Night Game (3 page)

On my way back to the media room, I was almost totalled in a collision with a waist-high hurricane in jeans and a striped T-shirt who came hurtling around the corner of the stadium. I grabbed the kid to prevent him from falling and he punched me on the thigh, hard.

“Justin, be nice to the lady,” his mother said. She was Tracy Swain, Stinger’s wife, carrying a squirming baby in one arm and a diaper bag in the other, but looking as coolly beautiful as ever. She’s got that kind of long, straight, shiny, pale blonde hair they use in ads for Swedish tourism.

“I’m sorry about that, Kate,” she said. “Sometimes he’s a little bit too aggressive. Boys will be boys, you know.”

“That’s okay,” I said. Takes after his dad, I didn’t say.

“How’s your little girl?” I asked, doing the baby thing.

“Getting into everything,” she said. “But adorable.”

“What’s her name, again?” I had forgotten whether it was Kimberley or some other soap opera name.

“Ashley,” she said.

“Right.”

I felt a bit awkward. I know and get along with several of the wives, but Tracy was never one of them. Her being married to Stinger pretty much guaranteed that.

“Did you have a nice winter?” I asked.

“It was a winter of great revelation and change,” she said. “In December, I welcomed Jesus Christ as my saviour.”

“That’s nice,” I said. What else could I say?

“Now I stand in the brilliant light of God’s truth,” she said, unselfconsciously, as if we were discussing a new diet or workout program.

“What about your husband?” I asked. “Did he experience the same change?”

“Not yet,” she smiled brightly, “but I pray for him.”

Fat chance of that prayer ever being answered.

“Well, good luck to you,” I said.

“Those who have God’s grace don’t need luck,” she said.

“Whatever.”

I looked at my watch.

“Oh, no, is that the time? I have to run,” I said. “I have a story to write. It’s been nice talking to you.”

“I’ll pray for you, too,” Tracy said.

“It can’t hurt,” I said, picked up my bag, and got out of there.

Before I got to the workroom, Millie, the woman in charge of the kitchen and other amenities, called me into the dining room, very pleased, and handed me a florist’s box. Inside was a single long-stemmed red rose. No card. I blushed.

“Secret admirer?” Millie asked.

“Not too secret,” I said.

“What’s the occasion?”

“My birthday.”

“I won’t ask which one,” Millie said, winking conspiratorially. She had a year or two on me.

“I don’t care,” I said. “I’m forty-two.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said.

“I know. I don’t look a day over forty-one, right?”

“No, really, honey. You look great.”

“Thanks, Millie. But let’s not make a big fuss about this. Do you have anything I can use for a vase?”

She rummaged in the cupboard until she found a big ugly green pressed-glass horror, the kind they send from cut-rate florists. The rose looked forlorn in it.

“A bit large, I think,” I said. “Have you got a clean beer bottle?”

“That’s a shame for such a beautiful flower,” she said.

“Just think of it as a metaphor,” I said.

“A what?”

“Never mind,” I said. Musing about myself as a delicate blossom in crude surroundings, I went into the cubbyhole where my computer was set up. There were a couple of parcels on my worktable. One was from my parents in Saskatchewan and the other was from my own address. Sally and T.C. hadn’t forgotten either. I decided to open them at home; something to look forward to.

I called my editor, Jake Watson, in Toronto, and promised him a story by 3:00.

“Have you spoken to Spencer about pictures?” I asked.

“Can’t say as I have,” he answered. “Since you’re there, I thought you would take care of it.”

“I can barely bring myself to talk to the incompetent son-of-a-bitch,” I said. “He thinks it would be a really original idea to shoot pictures of players doing their stretching exercises. Why did they send him?”

“His turn, I guess. They’re sure glad to have him out of the office.”

“I’d think they would miss him for the weekly shots of lottery winners being given their cheques.”

“Now, now, Kate,” Jake said. “A photographer is as good as the ideas he is given.”

“Since when am I in charge of visuals around here?”

“Since Spencer’s turn came up in the rotation. I know you’ll get good work out of him.”

“Great, Jake. I’m glad you have faith in me. Talk to you later.”

“One more thing, Kate.”

“Yeah.”

“Happy birthday,” Jake chuckled. I hung up.

I was starting up my computer, watching random garble march alarmingly across the screen, when hands covered my eyes.

“Guess who, kiddo,” the voice said.

There’s only one person who calls me that. I grabbed one of the hands and bit it.

“Let’s have a bit of respect for your elders,” I said, getting up to hug Jeff Glebe, the
Planet
’s sports columnist, all six-foot-five of him.

“When did you get in?” I asked, delighted to see him.

“I came right from the airport,” he said, grinning all over his slightly goofy face. “I couldn’t wait to see you.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “You couldn’t wait for free lunch, is more like it.”

“That, too.”

I looked at my watch. It was 11:30. Morning practice would be winding down soon.

“In an hour, okay? I’ve got to grab some quotes.”

“I’m not writing today.”

“Lucky you. You can drink beer and catch up on the gossip.”

