Big Leagues Read online

  Otis appeared in the doorway with another uniformed security guard. He smiled at the two women. “There ya are, Mrs. Derhoff. We’ve got a game about to start. Would you like me to escort you to your car?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Of course, ma’am. You’re welcome to stay and watch the game from the owner’s box, if you wish.”

  “No. I think I’ve had my fill of this place.” She focused on Catriona. “Good luck to you, miss.”

  Otis placed his hand on Deidre’s shoulder and led her out of the room. Cat watched them exit down the hallway. Peering over his shoulder at Cat, Otis rolled his eyes. Choosing not to respond, she turned her attention to the field.

  During the commotion, the stadium had come alive. The visiting team jogged out of the dugout to take the field for batting practice. Some Chips players were visible in the dugout, where they were preparing for the game through an amusingly choreographed set of handshakes and high-fives that made her snicker. Fans began to filter into the stadium seats. She spied one man bearing a typical assortment of stadium food: a beer in one hand and a chocolate malt in the other, a pretzel jutting from his mouth and a hot dog sticking up from his pocket. The presence of fans meant one thing: the gates had opened.

  “Ms. McDaniel?”

  What now?

  Cat twirled the chair around to a blonde woman painted with more makeup than a carful of clowns. Circus music immediately danced in Cat’s head.

  Da-da-da-da-da-dum-dum-dum-dum.

  She chided herself to focus. Putting on a tight smile—her face was beginning to ache from an entire day of insincerity—she answered, “Um, yes?”

  The Cirque Du Soleil stand-in grinned back and Cat found herself blinded by a set of shiny white veneers, stained with red lipstick. Cat forced her eyes not to settle on the layers of blue eye shadow.

  “I’m Shannon, the press box attendant. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

  Shannon pulled out a small notepad from a lap apron that covered more flesh than the tiny khaki shorts hiding underneath.

  Press box attendant?

  Cat was beginning to understand why the Chips’ ticket prices were so high. Most of the newer franchises in professional baseball charge a modest fee for their seats, unlike the original ballclubs, whose legendary teams come with legendary payrolls. While the Chips didn’t have a high-priced roster or generations of fans to compete for seats, they still charged as if they did. An average ticket at Hohenschwangau Stadium came with the third highest price tag in the league.

  Not that anyone minds.

  Erich König was known to charm the press by answering a legitimate question with a cute German adage, a ploy the local media ate up with a spoon.

  A silver spoon.

  His latest press pleaser had been in response to Andy St. John’s inquiry into rising ticket prices. Erich had simply shrugged, winked at the camera and quipped, “Ohne Knete keine Fete!”

  No money, no party. A motto, I’m guessing, only the rich adopt.

  Cat supposed that most fans didn’t mind forking over a day’s pay for a ticket to a baseball game, as long as there was a good chance they’d see a win. Though some might change their minds if they knew a percentage of the ticket price would go to a press box servant for the media.

  Cat snapped back to the present; Shannon patiently flashed her smeared Chiclets while she waited for an order.

  “Oh um, do you have iced tea?”

  More Chiclets appeared as Shannon’s smile stretched even wider. “Sure do! Is that all you want? Nothing to munch on?”

  Cat shook her head. Shannon mouthed the order to herself as she scribbled on the pad of paper. Cat’s eyes pranced back and forth from the notepad to Shannon’s furrowed brow.

  “Um, Shannon …” Cat said, and mimed wiping her teeth.

  It took the girl a moment, but she finally caught on. “Oh!” she giggled, “thanks!” She wiped her own teeth.

  A tray of nachos big enough to feed the entire press box plopped down on the table, followed by the thud of a laptop bag. Cat swiveled her chair to see a sneering Dustin. “This is a one-time deal. I’m not your computer caddy, okay?”

  Shannon greeted him with another cheerful smile. “What about you, Dustin?”

  Dustin thrust an open hand toward the nachos. “Does it look like I need anything else?”

  Shannon shrugged, stuck her notepad in her apron and skipped off.

  Cat hoped the iced tea hadn’t been forgotten. She leaned over to Dustin and said in stage whisper, “I’m beginning to suspect Shannon didn’t get this job based on her distinguished waitressing credentials.”

  Dustin piled jalapeños on a chip and replied without looking up from his tray, “Like you’re one to talk.”

  For the second time in two days, Cat found herself standing in the batter’s box, on the receiving end of Dustin’s verbal chin music. Stung again. She looked down and closed her eyes.

  Time to charge the mound.

  “You know, Dustin, maybe instead of asking why I got this job, you should be asking why you didn’t.”

  “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. I’m not all that familiar with your work, but perhaps my qualifications are exactly what they were looking for.”

