Throwing Like a Girl (20 page)

“You’re right, Ella! I have to tell him how I feel. For my own sake, I have to do it.”

“You do?”

“What, you’re doubting your own advice?”

“No. No. Do you want my help? Is there anything I can do?”

“No. I have to do this on my own. I should’ve done it a long time ago.”

In the house over dinner, I tell my parents everything, and they listen without interrupting. When I’m through my father nods his head in approval. My mother’s eyes glisten. “Ella, it was good advice you gave. I’m so pleased that you and Rocky have become friends and you’re able to help each other out.”

I lie awake in bed for a long time after that, trying to think about simpler things, like riding the train at night and swimming in Lake Michigan, coming up for air, feeling the sun on my face. But then I decide to think of Dallas memories instead, like getting asked to prom and playing softball.

I picture our stubby little field and the rickety bleachers. I picture practice, Coach and the team, even Sally Fontineau. I try to drop Rocky into the scene, throwing with me and Frannie and Mo. But it doesn’t really work. So I create my own setting in Rocky’s backyard, working on my stretch from first base, and then having dinner in their cramped kitchen, except I add Anthony to the table, and I’m being really cute and funny. Finally, after I’ve said good-bye and driven off in my brand-new Jeep, I trick myself into falling asleep.

Frannie, Mo, and I plan an emergency meeting in the cafeteria at noon. Sometimes it seems like everything important happens at lunch. Out of nowhere, Rocky slides her tray onto our table. A grin spreads across her face, turns into a laugh, and her whole body vibrates with the laughter. It’s glorious. Because I know what it means.

“He said
yes
. My father said I could play!”

We whoop it up, high-fiving one another. I give her a big hug across the table, knocking my milk over into my mac and cheese.

“So, tell us everything,” Mo says.

“I did exactly what Miss Know-It-All over there said I should do. I told him I understand that he wants everything to stay the same at home. Because I want that, too.” She swallows a big bite of her patty melt. “But I told him there’s something else I really, really want. And I explained, the best I could, about softball. About how I’m really good and I want to play. How I love it so much. And then I told him everyone was willing to help if he would agree.”

Her eyes well up. She sips her Coke for a second.

“He hung his head for a long time. And then, finally, he looked up at me and said he was sorry. He kept saying it over and over. He said he never knew.”

“What happens now?” Frannie asks.

“I told Coach this morning and we told Hardy together. He called my father to confirm, then he said, ‘I think this player needs a uniform.’”

“Things happen really fast if you’re good, don’t they?” Frannie says, and we all laugh.

“What number did you get?” Mo asks.

Rocky looks at me. “Lucky seven.”

“No!” I yell.

“I know. It’s ridiculous,” she says. “But I want to be a part of the numbers parade.”

On the field, Rocky moves like water or wind, more fluid than any player I’ve ever seen. I think it’s what happens when so much athletic ability meets an overflowing happiness. Everyone notices. Everyone tries to act normal, to not stare. But the way she catches a ball from any direction, the way she fires it off, all of it is grace and power and an absolute understanding of this game. It takes your breath away.

We push hard in practice. It’s as if we’re stronger and smarter than we were yesterday. Coach’s voice sounds like she’ll burst out laughing at any minute. Even the construction workers, who’ve now been forced to sit on the second highest floor of the building to watch us, seem to notice that something’s different. The attention and encouragement gets us pumped, as if each of us wants to show Rocky what we’ve got, even though she secretly knows every player’s strength and weakness from watching in the library the entire season. Her ability to remember all this and anticipate and compensate at the same time amazes me. She is outrageously beautiful when she plays.

On the way home we just keep looking at each other and laughing.

Theresa rolls her eyes and says, “
Please
.” But I can tell she’s happy for Rocky, in her own way.

All day Wednesday, I can feel the excitement of tonight’s game thumping in my chest. I see Nate for five minutes and I can’t stop giggling. He keeps saying, “What?” and he probably thinks I’m this way because of prom. I have no appetite for lunch, and when we’re getting changed in the locker room, Rocky pulls out a stash of snacks for everyone.

Sally’s in the background somewhere, grumbling and shaking her head, acting like she couldn’t care less about anything. I just refuse to worry about her anymore because I’m in the game now. I hit and throw and catch. I concentrate on the other team. I listen to Coach and think hard about how to improve my play. I’m in it completely. And Sally’s not. And, for the most part, that’s her choice.

Before the first pitch, I see my parents introducing themselves to the O’Hara kids in the bleachers, and then sitting down next to them. Rocky sees it, too, and nods at me.

Out on the field, I’m nervous. The normal nervous for myself—that I don’t mess up and that I hit the ball and don’t wipe out trying to run the bases. But I’m also nervous for Rocky. She hasn’t let on in any way, shape, or form that she’s worried or uneasy. But it’s been a few years since she’s played organized ball, and with only one day of practice under her belt and a few weeks of throwing, I can’t believe her confidence isn’t a bit faded.

Of course, that would be me, not her.

Gwen’s first pitch is a ball. Batter’s calm. Second pitch flies
over the plate. A strike. Batter’s itchy. Steps out, in again, raises her elbow, narrows her eyes. On the next pitch the batter hits a hopping grounder between second and third, and Rocky dances to her right and scoops it up easily. She takes one step and fires it off to me. I catch it, ball slamming into my webbing. We did it! The team cheers, infield and out; the bench cheers; Coach cheers and the stands do, too; my parents and the O’Haras hug one another. And it’s just the first out.

