The Shortstop (13 page)

As we step to the curb to hail a cab, a tall brunette approaches. “Ms. Weber?”

The hair on my arms stands up as I meet her eyes. I could convince myself the reason I didn’t respond yet was because I’m acting cool, but it wouldn’t be true.

I’m in shock.

Daphne eyes the woman from head to toe. “Who are you?”

“I’m a reporter with
The News
. I’d love to chat regarding her fiancé joining the Yankees.”

“Get lost.” Daphne glares at her. She opens the cab door and waits for me to scoot in first before following behind. “Damn,” she says to me once the cab drives away.

“What the hell does she want with me?”

“You’re news now. You need to grow a set, though. Bring out your inner bitch. All they want is to sell newspapers at your expense. Tell them to fuck off.”

“You’re right. I need to grow a set.” With a quick shake of my head, I shrug it off. “Let’s have fun.”

Quint

“I want you here about an hour before game time. There’s an all-access pass for you at the box office with everyone’s tickets for tonight. Once you get in, go to Section 20. At the blue door with a sign that reads ‘Authorized Personnel Only,’ you’ll see Chuck the security guard. Show him your pass and he’ll escort you to the tunnels. Text me when you are on your way, and I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay. I can’t wait to see you,” she says over the phone. I can picture her smiling face. “Are you nervous?”

“Terrified.”

“Well, that’s a first,” she says with a giggle. “You’ve got this, Q.”

“I hope so, baby.”

“I know so. I’ll see you soon. There’s a big good-luck kiss coming your way.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

After I end the call, I quickly snap a picture of my cubicle where my uniform hangs and text it to her. I end up having to take two shots because the first one was blurry from my hand shaking.

I really need to channel these nerves somehow. These jitters are so foreign I’m not sure what to do with myself. I’ve witnessed many pregame rituals from teammates in an attempt to relax. Some would pray, others meditate. One guy on the IronBirds would focus on a picture of himself rounding third after he hit his first home run. I couldn’t relate. I now get it.

I’m not a religious guy, although I’ve said a prayer now and again. I’ve already been through every prayer I know. Glancing at my locker, I focus on the pictures of Annie and me that I have sitting on the top shelf. It’s in a dual frame. The left side shows us running through a sprinkler when we were younger. The right shows us at the beach. I’m standing behind her, my arms around her waist, her smile lighting up the photo. When I left this morning, I grabbed the frame from my suitcase. I take it everywhere I go. Somehow I knew I’d need those pictures today. It’s the only thing that’s settling my pounding heart at the moment.

A firm hand clasps my shoulder. “Are you nervous, rookie?” Jeff asks with a smile.

“You have no fucking idea.” Remembering he went through this a few short months ago, I add, “Well, I guess you do.”

Taking a seat beside me on the bench, he points to his cubicle. “You see that second drawer?”

Glancing at the wood laminate with his nameplate centered on the panel, I nod, waiting for him to continue.

“I threw up in that drawer.” He nods as I laugh out loud. “Yep. That’s how I earned the nickname ‘Cookies.’”

“I wondered why the guys called you that. I assumed it was a family name or something.”

He stands to open the drawer we’re discussing, pulls out his jockstrap, and shrugs indifferently. “Nope. It was because I tossed my cookies minutes before game time. I couldn’t get to that trashcan quick enough. So, I know exactly what you’re going through. Those bastards,” he says with a smirk. “I made their initiation prank easy. The next day when I got in for practice, my locker was filled from floor to ceiling with cookies.” He swirls the strap of his jockstrap on a rigid finger, completely unaffected by his embarrassing initiation to the team. Each rookie is welcomed in one way or another. I haven’t a clue what they’ll do to me. I’ve heard stories of some really humiliating pranks.

“Sounds like you got off easy,” I admit.

“Yeah, it could have been worse. I did have to get all those cookies out of here. I scored some points with the press when I donated them all to a children’s hospital.”

