Diamond in the Rough

by Marie Ferrarella

“His older daughter, Ariel, died of cancer. Something like that can destroy a person, but he went on playing. Because a lot of little boys like you were counting on him.”

  “Then why did he do this?” he’d cried.

  “I don’t know, Mike. But I do know that he’s sorry it ever happened. Sorry that he disappointed boys like you. And girls, too,” she added with that smile of hers that promised him it would be all right.

  And it was.

  Eventually.

  Discovering that his hero had feet of clay hadn’t killed his love of the game—something else he shared with his stepmother. He went on to go to other baseball games and eventually, could even tolerate watching the Angels play again. Without Shaw.

  Like all boys at some point or other, he’d entertained dreams of being a baseball player himself. Not outstanding enough to ever make it to the minors, much less the majors, he went to college, got a degree in journalism and did the next best thing to playing—writing about the game and the players who made it all come to life.

  He’d honestly thought he’d gotten over his disappointment in Shaw until he’d started writing the article. It was as if something deep inside of him was set free. The boy who’d been so sorely disappointed had been there all along, waiting to ask why.

  Until he knew why, he couldn’t begin to forgive. But all his attempts at interviewing Shaw over the last few years during baseball season had been rebuffed. The man didn’t even return his phone calls.

  Every year the members of the Baseball Writers Association of America would get together and pore over a list of eligible retired players to decide if there were any viable candidates. This year, there had been a rumor going around that perhaps it was time to bend the rules a bit, to forgive and forget and welcome a man who, had he not committed the unforgivable, would have been a shoo-in.

  As far as Mike was concerned, there was a difference between retired and run out on a rail. One was honorable, the other drenched in disgrace.

  When he’d heard the rumor a third time, Mike knew he had to say something, to finally speak up and make his feelings known. Looking back, maybe it had been the hurt boy who had written the article. But what he’d written needed to be said and he was certain that it had been the right thing to do.

  But obviously “Miranda” from Bedford didn’t share his opinion, he thought with a bemused smile as he read her latest e-mail. She’d told him so in no uncertain words—he paused to count the number of e-mails with her name on them—ten times. Ten different times. He shook his head. Who would have thought there were ten different ways to say the same thing?

  The woman was probably an old groupie, he thought. Baseball groupies had been around as long as the game, following a team from city to city just to sit in the stands and look adoringly at some player or other, if not the whole team. He had no doubt that Miranda had probably gotten a little something on the side once from SOS—the man was only human after all—and felt a personal connection to the pitcher.

  Mike rolled the thought over in his head. Shaw had been touted as the ultimate family man—until the death of his daughter. Shaw’s wife, he’d heard, never recovered and eventually died, but not before divorcing him. That had been a black period for the pitcher, but he still played. Some said better than ever, as if he was taking solace the only way he knew how. Off the field, there’d been talk of women and wild parties, but nothing had ever been substantiated.

  Mike couldn’t help thinking that this Miranda was probably from that era.

  Straightening, Mike began to type.

  Dear Miranda, he wrote. I’m afraid that you might be allowing sentiment to cloud your judgment. No one is arguing that SOS wasn’t a dynamic player in his day, only that he turned out to be a monumental disappointment to the worshipful boys—and girls, he added in deference to his stepmother, who all thought of him as their hero. Heroes blackened by scandals are no longer heroes, no matter what their personal stats are. I stand by my position. Under no circumstances is SOS to be absolved of his sin and welcomed into the hall of fame, to share space with the men who truly deserve to be there.

  He reread his words once, decided that he was satisfied and hit Send.

  Working at her station, Miranda noticed the e-mail response that suddenly popped up in the corner of her screen. Because the subject referenced was the title of the article that had gotten her so angry, she opened the e-mail immediately. She hadn’t really expected an answer.

  Scanning the reply, she set her jaw hard. Within a heartbeat, she was firing back a response to Marlowe’s response.

  Were you always such a pompous ass, or did your present so-called vocation do that to you? I’ve been following your column for some time now. Until today, I actually thought you had a brain, as well as a heart, but obviously the wizard decided to abruptly take them both back.

  Not bothering to reread her words, something she usually did very carefully before sending anything, Miranda hit Send. She hit the key so hard, she broke a nail.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Tilda watching her. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to let it out slowly in an attempt to calm down. But she’d no sooner blown that breath out than more words appeared on her screen.

  Clever. Obviously I am not going to make my case with you, which is all right. Different opinions are what make the world go around. Let’s just agree to disagree.

  He was being lofty, and high-handed, making her out to be the small-minded one here when they both knew it was him.

  I don’t agree to anything, she fired back. You’re wrong, as well as inflexible. If you were in front of me right now, I’d make you eat your words.

  Mike leaned back, studying the latest missive that tore across his screen like silent gunfire. He’d obviously struck a nerve. Part of him felt like just letting this go. But both his father and stepmother had taught him to stand up for what he believed and never to back away from a fight, even one that was annoyingly inconsequential, like this one.

