by Camel Press
Benji furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “Mmm, technically the poker game would be the catalyst. You would be a substrate thereof.”
Cat rolled her eyes and leaned over the gear shift to give him a kiss goodbye.
“I’ll see you tonight, Beaker.”
“Meep!”
Chapter 19
Cat thought she was getting up to the press box early, but when she opened the door, the room was full. She hadn’t even beat Spencer, who’d waved her over before she stepped inside.
He pulled out the chair next to his. “You ready for this?”
“If I say no, will they postpone it?”
Spencer pretended to mull it over. “Considering they didn’t even postpone it for a dead first baseman, I’m gonna say no.”
“I know, but they thought about it and the weather forecast is showing rain for Friday and Saturday so—” She saw Spencer’s brows rising and stopped herself, relenting to his cynicism with a smile. “So I’m an ass for even trying to defend them.”
“I heard we’re doing a moment of silence before the anthem, at least.”
“Yeah, they’ve planned a little pregame ceremony as a tribute, too.”
“How nice,” Spencer replied dryly. “I’m sure if they’d had more advance notice, they would’ve tried to get Kleenex to sponsor the game.”
Cat shushed him as the press box began to grow crowded. Down on the field, Melissa Staats was escorted by Roger Aiken to a chair next to the first base. Alongside them were arrangements of carnations, the flowers dyed to a Soldiers’ pumpkin orange. Over the speakers the PA announcer began a eulogy, while the JumboTron played highlights of Damien’s baseball career.
Other than the Buffalo reporters, no one in the press box paid attention. Damien’s death had been front page material yesterday, and today it was old news. Neither Cat nor Spencer said a word until the eulogy had concluded, at which point the JumboTron switched to personal photos of Damien Staats, starting with his t-ball photos. Cat had to hand it to the team’s event coordinator, she sure could put together a tearjerker on short notice. “Stairway to Heaven” began to play and Spencer broke the silence.
“Come on! Is it just me or are you having serious déjà vu?”
She whispered, “What?”
“We did this last night. I don’t want to sound like the soulless Commissioner, but let’s play baseball already.”
“Damien was a Zeppelin fan.”
“Do you know how long this song is?”
“It could be worse. ‘Achilles Last Stand,’ for example.” She playfully jabbed him with her elbow.
The tribute came to an end with a standing ovation from the crowd. After two straight minutes of applause, the PA addresser asked for a moment of silence. It was followed with another prolonged round of clapping. Finally, Roger escorted Melissa back inside and the grounds crew began to prepare the field.
Spencer whispered under this breath, “Play ball.”
Chapter 20
“Here I thought we already did the moment of silence.”
Cat, who was trying not to grind her teeth, ignored Spencer. After starting the game with a raucous roar, the hometown fans had fallen silent. She understood their emotional exhaustion. The starting pitching had begat a bullpen battle and now they were in the bottom of the ninth inning with a tied score of zero.
Spencer had been one-lining like he was Henny Youngman all game long, but Cat couldn’t muster up much in response other than polite smiles and nods.
As the batter at the plate swung and missed for the third out, Spencer groaned. “This is crazy. I can’t remember the last time I saw a playoff game go into extra innings with goose eggs.”
“Four years ago, championship series, game 2, Las Vegas versus New York.”
Spencer lightly tapped on her forehead with his index finger. “What else you got up there? Can you check my credit card balance?”
“I covered the game for a sports blog.” She sighed and longingly gazed out to the field. “Which might be my job once again if the Soldiers don’t win tonight.”
“No way. You’re not going to get fired for one lousy poker game.”
Cat glanced around the press box to make sure their conversation was private. “Spencer, you know how these fans are. If they call for my head, Roger Aiken won’t have a choice.”
“Roger Aiken loves you. He always calls on you first at pressers and answers every question you ask.” Spencer’s smile twisted. “Even when the News Herald guy has had his hand up for forty straight minutes.”