“My mind has been too busy worrying about the game to concentrate on what they’ll do to me.”

Jeff offers a bemused smile, clearly hiding what he knows. “We’ll see.”

Great.

Just before he walks away, I remember to say, “Hey, thank Ava for me. She’s been so great to Annie. We both really appreciate it.”

“I will. Ava is very fond of Annie. She’s probably going to call her when we leave for Detroit. That first away series can be difficult to get through alone. Once we get back, we’ll have to make plans to all go out.”

“Sounds great.” That’s just what Annie needs to distract her during my first away series. Jeff’s wife is sweet and kind, very similar to Annie in personality. With Daphne still in Baltimore, Annie could use a friend who understands what she’s going through.

Feeling a touch better after talking to Jeff, I start to get ready for the game. My brand-spanking-new uniform hangs majestically in my locker. Yankees pinstripes. I can’t stop staring at it. As the locker room begins to fill with the rest of the team, the noise level rises and rises. I quickly become the focus of attention as they all get their rocks off by picking on the new guy. It’s all done good-naturedly and it’s a good distraction.

Just as I’m adjusting my hat, I receive a text from Annie that she’s on her way down. We aren’t allowed visitors in the locker room. I try my best to sneak out unnoticed, but that doesn’t work very well.

“Where ya going, rookie?” one of them calls out as I saunter toward the door.

Knowing better than to answer, I flip them off on my way out. They all laugh at my expense. Jeff is the one who told me to leave an access pass for Annie at will call. On debut night, it’s customary for the rookie to have his significant other come down to the tunnel to see him in uniform for the first time. There’s a small alcove in the tunnel that’s been dubbed “the hard-on nook” because of what occurs in there. They claim it makes them play better if they get all worked up and sexually frustrated. Of course, that’s not what they tell their girls.

Once out in the hall, I commit to memory every detail of the tunnel.

I’ve seen this tunnel in so many pictures. I can’t even count how many of my heroes walked this hall before each game. The blue and white cinderblock walls, the green concrete floor, even the legendary sign that hangs from the ceiling—“
I want to thank the Good Lord for making me a Yankee
” Joe DiMaggio, October 1941—all overwhelm me with nostalgia.

If asked, I’m not sure I could successfully put into words exactly what I’m feeling as I stand rooted to this spot in full uniform.

Chuck and Annie appear to the right. Her hand covers her mouth when she sees me. From a distance, I can tell she’s fighting back tears. I’m fighting my own tears as she gets closer and closer.

“Quint,” she says my name with so much emotion it comes out as a whisper.

She takes the last few steps in a sprint, running right into my arms. Over her shoulder, I see Chuck wink and smile before walking away to give us some privacy. The tunnel is empty except for Annie and me. I know it’s only a matter of time before the guys come out to bust my chops. I quickly pull her into “the hard-on nook” to collect on my good-luck kiss.

We manage to go at it for several long minutes before intruders break our moment. Laughter filters toward us down the tunnel. Annie blushes profusely, and I smile at her shyness. “Ignore them. They do it to all the rookies.”

I quickly kiss her one last time before pulling her out of the alcove. “I gotta go.”

“Can I take a picture of you?” she asks tentatively.

I summon Chuck and ask him to take one of us together. He takes a few and retreats once again. Overwhelmed with emotion, I engulf her in my arms, holding her close.

“I love you, Q,” she says into my chest.

“I love you, too.”

When my voice cracks, she notices and smiles warmly. Her small hands hold my face as she stares into my eyes. “I am so happy for you. Please enjoy every second out there. This is what you’ve worked for your whole life. This uniform is who you are to the core, a Yankee. Make me proud.” After a few more kisses and words of encouragement, she gives me another fierce hug and follows Chuck out of the tunnel.

A lump forms in my throat as I watch her walk away. Pulling in a deep breath, I walk over to the DiMaggio sign, kiss my fingertips, and hit the bottom corner, sending it swinging back and forth above my head.