  No matter what my location, he typed, referring to her comment about standing in front of her, I’d still believe what I believe. He took off the kid gloves he’d envisioned himself wearing during the initial response. Forgiveness is for dropped pitches, not dropped morals. If you’d like to continue this debate in person, you name the time and place.

  There, that should put her in her place, he thought, pressing Send.

  Mike didn’t think he’d receive an answer, other than a few choice expletives, so he was rather surprised when yet another volley of words appeared on his computer screen.

  Bailey’s Sports Bar. Six o’clock. Today.

  Chapter Two

  Mike stared at the screen, waiting for something more to appear.

  Several seconds passed. No additional words materialized. The brief, staccato sentences seemed to pulse on the field of white, looking for all the world like a challenge. It reminded him of a cocky kid with his chin thrust forward, daring him to take a swing.

  Except that in this case, the words belonged to a cocky female. One who obviously lived and breathed the game of baseball—or maybe just focused on Shaw to the exclusion of everything else.

  The woman obviously was in dire need of a life, he decided.

  For a second, he debated the wisdom of meeting her. Undoubtedly, there were too many birds nesting on her antennae and he had no desire to get tangled up with a crazy woman. But then, Bailey’s Sports Bar was a pretty crowded place at six, even on a Monday. Besides, he had to admit that his curiosity had been aroused. If the woman actually knew SOS, she might be willing to tell a few stories. This might the closest thing to an interview with Shaw that he could score.

  Or maybe, if he played his cards right and she did know the former pitcher, he might even wind up getting an introduction.

  But as he finally put his hand to the keyboard, Mike saw a single word take form on his screen. Afraid?

  She’d hit him where he lived.

  You’re on, he type
d, then realized he needed a way to recognize her when she walked into Bailey’s. How will I know you?

  Her answer was far from satisfying. Instead of a description, she gave him a cryptic reply. I’ll know you.

  Miranda liked having the advantage on her side. Maybe it wasn’t polite, but at the moment, with the article still warm on her desk, she wasn’t feeling very polite. And this know-it-all didn’t deserve any cut slack.

  Unless the photo on top of your column is an outdated one, she added.

  It was a distinct possibility. A great many people in the arts used publicity photographs far more reminiscent of years gone by than of present day.

  He answered her in less than a beat. Only by a year.

  That meant he was good-looking, Miranda thought. Either that, or the photographer was deeply enamored of Photoshop. In either case, it didn’t matter. Giving the man a piece of her mind in person was most important. If people like him, bent on maintaining a grudge, didn’t exist, her father could receive the honor he richly deserved. He told her that it didn’t matter to him, but she knew better. How could something like that not matter?

  Good, she typed. I’ll see you at six, she reiterated.

  Maybe six-thirty would be a better time, Mike decided, typing the words the moment he reconsidered.

  But it was too late. The woman on the other end of the dueling e-mail exchange was gone. His amended suggestion received no response and the sentence he’d typed sat as a solitary bottom line, lonely and unnoticed. The dialogue, such as it was, was over.

  Mike studied the very brief correspondence, beginning with the woman’s opening e-mail to him about today’s column. This “Miranda” had to be old, he decided. His proof was that there were no one-letter shortcuts in any of the messages as had become the custom in quick messaging. It was a way of communication that personally irritated him. As a journalist, he’d always thought of the English language as an art form, something to be utilized rather than pared down. Most of the people he worked and socialized with didn’t feel the same. They were all in their twenties or early thirties.

  This led him to the conclusion that the woman he had agreed to meet in person had to be some obsessed middle-aged—or older—harpy. She probably had a shrine in her bedroom devoted to Steven Orin Shaw, complete with a wall of photographs. Most likely she had it surrounded with candles.

  Mike leaned back in his chair, knotting his fingers together behind his head as he mulled over the situation.

  Maybe he wouldn’t show.

  He did have an excuse. It was only Monday, but he did have to start getting ready to fill in for Ryan Wynters this weekend. The senior sportswriter had come down with the worst case of flu according to his editor, Howard Hilliard. Ryan was supposed to be covering the Super Bowl this Sunday. Since he was next in line, that meant that he was now covering the tradition-honored event. By all rights, he should be home, packing, not wasting his time sitting on a bar stool in a sports bar with some incensed female nut-job intent on a duel of words.

  Whoever this Miranda was, he wasn’t going to convince her and she wasn’t going to convince him. What was the point of going?

  He frowned.

  The point of going was that he’d said he would. And he always kept his word.

  Mike sighed.

  Lance Matthews, the theater critic who sat opposite him, looked up. His gaunt, elongated face was devoid of any sort of telltale emotion or even a clue as to his thoughts.

  “A little stronger and that could qualify as a class one hurricane. Did Ryan call in to say he was feeling well enough to cover the Soup Bowl after all?”

  “Super Bowl,” Mike automatically corrected, even though he knew that Lance had made the mistake on purpose. Just like everyone knew that Ryan had to practically be on his death bed to miss the event. “No,” he added slowly, “I’m just debating whether or not to meet this fan at a sports bar.”

  Something akin to mild interest passed over Lance’s alabaster face. “Fan of what? You?”

