Throwing Like a Girl (28 page)

She says to Coach, “Sorry about that. The pitch was too round. My favorite kind. I had to swing away.”

“Sure,” Coach says, smiling.

But the rest of the game continues to go something like that. When Coach gives us signals to swing away, we hold back. When she tells us to stay on a base, we take the turn and safely launch ourselves headfirst into second or third or home plate. We do everything opposite of what she says, and it works.

We win 6 to 2. The rain holds off for most of the game but it starts to really pour as we drag the last of our equipment into one of the smaller gyms by the athletic fields.

“That felt good,” Rocky says.

“Yeah.” I search for the right words. “You were unbelievable.”

She looks down. We’re still wearing our cleats, on the thresh-old
of the gymnasium, half in, half out.

She says, “I played like I might not ever play again.” And then, gazing at me, she adds, “If you know what I mean.”

The gyms are full of other athletes, so Coach leads us to a dim hallway and we set up camp, take off our cleats, wring out our socks, and pass around water bottles. Then Coach sits us down to have our postgame talk.

“What happens if we get rained out?” someone asks.

“I’m not sure,” Coach says. “But it might be a good thing.”

We wait for her to say more. I’m getting this feeling that even though we won, Coach isn’t pleased.

“You played well out there,” she says. “Confident, strong. But you played recklessly and that’s dangerous. You stopped watching me and listening to me.”

I catch Rocky’s eye before her head goes down in shame.

“I’m proud that you’re getting better and smarter, but don’t get cocky. If you get too cocky, you start to overlook things and make mistakes. Trust me, it happens. And I’m not gonna let it happen to you. My prediction is that it’s gonna stop raining and—”

A rumble of thunder interrupts her speech and breaks our straight, serious expressions.

“Okay, okay, I get the message. Enough scolding. We won. We’re in the finals!” She punches her fist in the air.

And we follow her lead.

“Our game’s at one thirty. Lunch,”—she pulls a soggy schedule from her bag—“is in the big gym, wherever that is.”

One of the assistant baseball coaches from Spring Valley ducks his head into our dark hallway and says, “Coach, thought you’d want to know that Episcopal just beat St. Stephen’s.”

“Thanks, Rollie.” She looks at us. “Well, now we know we’re playing Episcopal in the finals. I know some of you watched the end of that game yesterday. We’ll talk a little strategy before infield. Until then, you’re on your own.”

By twelve thirty the rain has stopped and coaches help sweep water off the tennis courts and track. The maintenance crew dumps dry sand along the baselines of the softball field and fills puddles in the outfield. It’ll be messy, but playable.

Before warm-up, Kat explains to us how playing in bad weather works to our advantage by evening out the teams.

Someone says, “You mean if it hadn’t rained, we couldn’t possibly win?”

Kat grins. “Not at all. I’m just saying we’re really good at bad fields.”

We laugh at this, joking about the Peyton Plastics building and our stubby field at home. Which makes us reminisce about our construction workers and Mack Elliot. Mo, Frannie, Rocky, and I exchange looks, but we don’t say anything about seeing Mack last night with Coach. It doesn’t sound like anyone else knows about it.

Before we leave for the field, I see my father wandering through the gym. He looks so out of place and old-fashioned. I wave. When he sees me, his whole face changes. He strides across the gym and gives me a big hug.

“What a day. Good game out there.”

“Thanks. Where’s Mom?”

“In the room.”

“Everything’s okay with her?”

“Sure. We just got back from lunch. We’ve made some new friends out here.” He looks at me funny.

“Yeah, Dad. That’s great. Well, wish us luck.”

“Good luck,” he says and walks with us as far as the gym door before he steps aside to let us through.

“Your dad’s so cute,” Mo says.

“For a dad,” Frannie agrees.

And it feels like being with Christine, Jen, and Amy, who adore my dad.

We’re on field four, which is the same field Episcopal played on yesterday when they won. A bad sign. Mo’s rambling on about what we need to do to break the spell when Rocky stops so quickly in front of me that I bump right into her.