Cat knew Spencer was kidding, but she didn’t doubt there were colleagues who took issue with the close relationship she had with Roger. The former player turned general manager had given her a chance last winter under the quid pro quo of babysitting his party girl daughter during an internship down at the Santo Domingo training camp. When Cat had ousted the girl’s boyfriend as a dirty agent and inspired his daughter to change her ways, Roger had wanted to make her team president. She didn’t think she’d ever find her job in jeopardy as long as he was in charge. Of course, that was before Quinn had showed up.
Now, in the tenth inning, her job and the Soldiers’ season were on borrowed time. With the heart of Chicago’s order up now and the Buffalo’s best hitters due to come to the plate at the bottom half of the inning, the Soldiers’ manager brought in his best bullpen pitcher, Adam Alvarez. It was clear the manager didn’t plan on there being an eleventh inning. He wanted AA to finish off Chicago so his guys could find a way to score a walkoff win.
When Adam Alvarez gave up a single on the first pitch, Cat didn’t say a word. She could feel Spencer staring at her, but couldn’t take her eyes off the game. Then he gave up another hit. She merely took a deep breath. The lead runner would score the go-ahead run with only one more single. There were no outs, so if she were Chicago, she’d bunt the runner over to third and hit a sacrifice fly to bring him home. She surveyed the field, trying to decipher if that’s what they were going to do.
Instead, the Soldiers’ pitching coach came charging out of the dugout and met Adam, the catcher and the infielders on the mound. Cat drummed her fingers on the desktop.
“Maybe the couple days off did more harm than good.”
“You think?” She winced when she heard how harsh it sounded and offered Spencer a helpless smile.
He gave her a pat on the back. “They’ve gotten out of worse situations than this.”
The head umpire hurried to the mound and broke up the meeting. He’d barely given them thirty seconds for their conference, but umpires tended to get stingy as the innings went into extras.
“Someone’s got dinner reservations,” Spencer said.
The players scurried back to their positions, while the pitching coach strolled back into the dugout. Adam took a deep breath and threw the pitch.
The first pitch looked good, but the ump called it a ball. The Soldiers’ fans broke their silence, jumping to their feet and booing. Cat watched the replay on the flat screen that hung on the wall. The ump got the call right; it was a smidge off the outside corner. The next pitch was nearly a foot off the plate, and the Soldiers’ catcher nearly dislocated his shoulder snagging it. It was still a ball, but by catching it, he kept the runners at first and second. He hopped out of his squatted position and ran to the mound, mumbling something under his mitt to Adam. He hurried back and Adam threw the next pitch.
Strike one.
Finally.
The batter stepped out of the box and scooted the dirt under his cleats, muttering disagreement to the umpire in the least obvious of ways because with a runner in scoring position, the last thing a player wanted was to be ejected for arguing balls and strikes. Cat turned to catch the replay. The batter had reason to be upset; it had been a pity strike. Any other day, it would’ve been a ball.
“Caught a break there,” she murmured to Spencer.
“Thank God. What is wrong with AA?”
The disgruntled player
stepped back in the box and Adam threw another pitch. This time it was not only outside, but also a little high. The count was now three balls to one strike. If there was ever a time for Adam to throw his lights-out fastball, this was it. Instead, he threw a splitter that bounced in the dirt in front of home plate. The batter lay off of it and was rewarded with a free base.
Bases loaded. No outs.
“Oh jeez.” Spencer buried his hands in his head.
With the blink of an eye, the Soldiers’ manager burst out of the dugout and rushed the mound. Cat frowned. His anger had gotten the best of him and as a result, strategy would suffer. Normally managers would take a leisurely stroll to the mound, each heavy footstep giving his bullpen an extra pitch to warm up. Instead, the Soldiers’ manager was already confronting Adam. Amid the boos of the stadium, he ripped the baseball out of the closer’s hand and sent Adam trudging toward the dugout. The fans weren’t letting AA off the hook this time. They pointed their fingers, waved their arms and screamed, their faces angry and red beneath their stocking caps.
Adam’s replacement, Dan Santiago, had been a closer himself—ten years ago. Now the veteran hurler was an afterthought in the bullpen, sought after more for his wisdom than his arm. He made a good role model for the young kids, but this would probably be his last season as a player.