  He was grinding his teeth. “Yeah,” he said, “You’re a woman in sports. Maybe they needed to fill a hiring quota.”

  He slammed his hand on the table and stood up. She followed suit, maintaining steely eye contact. Their mouths were inches apart as they prepared to square off like an irate manager and a stubborn ump.

  Dustin put his hands on his hips and grunted a jalapeño-scented huff. “You know, I can’t wait for—”

  “Hello there!” A third voice hollered from behind. Cat turned to see who had called interference and saw Andy St. John stepping down the stairs. He grinned and approached, offering his hand.

  “The infamous Ms. McDaniel, I presume.”

  Cat turned her back on Dustin. She gave Andy’s hand a quick shake while subtly taking the reporter’s measure.

  And I thought his writing was pretentious.

  Andy carried an alligator briefcase, wore a tan jacket with the sleeves rolled up just far enough to showcase a gold Rolex, and brandished well-manicured nails shining with clear polish.

  Who the hell wears an ascot to a baseball game?

  Wait, who the hell wears an ascot?

  “Mr. St. John, I’m a huge fan. I never miss your column.” Cat averted her eyes and dusted an imaginary piece of lint off her arm. She shook the lie off, along with her guilt, knowing the truth wasn’t an option in this situation. Privately she thought of him as a conceited windbag with no feeling for the game. With Dustin itching for a fight, she needed at least one ally in the press box. Her false flattery must have been just the key to his ego’s vault, because the sportswriter beamed and waved his hand with phony nonchalance.

  “Well then, please, my biggest fans call me Andy.”

  She forced another saccharin smile and wondered how many wrinkles she’d get from this unspoken job requirement. “Andy it is. You can call me Cat.”

  He nodded. “Very well. So, Cat, how many runs do you think the Chips are going to score today?”

  She looked out at the flags flying and whistled. “Oh boy, if they can get the ball up into the wind, we might be looking at double digits.”

  “To think they call Chicago the Windy City.”

  Cat didn’t respond. As an Illinois native, she was all too familiar with the wild winds off Lake Michigan. She opened her mouth to vouch for the Second City’s vast breezes, but before she could, an off-key crooning echoed through the park’s speakers. Cat stared out to the mound to see which reality star was cashing in on fifteen minutes of fame by butchering the national anthem. She shuddered. Andy leaned in and patted her shoulder.

  “That’s our cue. I’ll talk to you later.”

  She nodded and looked around the press box. Some
time in between the scrum with Dustin and the huddle with Andy, the room had filled to capacity, with the exception of one noteworthy waitress.

  It was then that she noticed the iced tea. Shannon must have delivered it when Cat wasn’t looking. Maybe there was more to the girl than she thought.

  14

  Cat smiled as the ball soared into the outfield bleachers. If she took anything away from her first day at the office, it was that nine innings go by a lot quicker while watching the game from a catered, air-conditioned, leather-cushioned seat with a million dollar view. The glitzy slot machine scoreboard issued three cherries, and the crowd’s cheers matched the wail of its victorious siren. The JumboTron replayed the hit as the home run hitter rounded third base and continued home to tie the game.

  Make that a billion dollar view.

  Wearing the press badge had been different than she’d imagined. Here she was, paid to do the one thing she loved most—watch a baseball game—yet Cat was feeling flakier than ever. She’d spent two-thirds of the game distracted by the frenzy of the media, the madness in the seats below the box and even the weariness of her own body. The long day of Erich’s meet and greet left her yawning through the seventh inning stretch’s “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Taking a large gulp of the iced tea, Cat stared over at the Chips’ dugout and silently begged the offense to score a tiebreaking run. She planned to frame her first Chips byline and didn’t want a loss memorialized on her desk for years to come.

  Twice an inning, Cat managed to sneak a peek around the press box, still in awe of her immediate company. Though they lacked the libations of the bleacher bums across the field, the press box made their own fun during the game by spouting trivia and engaging in lively debates. Cat remained quiet most of the game, choosing this first day to observe rather than participate. By the time the first out of the game was recorded, Cat had pinpointed the worst part of her new job.

  Restraint.