“Rock?”

Without looking at me, she reaches for my wrist and squeezes. And then I see where she’s looking. In the bleachers: my mother, wearing what’s now considered the lucky scarf again (except that she’s wearing it on her head, which couldn’t possibly be good), is blabbing to some woman I don’t recognize. And there are kids beside her. And two men. And there’s Anthony! And Theresa and Thomas and Mikey!

I say, “
Oh my God
.”

There in the stands, wearing Spring Valley caps and holding umbrellas, is Rocky’s family. She points to the woman talking to my mother and says, “That’s Aunt Rita, and Uncle Nick, and their kids.”

“Is the other guy…?”

She nods. “My father.”

I hear my own gasp of surprise, as if it’s coming from someone else.

“Did you do this, too?” she asks me suspiciously.

I shake my head. “No, really, I had no idea.”

My father appears by the bleachers. Rocky’s dad stands and gives him a hand to help him up.

Rocky and I stare at each other in disbelief.

“Did your parents do this?” she asks.

“They couldn’t have. They didn’t know about the plan.”

Theresa sees us and waves, giving us her best reluctant smile.

“God,” Rocky says. “Could Theresa…?”

But we don’t have time to figure it out. Coach is running infield and yelling at us to get in our positions. I watch Rocky trot to her spot between second and third. If she’s scared, she’s not showing it. It looks as if she’s running on air.

As the game starts, I’m hyperventilating—but I’m here, standing a few feet from first base, trying to act calm. The first two innings go scoreless. We’re playing conservatively, maybe too conservatively, but we’re nervous and Episcopal is good. Plus, Rocky hasn’t gotten a ball yet, and I’m just waiting for something to happen so that her father can see her do something great.

By the bottom of the sixth, Rocky’s been on base twice, both from walks, and there’s still no score. But now, with one out, Episcopal has runners on first and third. It’s a no-brainer. Their runner on first will steal second the minute Gwen pitches the ball. And even though Kat’s got one of the best arms in the league, she won’t throw it, because if she did, the runner on third would steal home.

Every one of us knows the game is about to change unless we can hold ’em. We’ve got to play smart. Let the runner get to second. We’ve got to play aggressive defense. Let the fielders make their plays. We’ve gotta have faith in one another. And then we’ve gotta kick butt at bat.

I look at Rocky. She nods at me, calls a heads up to Joy and Virginia. She yells, “Let’s go, batter!”

The batter’s sixth in the order and looks confident with
cocked wrists, her right elbow back and high. My heart races, using up all the blood in my legs, forcing me to dance around in the dirt, shaking out my feet and ankles.

Gwen sends a fastball over the plate. It’s perfect. The ump calls a strike, and Kat leaps up from her squatting position and tears up the path toward the mound as if she might throw the ball. The runner beside me is too timid to move. Her coach yells at her. The count is 0 and 2. Rocky jogs onto the mound, gathering us there for a quick pep talk.

“She’ll swing,” Rocky barks.

“She won’t,” Gwen says.

“Be ready,” Rocky says. “She’ll swing.”

And Rocky’s right. When Gwen pitches another fastball, the batter takes a bite, but it’s halfhearted, like she knew she wasn’t supposed to. The ball spins off the bat, heading toward the gap between short and second. My runner has taken off, and the batter charges toward me. But Rocky’s all over the ball, as if she willed it to come to her. She takes a few steps to her left, drops her glove to the dirt, snaps it around the ball, drags her foot over second base, and then hurls the ball to me. I stretch for it—my arm, my leg, my toes—and I catch it.

The umpire squats to watch the play, then leaps up to call the batter out.

“That’s three, ladies,” she yells, pulling a handkerchief from her back pocket and wiping her brow.

We turned two. Our favorite double play. We’ve gone through the motions a million times in practice, but never in a game has the throw from second been strong enough to make it to first before the runner, even when Rocky makes the play. I see her father stand up, clapping and smiling. He’s so much smaller than I expected.