“Is Juicy Lucy in camp yet?”

“You pig. You’re as bad as the rest of them.”

“I just like to watch her in action. It’s a sociological study.”

“Just don’t invite her to lunch, if you value our friendship.”

“What about breakfast?”

“Not if you value your pecker’s health,” I said, and went in search of players with facial hair.

The first one I found was Bony Costello, the lugubrious lefthander with the handlebar moustache who heads the starting rotation, just walking in the players’ gate.

“Pass your physical?” I asked.

“Well, I’ve got a few more pounds to lose,” he said, gloomily.

“Robins, daffodils, Bony on a diet, all the harbingers of spring,” I teased.

“I tried this winter, Kate, honest to god. But my mother keeps feeding me her great pasta. What can I do? I can’t offend Mama.”

“Maybe she should learn to make salads.”

“You don’t understand. I’m the thin one in the family.”

I looked at his 230-pound bulk and shuddered. “Look on the bright side, Bony. You’ll probably drop five pounds when you shave off your moustache.”

He put his hand to his upper lip protectively and looked even sadder.

“That’s nothing to joke about,” he said. “I don’t know if I can pitch without it. I started growing it when I was in a slump my second year in the minors.”

Bony, I should point out here, is the most superstitious player I’ve ever encountered. If he identifies with Samson and believes that his talent comes from a growth of hair under his nose, the Titans’ ace could well go down the toilet. I wonder if Olliphant realizes what a neurotic he has heading his starting rotation.

“What I wanted to ask you is whether we can get a picture of you shaving it off.”

He looked appalled.

“Kate, there are some things a man has got to do in private.”

“Okay, Bony, I understand. Forget it. Tell me what you think of the new manager so far.”

We chatted for a few minutes, relatively unproductively. For a truly bizarre guy, Costello is a pretty dull interview. He strains over each answer and brings forth nothing more than inarticulate platitudes. Also, like most pitchers, he is completely self-absorbed. I cut it short when I saw Flakey Patterson, another of the left-handers, coming out of the clubhouse. Flakey is colourful, good copy and, more to the point, the only Titan with a beard. I asked him about the latest edict.

“Ah, Kate, Kate, count on you to ferret out our little secret,” he said. “I’m all for it. Clean body, clean shave, clean mind, pure heart. That’s what it takes to win this game.”

“You’re going to go along with it?”

“Completely By tomorrow morning, there will not be a region on my body, public or private, that is not as smooth as a newborn child’s.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Legs? Pits?”

“Why would I kid? El Supremo wants clean-shaven, I shall give him clean-shaven.”

“Do you plan to do this alone?”

“I have enlisted the assistance of a qualified medical professional, as soon as she is off duty at the clinic. Would you care to be a witness?”

“No thanks,” I said, “but I wouldn’t mind some photographs of the shaving of the more public bits.”

“It would be nice to have a record,” he said. “Come to my place at four.”

I scribbled down the address, which was a condo complex where a lot of the players stayed, not too far from the apartment hotel in which the
Planet
stashes its writers.

“Is this an exclusive?” I asked, feeling like an idiot. An athlete shaving his head is hardly going to win the National Newspaper Award, but I always like keeping stuff away from the other two papers.

“If you can guarantee me the front page of the sports section and get me a dozen copies,” he said.

“That shouldn’t be a problem. The Leafs aren’t playing.”

“The
Mirror
might give me the front page of the whole paper, in colour,” he mused.

“And Keith Jarvis called you a has-been last week.”

“You have a point,” he said. “I appreciate a fine mind like yours. Cruel, but fine. You shall have the scoop.”

“I’ll see you at four,” I said.

“You can wield the blade, if you wish.”

“Taking a pass on that one,” I said, and left him.

I made the rounds of a few more of the players, picking up predictable quotes. There was general agreement, for the record, that Olliphant’s discipline was just what the team needed. The only one who meant it was Atsuo Watanabe, the shortstop, who had had a hard time adjusting to the nonchalance of American players since his arrival from Japan the year before.

I found Spencer and told him where to meet me at 4:00, then went in search of Jeff Glebe. I found him sitting cross-legged on a small patch of grass outside the media room, having a beer.

“First of the day?” I asked. He held up three fingers.

“Come on, big boy, I’d better buy you lunch,” I said.

Bill Spencer greeted us as we came in the door.

“Guess you’re glad to be down here, eh, Stretch?” he asked Jeff, who hates being called that. “Guess you left a lot of that white stuff behind.”

“Yep. There was a whole bunch of winter back there in Toronto,” Jeff said.

“Welcome to paradise, buddy. It doesn’t get much better than this,” Spencer said. We moved on.

“The horrible thing is, he believes it,” I said.

We moved into the dining room, which was packed with freeloaders. Millie had laid out the usual spread of cold cuts, cheese, chicken salad, tuna fish, coleslaw, potato salad, and four kinds of bread. There were containers of butter, mayo, and three kinds of mustard; several jars of homemade pickles; and a big hot-pot full of baked beans. It was one of the best free lunches in the Grapefruit League. I spotted a couple of Yankee scouts and the public relations director from the National League office among the usual lineup of reporters and television types.

