by Wan, Helen
Hunter shook his head. “Nice try. But everyone has to wear the team jersey.” He jerked his chin toward the duffel. “We have tons. I’ll give you one when we get there. Let’s just go.”
“All right, all right, just give me a second to change. I’ll meet you guys down in the lobby.”
“Make it fast.” Hunter looked at his watch. “I really hate forfeiting to that Davis Polk guy, competitive prick.”
Hi, pot, meet kettle.
Hunter was absurdly competitive about Lawyers League softball. For someone who’d married into this job, knew no law, and regularly padded his hours, he played strictly by the book when it came to softball. The official rules of the Central Park Lawyers League required each law firm to field a team of at least eight players, of which at least one must be a woman. Otherwise, you had to forfeit. That morning, Hunter had panicked after finding out that Melissa McCabe from Trusts and Estates, the only woman on the team, was being sent to Boston to deal with a client emergency and wouldn’t be able to play. That had inspired his ridiculous e-mail plea.
TO: PARSONS_NY_OFFICE_ALL_ATTYS
FROM: Russell, Hunter F.
SUBJECT: DESPERATELY SEEKING FEMALE …
… TO PLAY IN TONIGHT’S SOFTBALL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH VS. DAVIS POLK, THAT IS. CENTRAL PARK, EAST MEADOW, 7:00 PM SHARP!!!!!! IF INTERESTED, CONTACT HUNTER RUSSELL, x3146, ASAP!!!! FREE JERSEY!!!!!!!
I’d laughed out loud and said, “Yeah, right, good luck with that,” before hitting DELETE.
Three hours later, Hunter showed up at my office.
“Please. I’m begging here.” Hunter—in his custom-tailored Paul Smith suit—dropped to the floor in the doorway of my office and, hands clasped as if in prayer, shuffled toward me on his knees. “Seriously, Yung, I can’t find any other female associate to play tonight. It’s the championship game! If we can’t field a regulation team we automatically forfeit! Please, Yung. Please.” He shuffled over to my swivel chair and clung to my leg.
“Hunter,” I said, looking down at him calmly.
He blinked up at me from the floor.
“Have some dignity, Hunter. You’re embarrassing us both.”
“Please, Yung!” he wailed.
“I’m not much of an athlete these days.”
He released his grip on my leg but remained on his knees. “Come on. You played women’s soccer in college, right? And tennis?”
I wondered how Hunter knew all this. “Those aren’t the same,” I said. “I don’t know the first thing about baseball.”
“Softball, Ingrid. Softball. And we don’t even use a regulation ball! Lawyers League uses a ball that’s even softer than regulation. It’s really easy to hit.” Hunter flashed me a hopeful smile.
I pretended to tap thoughtfully at my chin. “Okay, hmm, let’s see. How do you think this would look to the partners—I’m supposed to be running this billion-dollar megadeal for Adler’s client, yet I’m leaving the office at six forty-five to go play softball in Central Park?”
Hunter smiled smugly. “Actually,” he said, “Adler usually shows up to watch all our games. And Tim Hollister’s playing tonight.”
I frowned. “I didn’t know any of those guys came to your games.”
“Yeah, they do,” Hunter continued proudly. “We all go out for beers afterward at Paddy Maguire’s, and Adler picks up the tab at the end of the night. It’s great. You should totally come. Murph started up this tradition a while ago.”
“Huh.” Murph had never mentioned anything to me about going drinking with the partners. I thought about how Marty Adler had cornered me at the elevators about the Diversity Initiative, the impatient, vaguely hostile way he’d said, I don’t have to tell you how much we value an associate’s nonlegal contributions to the firm. I wondered if Murph organizing private little drinking outings with the senior partners counted as his nonlegal contribution.
“Come on, Yung. Be my hero.”
I looked at Hunter, still groveling on the floor beside my desk. Something about the way he’d said “hero” appealed to me—especially if Marty Adler was going to be there to see it. You want nonlegal contributions? I’ll show you nonlegal contributions.
“All right, all right. I’m in. Jesus. I can’t stand to see a grown man beg.”
Hunter sprang out of the car as soon as we got to the Central Park playing fields. He bolted up the path, bag full of jerseys, three bats, and mitt in tow. Murph and I followed behind.