“This pitching change brought to you by the AARP.”
Cat granted Spencer a stingy smile and then resumed her frown. “Bases loaded, no outs. We’re so screwed.”
“Nah! In Santiago’s day, the trip from the bullpen was five miles uphill both ways, in the snow, barefoot. This is nothing for him.”
She rolled her eyes. “Laugh it up, Chuckles, but Chicago’s ninety feet away from ending our season.”
Cat held her breath as the first pitch was thrown. It was a fastball and the batter swung and missed for an undisputable strike. He fouled off the next pitch, bringing the strike count to two and putting the at-bat in the pitcher’s favor. Santiago took his chances with a curveball and the batter bounced it to the shortstop, who flipped it to second base. From there it zipped to first for a quintessential 6-4-3 double play.
“Two for the price of one.” Spencer pumped his fist.
It was a deal any team would take in a bases-loaded situation, but while Buffalo was getting the two outs, the runner on third had scored the go-ahead run, meaning that as long as Chicago could hold onto the lead in the bottom of the inning, the game was theirs. Worse yet, their best hitter was stepping into the box.
Before she could panic or Spencer could make another quip, the fastball left the mound and flew off his bat, soaring over the infield.
She cringed as the ball continued, seemingly destined for the bleachers.
Spencer jumped to his feet. “Going … going ….”
“Caught.”
She grinned as the ball was snatched from home run distance by the Soldiers’ centerfielder.
The stadium went wild as the players jogged into the dugout. Considering the situation Adam Alvarez had gotten them into, they were lucky to come out of the inning only one run behind. The game wasn’t over yet.
Baseball is a funny game.
Whatever way the game went, that was going to be her opening line for the recap. Fifteen minutes ago, the fans were ready to take off in order to beat the traffic out of the ballpark. Now, as the scoreboard showed no outs and Buffalo had a runner on first, second and third—completely mimicking Chicago by loading the bases with no outs—the stadium was ready to celebrate victory. At the very least, they had an excellent shot of tying the game and sending it into an eleventh inning.
Unlike the Soldiers though, Chicago wasn’t ready to pull the plug on their pitcher after he managed to get Buffalo’s catcher to foul out. Joel Faulk had already played hero once in this series and he was stepping up to the plate to do it again. With one out in the game, he would no doubt be called upon to bunt, and Chicago knew it. The defenders crept closer to the plate in anticipation. The Soldiers’ runner on third broke for home as Chicago’s pitcher began his delivery to Joel. Joel squared to bunt the pitch for a suicide squeeze. It would result in an out for him, but his only job in this play was to make contact with the ball so the runner on third base could score. It didn’t matter where the pitch was; he had to get his bat on it. Failure to do so would make the runner trying to score a sitting duck.
The ball left the pitcher’s hand.
Instead of bunting the low pitch, Joel sloppily pulled his bat back.
Gasps abounded throughout the press box.
Spencer groaned.
The runner coming home from third couldn’t turn around and Chicago’s catcher gently tagged him out at home. There was nothing else that could be done. He was a sitting duck, but worse, he was also the second out.
Cat merely closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see the replay and she didn’t need to. That misplay would be engraved in her memory for years to come.
“What the hell was that?”
“Did he not understand the sign?”
“What is wrong with that kid?”
Cat and Spencer each vied to outdo the other in degrees of bewilderment. When she gaped, he shook his head. She blinked, he dropped his head. She slapped her forehead, he clasped his hands around his neck to mimic choking. She finally smiled and bowed in deference.
The press box simmered down with the next pitch. Joel still had a chance to redeem himself with a hit. Instead, he stared at a fastball down the middle of the plate for strike two.
Cat clasped her hands together and rested her chin on her white knuckles. They just needed one hit, one lousy hit. The pitch was thrown and Joel swung. Making contact, the ball dribbled out in front of home plate, right into the glove of Chicago’s reliever. He scooped it up and tossed it over to first base before Joel was even halfway down the baseline.