Jeff and I built ourselves some sandwiches, grabbed a couple of cold beers, and headed outside to sit in the sun. The left-field bleachers served as our picnic table.

“Who’s interesting?” Jeff asked me.

“There’s a new Dominican,” I said. “Domingo Avila. But I have dibs on him for a feature if he looks good.”

“I heard about him,” Jeff said. “Didn’t he go through three levels in the minors last year? He can hit. Power too, if I remember rightly.”

“And he’s fast. Eighty-seven steals combined last year.”

“What’s he like?”

“He seems like a nice kid. A real rah-rah guy.”

“What’s his position?”

“There’s the rub, as that great sportswriter Billy Shakespeare once said. He’s a natural hitter, but a butcher in the field. He really needs another year in Triple A for seasoning. If he sticks, they would have to use him as the designated hitter, but he’s a bit young for that. We’ll see how he does here.”

“They’d be crazy to rush him.”

“Maybe. But the kid can hit and the fans are hungry for new faces. It will all depend on Olliphant.”

“Still, he’s a good story.”

“For me,” I reminded Jeff. “My beat. Columnists defer.”

“Yes ma’am. What else?”

“It’s still early days. But I know one thing. These guys are going to have to do more than go through the motions for a change.”

“Olliphant’s tough?”

“Like the pope’s right-wing.”

“It will look good on them.”

“The golf courses and dog tracks may have to declare a day of mourning, though.”

Jeff finished off the last bite of his third sandwich and looked with dismay at his empty plate.

“You think there’s any dessert?” he asked.

“Oh, God, how do you stay so thin?”

“Come on, let’s go check. Maybe Millie made pie.”

“I’ll pass, thanks. Bring me back a coffee.”

“Come with me. Just see if there’s pie. You can’t live on that one little sandwich.”

“I’ve never met anyone so obsessed with his stomach,” I said, getting up and gathering my garbage together. “I’ll leave you to the pie. I have a story to write. I’ve got to be somewhere at four.”

“Want to have dinner later?”

“Maybe,” I said.

We walked back to the media centre. Jeff held the door for me. Then I understood why he insisted upon my joining him. There wasn’t any pie. Just cake, with one great big candle burning in it, and a bunch of idiots singing “Happy Birthday.” I hate this kind of thing, but Jeff was behind me, blocking the door. And singing. Off key. I could feel myself blushing. Or maybe it was a hot flash, given my age.

“Thanks, guys,” I said, when the applause was over. “You really know how to humiliate a person.”

I cut the cake, then Hugh Marsh called for silence.

“Kate, we have a small token of our esteem for you. We’re all part of the same family, and we think this little gift is emblematic of your place in that family.”

I accepted the wrapped package warily. The way they were watching me, I knew it had to be a joke. It was. Inside the box was a jockstrap, dyed pink, with ruffles on the pouch. Somebody must have made his wife sew them on.

“Gee, guys, that’s really sweet. How did you know my size?”

The celebration ended quickly enough. I had a token piece of cake, which was homemade, and delicious, covered in gooey fudge icing. Lucy Cartwright approached me just as I was licking it off my fingers.

“Happy birthday, Kate!” she twinkled. “I can’t believe you’re really forty-two. Like that’s really incredible, you know? I mean, you’re older than my mom, but you don’t look it.”

“Thanks, Lucy” I muttered. “You’re too kind.”

“No, really, I’m not kidding you,” she said. “You know if you changed your hair a bit and didn’t dress quite so straight? You know? I mean, you could look like you were like thirty. Maybe we could go shopping sometime.”

Oh, great, just what I needed. A makeover session with Teen Tart of Greater Tampa Bay. We could get matching crotch-notching pedal pushers. And spike heels? And she could teach me to talk all the time in question marks?

“It’s not a good time right now,” I said. “I’m not really much of a shopper.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” she said. “And we could do a trade, you know? Like maybe you could give me some tips on sportswriting?”

She stood, smiling eagerly, flirting. It was the only way she knew to interact.

“What are you working on now?” I asked.

“Well, like I told Mr. Olliphant, I really want to do something on the rookies, you know? Some of them have played here, and some of them will be playing here this year. That’s what interests my readers.”

Her readers? Good grief!

“I guess you know as much as I do,” I shrugged. “I saw you talking with Milhouse. He’s a possibility. So’s Avila.”

“Yes, I know Domingo,” she said. “We, like, dated when he was playing here at the beginning of last season? I taught him most of the English he knows, but it’s still not very good, you know? My Spanish is better.”

“Better than mine, I’m sure. I speak a bit, but not enough for a real interview.”

“Well, if you want me to help, I will,” she said.

“That’s very kind, Lucy. I would appreciate that.”

“Okey-dokey,” she said. “I’ve got to go now. Happy birthday again.”

She wriggled across the room, picked up her notebook and went out the door.

I was still shaking my head when I sat down at my computer.