The Davis Polk team had already arrived. Their team captain was waiting by the bleachers, arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked into his armpits. “Nice of you guys to show,” he called over to us.
“Asshole,” Murph said under his breath. The rest of our team had also just arrived and were standing around stretching and doing warm-ups. Tim Hollister was indeed among them, and he smiled and waved when he saw me. I waved back. Tim had shed his glasses for the game; tonight he was looking a little less Clark Kent and more Superman. The other player I recognized right away was Link Forster—Mr. January from the firm outing. The team was rounded out by three first-year guys from Litigation whose names I didn’t know, who all had that arrogant, freshly shaven, self-congratulatory look about them, belonging singularly to young graduates dazzled to find themselves twenty-five years old, living in Manhattan, and suddenly making six figures a year.
I was surprised by the number of people who’d showed up to cheer us on. The crowd from Parsons Valentine was mostly nonlegal staff—even Margo said she’d attended one or two of the games—but I also recognized quite a few associates, and not just first-years, either. I spotted Tyler among a group of assorted Corporate associates. He was waving both arms over his head so I’d see him. Bless you, Tyler. I’d convinced him to come tonight for moral support. It was probably the first and only time Tyler Robinson would ever attend a firm softball game. I was touched.
I waved enthusiastically back at him, widening my eyes and giving him a sheepish what did I get myself into shrug. He smirked back at me. No idea how you got talked into this, darling.
I scanned the rest of the crowd; no Marty Adler.
Now Murph was walking over to me with the bag full of jerseys. “All right, so you’re supposed to put this on,” he said, reaching in and tossing one to me.
I held up the white heavyweight cotton jersey with three-quarter-length navy blue sleeves. The firm logo was discreetly embossed in the upper left corner, like an alligator or a polo pony, and across the chest it read, in blue script slanting slightly upward, THE PROSECUTORS. It wasn’t the most creative name, but it was better than their original choice: the Well-Hung Jury. Fortunately, the firm’s Management Committee had intervened.
Legal humor was so lame. Back in law school, when I’d go out to dinner with a bunch of classmates, somebody would invariably say something like “Guess I’ll have the chocolate torte,” and everyone would crack up. It was painful.
I held the jersey up to my chest. On me, it was a dress. I checked the tag. “Murph, this is a size L. Isn’t there anything smaller?”
“Oh.” He looked taken aback. “Even smaller than that? Uh, yeah, let me look.” He pawed through the bag and finally came up with another jersey. “No smalls, but here’s the last medium,” he said, tossing it at me.
I pulled the jersey on over my camisole, and still I was swimming in it.
I went to a lot of firm outings and client retreats, and for some reason, no law firm, investment bank, or corporation ever ordered its company T-shirts in enough size smalls.
Hunter and the Davis Polk captain were busily conferring over by the stands, their heads bent over two clipboards. Then Hunter turned and pointed in my direction. The Davis Polk captain looked my way, nodded briefly at Hunter, and crossed something out on his clipboard.
After a few minutes Hunter jogged back over to us. “Okay, so here’s the deal,” he said. Tim Hollister, Link Forster, and the three first-year Litigation guys came over, and together we all h
uddled around Hunter’s clipboard. Link lifted his chin at me and said, “Hey, thanks for filling in for Melissa.” Man, he was adorable.
The three first-years looked me up and down but said nothing.
“Okay, guys, this is the lineup,” said Hunter. “Forster, you’re up first.” Everyone nodded quickly, unsurprised, and I looked over at Link’s athletic frame and realized he must be considered something of a powerhouse, at least for Lawyers League.
Hunter proceeded to rattle off six more names. Finally, he said, “Uh, so that means—Yung, you’re up last.”
I was suspicious.
“Does Melissa normally go last?” I asked.
Hunter glanced up from his clipboard. “Uh, no. Why?”
“No reason, just curious,” I said. I knew Melissa was a very good player, from hearing Hunter and Murph’s game recaps over lunch in the Jury Box. Apparently she’d co-captained an intramural softball team while at UVA Law. I’d never actually worked with her, but Melissa seemed cool. She was tall—taller even than a lot of the men she worked with—with lots of freckles and a loud, jokey personality. Hunter, Murph, and all those guys spoke fondly of her, but I could tell from their tone she was the type of girl they’d never try to sleep with. Or they would, but they wouldn’t be falling all over themselves to tell their buddies about it the next day.
