Big Leagues (5 page)

She took one last look at the minor league
players on the field. She reached for the office door, buoyed up by
excitement once again.

So what if I’m short on experience? Maybe my
time has come. I’m finally getting a break in this
world.

Cat entered the office with a jovial grin, not
just for her coworkers’ benefit, but also for her own. She was one
week away from the job of a lifetime. One week away from clubhouse
interviews. One week away from team trips to every major city in
the country. One week away from a tripled salary. One week away
from her dreams coming true.

Barring a spring break trip to the Florida
baseball training camps during senior year of college—her only
vacation to date—the last five days constituted the quickest week
of Cat’s lifetime. During the eight months she’d lived in
Porterville, she had become close with the small group of players,
coaches and support staff inside the homey ballpark. After Saturday
night’s game, Tamela insisted the gang head downtown and party at
the Bullpen for beer, pizza and an official sendoff.

Despite their friendship and direct knowledge
of Cat’s debilitating fear of public speaking, Tamela was the first
to start the chant: “Speech! Speech! Speech!”

Cat’s stomach smacked the greasy checkered
tiles as she scanned the restaurant and evaluated the emergency
exits. The group continued chanting, their faces glowing with
anticipation. Cat took a swig from the mug in front of her and
hesitantly rose to her feet, the frosty glass clasped in her hand.
“Ok-kay, okay.”

The group quieted and all eyes were on her. Her
fingernails chipped away at the ice on the mug.

“I’m n-not really one for speeches, obviously.
I find it’s much easier to wrangle quotes out of these guys than to
make up my own.” She pointed in the direction of the players, and
several of them chuckled. “I’m sure I’ll get another chance to do
just that when you guys join me in Vegas.” Hopeful grins lit up
each of their faces.

Cat turned back to everyone else. “I do want to
say thank you for the opportunity to be a part of the Bulldogs. I
wasn’t here long, but I loved every minute of Porterville. You made
me feel so welcome.”

Cat shot a smile at Tamela’s warm face on the
last sentence and exhaled. “In addition to speeches, I’m also not
one for long goodbyes, so I think I’ll just leave us at that.
Cheers.”

She held up her drink and everyone followed
suit. She knocked back the light beer, its foamy chill drowning the
knot in her stomach. The truth didn’t make a good speech, but the
fact was that she wasn’t going to miss this group. She liked them
all right, quite a lot, actually. They were down-to-earth, friendly
and never made her feel like she didn’t belong in their ballpark.
Plus, Tamela Lewis had been the closest thing she’d had to a best
friend since high school. They couldn’t compete with the greener
grass, though. Last time it was Porterville, this time it was Las
Vegas. It didn’t matter where; Cat loved a fresh start. The only
person she’d ever been sad to leave behind was her paternal
grandmother in Chicago. Baseball had been the common thread that
held her broken home loosely together. When her car-thief father
was a child, Grams had taken him to games, bringing her along as
soon as she was old enough to walk. During the season, the subject
dominated most meals. Other than Grams, everyone else could come
and go, and Cat would do the same. Her speech wasn’t a lie. She had
liked working in Porterville, but she really wasn’t one for a long
farewell. Not because she hated goodbyes or had a fondness for
them. She just didn’t care. As the group battled over the last
slices of pizza, Cat watched them thoughtfully and wondered if it
were possible to have anti-abandonment issues.

Didn’t see that topic in
Iss-Yous!

“Hey, Cat.”

Devon Jensen, a mediocre relief pitcher who was
in no danger of being promoted to Vegas, tapped her on the
shoulder. She whipped around and saw him eyeing her as if she was a
catcher throwing down a sign for his best pitch.

“Devon, hey. Thanks for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He reached
for the pitcher of beer across the table and filled her mug to the
rim. “So, I was thinking that, after this, maybe we should go back
to my place.”

Cat stifled a laugh. “Were you now? You know
there’s a strict policy about dating within the club, don’t
ya?”

He shrugged and adjusted his backwards cap over
his long blond hair. “Yeah, but you’ll be moving on up,
Jefferson-style. I’m pretty sure that rule just applies to each
team individually.”

