desk. He tried to focus on the screen and resisted the urge to pick up the remote control and switch the station to Wheel of Fortune.