Hunter shifted the clipboard to his hip. “You got a problem with going last?” he asked, not unkindly.
Everyone turned to look at me.
“No, no, it’s fine. I’ll go last, that’s cool.” I smiled to say, no hard feelings. But I knew now that I was definitely the weak link in tonight’s lineup. They were shifting me to the position where I could do the least damage. I’d probably have one less turn at bat than everyone else. Even so, Link Forster would be up right after me, to execute any necessary damage control.
“Okay, then,” Hunter said, clapping his hands. “Let’s go.”
Davis Polk was in the field. We were batting first. Hunter instructed us to line up in order and wait our turn behind the chain-link fence that backed up the catcher and home plate. Link Forster rubbed his hands together briskly and then picked up a bat.
“Okay, Forster, let’s do this,” said Hunter, clapping Link on the shoulder as he approached the plate. I could see that Hunter took his team captain duties very seriously.
Some scattered catcalls and screams of “Liiiiink!” erupted from the crowd behind us. The chorus was distinctly female.
Link was a lefty. He stood to the right of the plate, holding the bat at a careful angle above his shoulder, cap down low over his eyes, knees bent, butt stuck out. The Davis Polk pitcher, a beefy bald guy, scrunched up his face, scrutinizing Link. Then he wound his arm up three times and fired the ball at Link at an alarming speed. It was a well-placed pitch. I watched Link swing at it and miss.
“Fuck.” Beside me, Hunter let out a loud, disgusted sigh, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled, “Come on! You’re phoning it in, Forster!”
Link turned around toward Hunter, rolled his eyes, and made a casual jacking-off gesture. Then he turned back to the plate. Hunter laughed and made a catcall back.
I was charmed. I thought about how much easier conflict resolution was when you were male. Maybe that was why I’d always gotten along better with men than with women. They didn’t pretend to like you when they didn’t, and they didn’t feel the need to please everyone all of the time. I admired this. It was just so efficient, so clean. Sure, they weren’t going to win any congeniality awards, but imagine how much time and emotional energy they saved.
The next time Marty Adler came knocking about another nonlegal contribution, I should simply roll my eyes and flash him a casual jacking-off gesture.
The pitcher fired at Link again. This time, bat and ball connected with a loud pop. As the Davis Polk outfielders ran, cursing, past the far reaches of the marked-off playing field, Link shot Hunter a lopsided grin, and shrugged—like happy now?—before setting off at a slow, loping jog around the bases. The crowd went wild, and for a moment I was reminded why people adored athletes. Even I was a little bit in love with Link Forster by the time he made it all the way home and stamped on the plate for emphasis.
When I finally went up for my first turn at bat, I saw all of the Davis Polk outfielders grin at each other and then jog all the way in toward the pitching mound, leaving the outfield wide open. I felt my cheeks burn and thought, Just watch, you bastards. But I swung and missed, then swung and missed again, the wind whistling in my ears as my bat whirled vainly through the air, completely missing the ball’s graceful downward arc.
I expected Hunter to yell at me, to give me shit for how poorly I was batting, the way he’d dished it out to Link. Instead, Hunter just shouted encouragingly from behind the dugout, “That’s all right, that’s okay, Ingrid, don’t worry about it. Remember, just wait for your pitch. Really try to keep your eye on the ball!”
Oh, just shut up, Hunter, I thought, before swinging and missing again. His kindness was killing me.
Finally, late in the fifth inning, I landed a single to first base—I know, it was only a single, but it sounds easier than it is—that brought Tim Hollister home for his third run. “Nice hustle, Yung!” I heard Hunter hollering from somewhere behind me, and this time it sounded sincere. Right after Tim had tagged home base, as he walked by me in the dugout, he casually reached out his hand to brush my fingers in that male-coded, mutually congratulatory way, which was something I’d just seen him do with Hunter and Link Forster. Murph punched me—surprisingly hard, actually—in the arm. “Nice work, Yung,” he said, looking genuinely impressed. “Thanks,” I said, grinning, resisting the urge to rub my arm where he’d punched it. And I was even prouder of that particular moment than I was of having gotten the damn base hit in the first place.