She stifled a mock yawn, covering her mouth
with her hand. “I’m kinda sleepy.”

“I’ve got coffee.”

They paused, both sizing each other
up.

“I’ve still got a lot of packing to
do.”

“I could help.”

“Oh no. I’d hate for you to strain your back
lifting all my heavy boxes and wind up on the DL.” Cat watched his
lips part, ready to dispense his next offer. “Thanks,
though!”

She reached up, gave him a quick pat on his
tall shoulder, and darted toward the larger group at the bar before
her true thoughts about dating ballplayers could slip out. A year
ago, she wouldn’t have been able to resist the lure of a brawny
ballplayer.

The broad shoulders, the muscular arms, the
form-fitting
pants ...

Cat shook the taboo images out of her head.
Fast forward eight months and now she listed professional athletes
in the turnoff category, right up there with smokers and
litterbugs. She made her way across the sticky dance floor and
hopped on the barstool next to Tamela, who greeted her with a
disappointed shake of her head.

“I’ll be the first to admit I’m no expert in
this area, but how, in all that’s good and decent in this world,
could you say no to that butt?” Tamela spun her stool halfway
around and tilted her head toward the pool tables, where Devon was
bending over to take a shot.

Cat smiled at her. “Easy. That butt didn’t
offer to make my dreams come true.”

“You’re not seeing the same butt I
am.”

“The butt I’m seeing is against the rules,
which you know.”

“Oh please, no one would find out. It’s not
like you’ll be seeing him in Vegas or anything. In fact, he gives
up one more home run and he’ll be saying bye-bye to
P-Ville.”

“Tams, even if it weren’t against the rules,
which it
is
…” Tamela’s eyes rolled on the emphasis. “I
don’t date ballplayers.”

“Neither do I. Mostly because they’re usually
men. Shouldn’t one of these hunky slices of beefcake be right up
your
alley?”

“Think of it this way. These guys have played
this game all their lives, nonstop from T-ball to high school, and
then some head off to college teams.”

“Okay.”

“We’re talking fifteen years of life revolving
around a game. The truly exceptional players are drafted into the
minor league system, and they attempt to make their way up to the
big leagues, where million dollar contracts await.”

“I’m not seeing the bad here.”

“They never grow up. Some have never even held
what most of their fans would consider a
real
job. They’re
just a bunch of big kids, and I have no desire to be their
babysitter.”

Tamela studied the group of players standing at
the bar. She eyeballed Cat suspiciously. “Are you speaking from
experience?”

“No comment.”

Tamela grinned. “Aha!”

“I’m just saying, the prospect of dating a guy
with the emotional maturity of Mr. Potato Head is more than enough
to keep me completely in compliance with the team’s dating
policy.”

“Even with that butt?”

“Even with those arms.” Tamela’s eyes widened
in surprise. “Hey! I’m obedient, not blind.”

“Uh-huh. We’ll see if that’s how you feel in
Vegas, when you’re rubbing elbows, and Lord only knows what else,
with the pros.”

Cat’s jaw dropped, and she shook off a laugh.
“Again,
policy
. Besides, you know I hate guys with
money.”

Tamela downed the rest of her margarita and
slammed the glass on the bar. “Oh, yes. I forgot. Next you’ll tell
me you don’t date guys with rock hard abs or, hey, guys with great
butts.”

Devon turned in their direction. They both
ducked their heads and giggled. Cat checked to see if the coast was
clear. “I’m telling you, the rich are just … different.”

“I wouldn’t know. Pretty sure I’ll be ripping
tickets for twelve bucks an hour ’til I die.”

Cat raised her beer with a nod of agreement.
Tamela clanged the empty margarita glass with her mug.

“I’ll make you a deal: the next time some poor,
fat, schlubby fan crosses through the gate, I know just the cute,
rule-abiding sportswriter to set him up with.”

“Hey, rules are rules.”

Tamela raised an eyebrow. “Rules are made to be
broken.”