“Wish me luck, Joltin’ Joe,” I murmur before heading back into the locker room with a huge smile on my face. Just as Annie said, I’m going to enjoy every second of this night.

It’s a hot, muggy night in the Bronx. The starless sky makes the stadium lights look even brighter. It’s sold out. Although it’s not unusual for a weeknight game to be, I’ve been told it’s because of my debut.

I have my place of honor along with my teammates in front of our dugout. I’m completely overwhelmed as my eyes rake over the stadium in all its glory. The pristinely manicured outfield looks more like a plush carpet than grass. The iconic white fence façade running along the upper deck causes emotions to swell within me. I can practically see the ghosts of legends past standing in their positions of honor on the field. From where I stand, I try to focus on the faces in the crowd. Emotions swell within me from seeing all the young boys and girls standing beside their parents. Their small hands hold their baseball snack of choice or some even clutch a new souvenir. I remember vividly coming to a Yankees
game with my dad and anxiously waiting for the anthem to end so they would start playing. I found the song boring and stupid. The memory of me standing while irritably shaking my leg makes me smile.

With my hat over my heart, the national anthem is having the same effect on me now as it did then. I’m doing everything in my power to keep still. My fidgeting amuses a few of my teammates as they glance my way with knowing smiles on their faces. They get it. They understand that every cell in my body is jumping with excitement. Every muscle coiled and ready to perform. I just want to get out there and play my first game.

The instant the last lyrics are sung, my heart jumps in my chest as applause erupts from the stands. This is it. It’s time to show them what I’ve got.

We all trot out to our positions. Our first baseman alternates throwing warm-up drills between the infielders. In the few seconds in between my ground balls, I quickly scan the section my family and friends are sitting in. Each time I do, I catch a glimpse of Annie’s eyes trained right on me. Just as she would years ago, she sits in her seat, clutching her hands as if she’s praying and smiling. When I wink, her smile widens instantly.

The view from shortstop is pretty fucking amazing. I seriously can’t believe I’m here. Saying a quick prayer as the first batter takes his place at the plate, I force myself into play mode.

The nervous jitters I was plagued with earlier are now gone. I knew I’d get over them once I got out here. Being on this field is second nature to me. Batter by batter, I study each one individually. The way they stand, the way they swing their bats, and mostly the way they stare at the pitcher. A few routine plays, a few foul balls, and a pop-up to left field marks the top of the first.

As anxious as I was to play the field, that doesn’t compare to how anxious I am to get at bat. I’m third in the lineup and I cannot fucking wait. Our leadoff batter cracks one up the middle, landing him on first. The second one hits a fly to center field. I’m up, with one out and one man on.

I can feel every set of eyes on me as I take the plate. Sticking to my superstitious routine, I tap the plate with my bat three times, and I glance to where Annie is standing. My eyes can’t find her that quickly in the crowd, but I know she’s watching me. So is the pitcher, with a smile on his face. It could be a welcome smile, but my gut tells me he wants to make an example of the rookie. My returning smile spurs him on. He alternates his glance between the first base runner and me. Moving at a snail’s pace, he studies his signals, taking his time before nodding at his catcher.

The first pitch is right down the middle. I never take the first pitch. I rarely take the second. Number three turns out to be low and outside. I love playing this mind game, making him wonder if I’ll go for the next pitch or simply sit back and watch it sail by. I can tell the next is a good one the second it leaves his glove. The ball reaches me, and I use every muscle I have behind the swing. The wood vibrates violently in my hands as I make contact, and in slow motion, I watch the ball arch and land in deep left field. I’m fast for my height and easily slide into second with time to spare. Thunderous applause fills the stadium while I stand and brush myself off.

Because of me, it’s now one-nothing…not bad for my first time at bat.

Inning by inning, I play my ass off for my new team. By the top of the ninth, it’s not exhaustion I feel after playing for hours but more like utter satisfaction. I played a clean game. I’m proud of myself.