We won the game, seven runs to four. Not through any spectacularly dramatic feat by me, but—thankfully—not in spite of me, either.
When the game ended, the Davis Polk team was gracious enough to come over and congratulate us, and then the fans poured onto the field. Tyler came up and put his arm around me. “So I see why they call you Slugger,” he said. “You were great.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
“Surprised you’re not chained to the office. Aren’t you buried with the SunCorp thing?”
“Just sent a new round to the other side. Buys me a free night,” I said. Tyler nodded.
At the mention of SunCorp I looked around again for Marty Adler, but realized that he hadn’t shown up. I couldn’t help feeling let down. I’d come out tonight for nothing.
Even without Adler, though, the celebratory beers were still a go. About fifteen or sixteen of us, including all eight of us who had played, along with Tyler and three bubbly young women I recognized as new Litigation paralegals, headed off to the nearest Irish pub.
Paddy Maguire’s was a great dive with sawdust on the floor, a good jukebox, and a midtown mix of suits and neighborhood regulars. We elbowed our way past the boisterous after-work crowd and wedged ourselves around the bar. Tim Hollister was buying and passed the bartender his Corporate AmEx card. There was only one bar stool free, and Tim offered it to me. Chivalry was alive. I perched there with my Amstel Light, wishing I’d ordered something a little less girly.
We raised a toast to the Prosecutors, but as the crowd got progressively larger and pushier, some of the team scattered to the back of the room, where there was more space. Soon it was only me, Hunter, Murph, and Tyler still hanging out by the bar. Hunter and Murph were each on their second Guinness, and even Tyler was having a black and tan. This surprised me. Tyler and I occasionally went out after work by ourselves to the Royalton or the Peninsula, and I’d never seen him drink anything but a martini.
“What, no martini tonight?” I joked, nudging him in the elbow.
“No martini,” Tyler replied quietly. He looked annoyed.
After a minute Hunter and Murph came over to us.
“Glad you came out, Robinson,” Murph said to Tyler. (At this, I thought I heard Hunter chuckle, just a little.) “Haven’t seen you at a game all season. What changed your mind tonight?”
“You’re kidding, right?” said Tyler, pasting on a grin. “Ingrid Yung, out in the dirt, playing softball? This I had to see.”
They all laughed.
Now I was annoyed. I took a sip of my Amstel and looked sideways at the three of them. Et tu, Tyler?
Hunter cast his eyes around the bar until he spotted Tim Hollister, talking with Link and two of the first-years, over by the jukebox. The third first-year guy had already struck up a very private-looking conversation in the corner with a petite blond girl with heavy eye makeup and a rose tattoo just above her belly button.
“This song sucks,” Hunter announced. “I’m going to go put on some decent music.” And with that he pushed his way through the crowd toward Tim Hollister and the associates encircling him.
“I’ll go with you,” Murph said.
I stayed where I was and watched as Hunter and Murph pressed their way through the crowded bar and approached the Tim Hollister semicircle. I wasn’t surprised when none of the other associates opened up to let them in. This was common practice for associates trying to schmooze a partner. It was especially predictable at the firm’s weekly conference room happy hour, Fridays at Five, where you were supposed to show up and grab a cocktail wiener and a seltzer for about fifteen minutes before loudly announcing that you were swamped and absolutely had to go back up to your office or you’d be there all night. At Fridays at Five, there was about a one-to-six partner-to-associate ratio, and each partner who bothered to show up was quickly surrounded by a semicircle of eager young associates hanging on his every word, so that the room became filled not with the convivial fluidity of a crowd but with tightly guarded circles of conversation, each led by a single partner. Literal spheres of influence.
Hunter and Murph insinuated themselves into the Tim Hollister semicircle until it was forced to widen. Link Forster looked annoyed. Of course, during all of this associate jockeying for conversational position, Tim Hollister himself remained oblivious, just talking. I was sure none of the associates surrounding Tim had the slightest interest in what he was saying; the important thing was that he was saying it to them.