It goes on like this, mostly three up, three down. We all play better because of Rocky, but mostly it’s her game. She’s everywhere—leaping, digging, sliding, falling. And that’s only defense. At the plate, the other team’s afraid of her. She puts the ball anywhere on the field she wants. With a runner on third, she hits a blooper into right field, just over Second’s head, getting herself on first safely and the runner on third home. Her second at bat, with no one on base, she smacks the ball between left and center field, putting her on second effortlessly.

By the end we win 4–0. The whole team runs together in a huddle of high fives and shoulder slaps. It’s our fourth victory, and we’re riding a surge of adrenaline with Rocky on the team now, knowing that we really are better than we were yesterday.

We line up with the other team to exchange
good game
,
nice game
,
good play
,
nice game
. Fans and parents and friends start to leave. The construction guys stand on the top floor, their hard hats off. Frannie, Mo, Rocky, and I wave.

With two more games before the Fort Worth tournament, which doesn’t count toward our ranking in the championships, we have a chance to finish our season 6 and 5. Coach tells us not to project too far ahead, to work on the task at hand. So we don’t talk about Saturday’s away game or next Wednesday’s last home
game. Instead my friends and I brag about Rocky’s game and how we’re unbeatable and too cool for school. We talk about prom and the fact that Nate asked me (and my friends promptly scold me for the delay in telling them), and when I’m getting my dress, and how my parents feel about me going with a twelfth grader.

In the back of my mind, I list the happy moments in Dallas. I add this day, the whole day, and yesterday. Because instead of waiting for something to happen, like I’ve done my whole life, I finally
made
something happen. It’s like in science class when you see those videos of flowers blooming in fast motion, the way they uncurl and stretch out in front of your eyes. I see that in my head, feel it in my whole body, and think I’m starting to bloom where I’m planted.

On the way to Saturday’s game, Rocky and I end up sitting behind Sally and Gwen. These are nice buses, with bathrooms in the back and cushy, high seats, so I can hardly even see their heads, but still, for some stupid reason, I’m self-conscious about being this close to Nate’s sister.

“I thought you were over all that,” Rocky says, too loudly in my opinion. She can tell I’m squirming with Sally in front of us.

I give her an exasperated look and don’t respond.

“All over what?” Frannie practically yells, although she and Mo are just across the aisle.

“Nothing,” I tell them.

Everyone’s listening to music, eating or drinking, talking about whatever. No one’s focusing on me. But do they have to be so obvious? I can feel myself curling up again.

I’ve got softball in the bag in regard to Sally. But Nate is a whole other situation. I can’t escape Sally completely because I’m still going to prom with her brother, unless she can sabotage that, which I wouldn’t put past her. In the meantime, my friends have developed this absurd (what I would call, dangerous) fascination with the fact that Sally doesn’t know yet that Nate and I are going together. This makes me very uneasy.

Luckily, the game isn’t far away; it’s in Arlington at Oakridge, and their record is worse than ours. So we arrive before anything bad can happen on the bus, and we’re all pretty relaxed during warm-up. My worries about Sally dissolve as the butterflies invade my stomach; they appear no matter how often I play. Coach says it’s all right to have a little stage fright before going out there. But mine feels more sickening than could possibly be good for me, or my game.

During infield, Coach notices our overconfidence immediately. She says, “Don’t get sloppy, now. Have fun, but don’t get sloppy.”

I take deep breaths, blow out slowly. We’re relaxed, not sloppy. Another deep breath. Exhale. We’ve got Rocky, how can we lose? Especially to Oakridge.

And we don’t. We win by one run, which we get in the first inning. But Coach is steaming mad. After we thank the other team, she herds us into the locker room for a good reprimand. She paces back and forth like a caged animal ready to attack. Even Sue Bee seems disappointed, scowling at us with her sunburned face.

“I don’t want to overreact here,” Coach begins.

Sue Bee nods. She’s getting on my nerves.

“You won. We’re five and five. That’s fantastic. But you played poorly today. Sue Bee, how many errors?”

Sue Bee glances down at the books, but you just know she already has this information on the tip of her tongue. “Sixteen.”

“Sixteen errors.” Coach looks around at us. At me. I made two. “That’s sloppy. That’s careless. That’s cocky. And against a better team, that’s a loss.” She lets it sink in.

“Never underestimate the other team. I admit I did the same
thing. I walked onto their field and thought,
we’re better than they are because they’ve lost more games
. But you know what? It doesn’t mean I would’ve let my guard down on the field. They played well and you played like Rocky was our ticket to a Division I championship and like you wouldn’t have to work hard. One player
does not
make this team.
Every
player does. The ones on the field, the ones on the bench. All of us together. If you don’t get that, we are going to start losing again, for real.”

The mood is somber on the bus. Sally and her gang sit way in the back and we sit closer to the front. I ask Rocky, “Did you feel like we slacked off?” I can count on her to be honest.

“Yeah. Me included. She’s right. We can’t let up. We’ve got to play hard if we want to win.”

After a minute, she asks, “So, what’re you gonna do when Sally finds out you’re goin’ to prom with her brother?”

Gwen passes our seats and glances wide-eyed at me as she continues up the aisle. She kneels down to ask Coach a question.