Cat leaned forward and set her beer on the bar.
“Not this one. Short of betting on the games, rubbing what-elses
with the players is the quickest way to the unemployment
line.”

“Fine, fine. So you’ll never be a Baseball
Annie. What if you move on to basketball?”

“Hoop Ho? Uh-uh.”

“Hockey?”

“Puck Bunny, no thanks.”

“Football?”

“Uh … Pigskin Polly, nope.”

They burst out laughing. Devon walked up to the
bar and strolled right in front of their section. As he passed, Cat
and Tamela angled their heads and followed his path with their
eyes. Their simultaneous movement sent them both into another fit
of giggles. Tamela jumped off the stool and reached for Cat’s arm,
giving it a playful shake.

“Come on, they’re setting up karaoke. Sing
‘Penises, Penises’ with me.”

Cat grinned at Tamela’s daring eyes. “You know,
it’s ‘Promises, Promises.’ ”

“Not when I sing it.”

Tamela turned around and charged the DJ booth.
Cat threw her head back and grudgingly followed her across the
makeshift dance floor.

“That’s right. Las Vegas.”

“The one in Nevada?”

“Yes, the one in Nevada.”

“The one with all the gambling and
hookers.”

“Actually, that’s a misnomer, Grams.
Prostitution is illegal in the city limits and besides, they didn’t
hire me to parade down the Strip in stilettos and
leather.”

“Catriona!”

“Hey, you started it.”

Cat switched the cell phone to her other ear
and chuckled; her grandmother never threw the heat when she could
lob a screwball into the conversation.

“So this new team, will they be playing your
old one in Porterville?”

“No, that was their minor league team,
Triple-A.”

“Like the batteries in my remote
control?”

“Not exactly. Las Vegas is the big leagues, the
real deal.”

Cat gently wrapped her Andre Dawson bobblehead
in tissue paper while trying to explain the intricate web of
professional baseball to the woman who’d raised her. Ten minutes
into the conversation and she was still trying to convince her
grandmother Las Vegas wasn’t Spanish for Sodom & Gomorrah. Cat
sat the box next to the door and placed her purse on top. The team
was covering some of the costs of her promotion, including her very
own set of moving men who were, at last count, already fifteen
minutes late. Their aversion to punctuality confirmed for Cat that
the men couldn’t be trusted with anything as precious as her
bobblehead collection.

“That’s pretty impressive, Catriona. Your dad
will be so proud. When do you leave?”

“In about an hour. I’ll call you as soon as I
get there.”

“Okay, tonight’s Canasta Night. I can’t wait to
tell Gert about your new job, honey. That ought to shut her up
about her grandson’s fancy dot-com business he started out of her
garage.”

Grams knew it too. Opportunities like this
didn’t happen to women like them. Careers in sports writing fell
into the laps of former athletes, beauty queens and daughters of
families with stadiums named after them. Cat had notched strike one
when her athletic prowess peaked in grade school, after she had
suffered a concussion during a fateful game of Red Rover and had
subsequently been forced to devote all recesses to Judy Blume
instead. She was down in the count by puberty, the same time she
had concluded beauty pageants must be a crock; no one who taped her
breasts together and strutted in stilettos for three hours could
possibly be wishing for world peace over a warm bubble bath. The
crushing strike three: the only time the McDaniel name was seen by
the public was in police blotters and court schedules. Cat was out
in only three pitches, like a hapless rookie. A pampered princess
lived in the castle of a fantasy career, and she had spent the last
six years trying to sneak across the moat. A princess hopped from
the graduation stage to the baseball field, trading one spotlight
for another. While that same princess held up a microphone to the
lips of a Gatorade-drenched hero in front of a full stadium, Cat
held up hot dogs, chocolate malts and the occasional foam finger.
Off days were spent manning the hostess pedestal at the Crab Slab,
and her offseason paychecks were payment for various dead-end jobs
that could be performed by a trained monkey. Most weeks Cat’s bank
balance hovered just above the Mendoza line, the threshold only
pennies away from a move back to her grandmother’s trailer. She had
almost given up hope of any career not involving frankfurters in
this dog-eat-dog business.