  Mike heard the incredulous note in the other man’s voice. Lance was the one with an ego, not him. “No, of Steven Shaw.”

  The man nodded and Mike expected him to drop the matter. Lance looked down his nose at anything more physical than finding the seat numbers on his theater tickets. But apparently the man did absorb a few things that went on around him. He actually knew who Steven Shaw was.

  “They’re a small but steadfast bunch. Loyal to the end, so I hear. I thought they might come out of the woodwork after your little Steven-Shaw-should-rot-in-hell-for-all-eternity piece.” He ended the pronouncement with a smug smirk.

  “I didn’t say that,” Mike protested. “I just said that, if we reconsider our stand and put him in the running for the hall of fame, then we’ve surrendered our standards. We’d be setting a terrible precedent and a bad example for the younger fans.”

  Lance raised his hand in defense. “Please, spare me. I don’t need to have you quote the entire article for me. I assure you, I get the gist.” Lance paused, then added, “And, as a matter of fact, I quite agree.”

  That stunned Mike. He couldn’t remember when he and the other man had agreed on anything.

  “What I don’t agree with is your actually meeting with this so-called ‘fan.’ At least, not without taking some pepper spray with you. Did it occur to you that this woman might be deranged? Of course,” he added, “anyone who’s so rabid about sports has to be a little deranged as far as I’m concerned.”

  That made up Mike’s mind for him. “Thanks for your concern, but I can take care of myself.”

  The smirk on Lance’s lips widened and the theater critic shook his head as if to say, Poor fool. What he did say was, “I take it you never saw Misery.”

  That would be the movie about the fanatical fan, Mike thought. “As a matter of fact, I have. If this Miranda comes into the bar carrying a hatchet, I’ll be sure to duck out the back.”

  Lance’s eyes narrowed, but there was still evidence of contempt. “It might very well be too late by then.”

  Mike shrugged. “I’ll take my chances,” he said, before getting back to his notes for his next day’s column.

  And so, approximately five hours later, Mike found himself securely planted on a bar stool, nursing a warm glass of beer and watching the door. But every time it opened, someone other than this so-called Miranda—who called their kid Miranda, anyway?—entered.

  His beer was almost gone.

  He’d arrived ten minutes before six, preferring to be early so that he had the advantage of observing the woman when she crossed the floor. He wanted to size her up before they met face-to-face. No woman he knew—other than Kate—was ever anything but late.

  He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock on the dot. Dollars to donuts, she wasn’t going to show, he thought, taking another sip of his beer. Setting the mug down, he ran a thumb over his lips to eliminate any residue suds. He’d give her fifteen minutes, then leave.

  When an older woman walked in alone, Mike was sure he’d found his challenger. She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes traveling over the length of his body as if he were a tall, frosty glass of ice water and she were newly arrived from the desert. And then, after a slight hesitation that appeared to be tinged with regret, she continued walking right past him.

  Damn, he didn’t have time for this. After draining his glass, he set it back down on the bar with finality. He really did need to get going. He hadn’t finished his article and there was still that packing to do. He never liked leaving things until the last minute. He never knew when he might need that minute for something else.

  Preoccupied, he didn’t feel the hand on his arm, didn’t realize there was anyone standing beside him until he turned right into her. And bumped up against possibly the firmest soft body he’d ever encountered. Thrown off guard, Mike took a quick step back.

  The apology was automatic, as were the manners ingrained in him from a very young age. “Sorry, didn’t see
you standing there.” Wow, she was hot and he tried not to stare. It had been a while since he’d witnessed such a perfect combination of body and face. “My gorgeous woman radar must be down.”

  “Right along with your common sense, I see,” the woman countered. A hint of a smile curved her lips. Or maybe that was just his imagination. “That line doesn’t really work, does it?”

  “It’s not a line,” he assured her. Very few women took his breath away. After all, this was Southern California, where more than a preponderance of beautiful women existed, many of whom held down “other” jobs in Hollywood. But this one was definitely in a class by herself. “Just an honest observation.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. He almost got the impression she was staring straight into his mind.

  “Like all your other observations?” she finally asked.

  Was that a smirk on her face? Why? They didn’t know each other. God knew he would have remembered meeting a woman who exuded what he could only term as barely harnessed sexuality. Her long blond hair was bound up with a few pins. He had a feeling if he pulled them out, like in one of those old, hokey, grade B movies, a storm of swirling blond curls would tumble down and all but overwhelm her face. He usually liked sleek hair, but on her, he would have bet his soul that curly would look damn good.

  Almost as good as those curves beneath the sensible navy blue jacket and matching pencil skirt.

  For some reason, he caught himself thinking of one of those fantasies, the ones that started out with a refined, scholarly looking woman who, with a little bit of coaxing, turned into a smoldering tigress.

  He definitely needed to get out more.

  The way she watched him made him feel they knew each other. But how? He would have remembered her, no question.

  “Do I know you?” he finally asked. Although it was tempting, he didn’t add that he knew he wanted to know her because that, too, sounded like a line. A pitiful one.