As we run off the field howling and cheering, we toss our gloves into a pile, trade caps for batting helmets, and slap each other on the backs. You’d think we’d won the game.

“You can do it,” Coach keeps saying. “Base hits, base hits. One more inning. This is your…” And then she stops talking.

Frannie says, “You swallow a sunflower shell, Coach?”

But she still doesn’t say anything.

Past the stands a group of families has gathered to cheer for us. My first thought is that they’re at the wrong field, because I don’t recognize them. I don’t think anyone does, until the men put on their bright yellow hard hats. And Mack Elliot steps out from behind them.

Coach recovers. She waves and gives a slow nod to Mack. Everyone on the team is excited to see them—our very own cheerleaders. Even Sally Fontineau has an amused expression—not disgust for a change. There’s hope.

We’re at the bottom of the order—Joy, Debra, and Marcie—but Episcopal’s pitcher is tired, and the balls come in erratically. Both Joy and Debra walk, and Marcie, with two ducks on the pond, hits a blooper over Short’s head. It drops in the mud and stops dead, giving the runners time to get safely on their bags. The construction workers go crazy. These men with their wives and kids, using up their Saturday to come all the way up to Tulsa to root for a bunch of softball players they hardly even know.

Gwen’s up. Lead-off batter. Bases loaded. No outs.

Her fly ball between left and center is caught dramatically with a slide through the mud and a crisscross of players. There’s a big roar from our bench, but Episcopal gets the ball back to the pitcher before Joy, who isn’t a confident base runner, can make a
move off third base. One out. Coach signals to Virginia to go for a base hit. Nice and easy.

The pitch comes in clean and fast. Virginia smacks it into center field and brings Joy home without a problem. The fielder’s quick, though, and she picks up the one-hopper and whips it to second for the second out, but we’re on the scoreboard.
We’re winning
.

With Virginia on first, Debra on third, and Kat in the box, Coach gives a little heads-up signal to the runners. We can’t make the same mistake they did. The pitch comes in, Kat doesn’t swing, Virginia takes off for second, and Debra takes a good, threatening lead off third. The catcher holds the ball, walks it to the pitcher.

It’s picture perfect. We’ve got runners on second and third, two outs, and Kat hits an outside pitch to right field. The stands go wild. Debra runs for home. Virginia runs for third. But the right fielder makes an easy toss to first to put out Kat. And suddenly, we’re at the bottom of the inning.

Rocky didn’t get to bat. She’s still standing in the on-deck circle with the bat in her hand. I know how much she wanted to hit that ball. To show her father what she’s made of.

Coach goes over to her, leans in to whisper something, then pats her back. I love her for doing this. For knowing, despite everything else, that Rocky needed something extra.

Coach paces the sidelines. Claps her encouragement. Yells to us to hold them.

The inning goes by in a blur. I remember that Virginia made a blistering throw to me for the first out and that Kat caught a foul pop-up for number two. Now there’s a runner standing next to me and another next to Rocky. How did that happen? What
were the plays? Base hits? Did I get an error? Have I blacked out?

Don’t let me fall apart. Let me be a part of winning. Please. I want this
one
thing.

The outcome of this game, of this season, seems to matter more than anything else has ever mattered to me, as if it’s going to predict the outcome of my life.

I am certain that this is where I’m supposed to be. On this field. For this school. In this game. As crazy as all of it has been, I’ve made the pieces of my new life come together.

I hear Rocky call my name, and the batter whacks the ball about two feet to my left. The runner takes off behind me as the ball hurtles toward me. I have to backhand it, no question. I have to cross my arm in front of my face so that I can’t even see. It happens in a split second.

In a blinding puff of dust, I snag the ball in the webbing of my glove and am so caught off balance it carries me to the ground. The runner has to leap over me, but I lift my glove to touch her, the ball still in my grasp. The ump calls the batter out.