by April Smith
The bus turns into the Parque de los Tres Ojos and has barely stopped before a hustler jumps on board and bargains for protection. It is early but other tours are already there. The Germans get off, cameras swinging. Their cologne blankets the air. They walk a gauntlet of peddlers selling coconuts, peeled oranges, limes, bananas, cigarettes and candy bars from portable trays. There are tables of carvings made from stalactites, amber and onyx jewelry, and the ubiquitous Haitian paintings.
The park is shady and drippingly humid. The group descends the mossy steps and invariably somebody slips. The guide begins his speech. He has to compete with Japanese and English. He explains this is one of the city’s most popular natural attractions. Its name—Park of the Three Eyes—comes from the unusual formation of three large sinkholes. Each has a different kind of water, one is bottomless. In a few minutes they will take a boat from one pool to another. As they can see, it is raining inside the cavern, and the stalactites and stalagmites are sparkling under the red and blue lamps. The natural light is dim and filtered. The heat is dense, like a hothouse, and it is hard to breathe. Those who are claustrophobic might prefer not to go on the boat, as it will have to pass through a narrow limestone tunnel.
He leads them slowly down another set of steps toward the pool. Please don’t go swimming, the tour guide jokes, people have tried and never returned.
A longboat is waiting. As the group begins to climb over wet rocks, someone spots Joe Galinis’s body floating facedown. Already it has begun to swell. The arms are spread in a pointless embrace, the back of the head blown out into something indescribable. They shout for the boatman, who stumbles toward the bow and reaches for the hand, but the skin slips right off; the red streamers drifting undisturbed toward infinity stirred by the swaying of the boat into curls of watery roses.
Later the police will say the man had been symbolically shot through the eyes, a warning to others not to try to see.
Pedro leans over the wall at the edge of the roof. Below him the General and his cronies, three other retired army officers, are bringing their coffees and bowls of steamed yucca to a wooden table in a shaded part of the alley. One of them opens a box and spills out worn dominoes. Pedro watches the tops of their heads with contempt. Even now, years after Trujillo, that old shudder, that reflex, has never quite left him. Criminals. He would like to send a wad of spit sailing right down their necks.
He backs away. He will have to tell Rhonda his decision. There will be tears, but what can he say? “All this time I think I am holding a baseball. Now I find out, the baseball has been holding me.”
Painfully, he climbs down the narrow steps to the apartment. His catcher’s legs are shot to hell.
Acknowledgments
I was continually humbled during the research for this book by people who, when asked for their time and expertise, said yes.
The first person who told me, “Sure. I’ll help,” was Susan L. Enquist, head coach for the UCLA women’s softball team. I am indebted to her and to the players and families of the Bruins for providing the background from which I fashioned Cassidy Sanderson’s childhood and athletic career. Also invaluable in that regard were Kristeen Weiss, head varsity softball coach for Ashland High School, and, for Ashland lore, Michelle Galt.
Gina Satriano and Michelle McAnany, players for the Colorado Silver Bullets, gave firsthand accounts of what it was like to break the hardball barrier, thanks to Bob Hope, owner of the team and a passionate advocate of women in baseball.
A number of sportswriters unselfishly educated me about the game—Elizabeth Cosin, Mal Florence, Paige A. Leech, Maryann Hudson, Art Thompson III and the wonderful Tot and Pearlie Holmes.
For authenticity of police procedure, I am beholden to James M. Gabbard, Chief of Police, Vero Beach Police Department, as well as Sergeant David Currey and Lt. Raymond J. Barker. In Los Angeles, LAPD Detective Greg Schwein and Captain Don Mauro, Ret., of the Sheriff’s Department, answered endless questions with grace and humor and became essential advisors.
There were others who gave openly of their professional knowledge: Randy Anderson, Nelson and Selma Castro, Robert F. Iverson, M.D., Greg Isaacs, Nicholas Hammond, Theodore Kyriazis, Joy Manesiotis, Nick Petnick and William F. Skinner, M.D. The sports arena described in this book (now the Staples Center) would not exist—in real life as well as on these pages—without the mastery and personal kindnesses of architect Ron Turner.
The soul of Gregg Sanderson was inspired by those engaged in the daily fight against cystic fibrosis: Joanna Fanos, Maureen Finnerty, D. J. Kaley and Bruce Nickerson, M.D., touched me enormously with their upbeat dedication. I was privileged to know William D. Biggley and Alberto Torres, two bright, articulate young people with CF who showed such courage and wit. Meeting them changed my life. May their memories, and those of all who have struggled with CF, be the inspiration for a cure.
Ultimately I owe the existence of this book to those who kept the faith during the five years it took to write. I could not have completed it without the stalwart support of my editor and publisher, Sonny Mehta; the insight and dedication of his assistant, Leyla Aker; the brilliance of my New York agent, Molly Friedrich; the patience and smarts of my West Coast agent, Robert Graham, and my attorney, Walter Teller; the laughs with my workout buddies and trainers; the comradeship of Coach Paul Henne and the Pacific Palisades Masters Swim Team; the encouragement of writer friends; and my terrific family—especially the shining spirits of my children and the abiding love and editorial skill of my husband, Douglas Brayfield. Thank you all.
Lastly, there were indiviuals who requested anonymity. In many cases they were the ones who held the key to the world of this book, and unlocked it for me. They deserve my very deepest appreciation. Well, you know who you are. And here it is.