The season was over.
The reporters began to rush out of the press box, but Cat just stared at the field. Players poured out of the visitor’s dugout and rushed the mound with their teammates. The Soldiers slumped into their own dugout. In the stands, clusters of orange jerseys made their way to the exits, while the blue-jerseyed fans danced in the aisles.
Cat’s cellphone buzzed, but she ignored it. It was surely just Benji trying to cheer her up, but he wasn’t a sports fan. He didn’t understand how seriously a true fan took this game. She’d once described it to him as planting a flower seed, watering it every day and tending to it for six months, only to have someone else come along and pluck it just before it bloomed. His response was a lecture on seed dormancy and germination.
Not only did her crushing disappointment elude him, but he especially didn’t understand how sports fans looked for anyone to blame. What was worse, their opinions carried weight. Benji’s students might hate his guts, but as long as he competently taught his subject, followed the rules, wore a sports coat and kept his hair at a somewhat respectable length, there wasn’t a thing those students could do about it. In her job, fan backlash could chase anyone, even players, out of town. After this at-bat, Joel might’ve taken her number one spot as Buffalo’s Most Wanted, but her mug shot was still hanging next to it.
“Hey, you with me still?”
“Huh?” Cat blinked. Spencer was waving his hand in front of her face. “Oh. Yeah. Let’s go. I’ve got to get an explanation of that at-bat.”
Right now, the rage the fans were directing at Joel Faulk had nothing on her own.
They passed the visiting clubhouse. The screams and whoops could be heard all the way down the hallway.
“That’s salt in the wounds, huh?”
Cat snuck a peek inside as reporters buzzed in and out. “Have fun trying to get the champagne out of your hair,” she muttered under her breath.
Spencer wrapped an arm about her shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze.
In the clubhouse, they had nearly arrived at Joel’s locker when Cat stopped in her tracks, grabbing Spencer’s
arm to make him do the same. “Wait.”
“What?”
“Where’s all the media? A play like that should have this corner packed.”
They scanned the clubhouse. Sure enough, various reporters were scattered around in clusters, with no one player getting all of the attention.
Each player was spouting his sound bite, but Cat could’ve written them all without hearing the words.
“I can’t believe it ended like that. I’m going to be going over this game all winter long.”
“I don’t know what to say. Maybe we should’ve taken Chicago more seriously. We had the best record in the league and they were the wildcard, but you wouldn’t know it from the way we played.”
“None of us is ready to go home. We wanted to keep playing until the end of October.”
Players filed out of the showers under the watchful eyes of both Cat and Spencer. She gave another look around the room. “I don’t get this. Where is Joel?”
“Joel?”
They both turned to Santiago, the aged pitcher who bailed the team out in the tenth inning, after Adam’s collapse. “That fucking punk walked out on us. He and Adam both.”
Spencer fumbled to switch on his recorder. Cat didn’t bother. She wouldn’t have any trouble remembering his words. “They left?”
“Tucked their tails and ran out of here before the fans had even left.” Santiago pointed his finger in her face. “I’ll tell you this much. We can forgive mistakes, gaffes, bonehead plays. But you don’t walk out on your teammates and leave them to face the music.”
“Did either of them say anything?”
“Not one word.” As Santiago walked off, leaving Cat and Spencer more flabbergasted than ever, he said, “They better hope I don’t see them again until spring training. Even then might be too soon.”
“Hey, you two, Skipper’s gonna be in the conference room in five.”
Cat smiled to acknowledge the local TV reporter’s heads-up, and she and Spencer followed her into the conference room.
The manager slumped in and shook his head. “Not too much to say tonight. That game could’ve gone either way but it went to Chicago.” He adjusted his ball cap before eventually taking it off and running his hand through his graying hair. “No, actually, it couldn’t have. The first nine innings, maybe. That tenth inning was inexcusable. From Alvarez’s impression of a pitching machine to whatever the hell it was that Faulk was trying to do, we gave them this game with a crooked bow on it. Merry Christmas, Windy City.”