  In the words of Jerome Holtzman, Cat’s Chicagoan sports writing idol, “There’s no cheering in the press box.” From the depths of their fish tank, the journalists had to merely observe while the forty thousand fans high-fived over the good and buried their heads in their hands over the bad. No matter the play, the press box was to remain detached. Cat had surrounded herself with sports fans from middle school up. Baseball was easy. She learned at an early age that sports fans didn’t discriminate. No matter what side of the tracks you hailed from, anyone could bond over home runs and touchdowns. In her twenty-nine years of sports solidarity, she’d never met a single fan who didn’t salivate at the thought of being paid to watch their favorite sport. Until today. Surveying the box to see how her peers obeyed the law of stoicism, she saw that the restraint didn’t seem to bother them. Plays at the plate didn’t earn anything more than a curious lean toward the glass. Close calls at first prompted a raised eyebrow or two. A diving catch was acknowledged with pleased nods. A home run was met with a low whistle and sometimes a “How deep did that one go?” Every inning or so, Cat would detect a few small smiles. Seconds later, those smiles were stifled. Dustin typed away on his laptop and shuffled through several windows of statistics. Andy St. John pecked at his Blackberry. Phil Bonati spent half the game on the phone giving live updates. Not wanting to look as out of place as she felt, Cat took a few notes on the pitcher and jotted down a thought or two during the offense’s at-bats. The pen in her hand helped keep her enthusiasm in check, until the Chips’ hitter broke the tie and the stadium went wild. She had to sit on her hands to resist the urge to fist pump.

  There were worse things. Cat sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, tuning out the loudspeaker’s announcements and the fans’ clatter. She surveyed the packed stadium—the ballpark sparkling with camera flashes and stadium lights under the night sky—and took a long, deep breath.

  I cannot believe I get paid for this.

  As a sportswriter in the minors, Cat had seldom stuck her slingbacks into the team’s clubhouse. Most interviews took place in the dugout after the game or on the field beforehand. Here in the majors, where thousands of fans waited as either an angry mob or an adoring throng, the players raced for the isolation of their clubhouse as soon as the twenty-seventh out was recorded.

  Apparently, they aren’t the only ones.

  Before the Chips’ victory song cued up, the members of the press box were halfway out the door. Dustin slammed his laptop lid and hopped up from his chair. She followed his lead.

  “As goes the players, so goes the media, huh?”

  Without responding, Dustin pushed in his chair and headed for the door. Cat grabbed her laptop and bag, trying to pack the computer and follow him at the same time. She rushed to keep up with his long legs as he scampered down the narrow staircase. They met up with the other journalists waiting outside the closed clubhouse doors.

  Cat frowned at Dustin’s listless expression and whispered, “I don’t know how you can contain yourself. This is so exciting!” She bounced on the balls of her feet.

  Dustin’s eyes formed into tiny slits and his upper lip curled in her direction. He tilted his head and, making no attempt to lower his voice, said, “Well I’m not a giggly schoolgirl salivating at the thought of seeing the jocks in their jocks.”

  Dustin’s acid tongue didn’t throw her this time. Cat smiled and faced forward. “Well, not giggly, anyway.”

  The door opened, and the media piled in, elbow to elbow in the clubhouse that a mere six hours ago she’d found so spacious. Cat followed from behind, too scared to stray from the pack. First up before the mob was the hero of the night, Jarrett White, whose go-ahead home run in the eighth won the game. She wiggled her way through the gang of men.

  Many years ago in journalism school she had been cautioned about the chauvinism that confronted females in the sports industry. The horror stories about the entrenched sexism were legendary. While Cat had never encountered a player groping himself during an interview or dealt with a manager who refused to let her into the clubhouse without a note from her father, the same message was still thrown her way and she didn’t have to be Johnny Bench to catch it.

  Cat was well aware that a career in sports meant she’d have to climb a testosterone fence that had been in place for over a century. The gender barriers went back to the beginning of baseball, when women were forbidden to even enter ballparks, let alone interview players in the clubhouse. Sexist comments were still par for the course:

  Female sportswriters aren’t avid for the game; we’re horny for the players.

  Our questions aren’t bold; they’re bitchy.

  We aren’t inquisitive; we’re stupid.

  Cat McDaniel had met her fair share of men who longed for the days of yore and Dustin Carlyle was no exception.

  However, as the horde swarmed Jarrett, Cat realized she had one advantage over her colleagues. Amidst the madness, she’d been able to slip her smaller—but hornier, bitchier and stupider—body past her male counterparts and head up the reporter nucleus, coming face to face with the star shortstop.

  Make that face to beautiful face. This man is a walking Ken doll.

  She cursed her decision to order the garlic knots from Shannon in the fifth inning.

  The last thing I need is to be known as “that reporter with halitosis.”

  Jarrett ran a towel through his wavy blond hair and thrust a tanned hand up to the group.

  “Hey, guys.”

  As if it’s not enough they’re rich and athletic, why do so many ballplayers have to look as if they jumped off the Abercrombie wallpaper and hopped the mall shuttle to the ballpark?

  Cat clenched her digital recorder. She tried to swallow the giant lump of intimidation in her throat. The effort failed and, in retribution, the lump doubled in size. She attempted again, afraid the stress of the day—or perhaps a bad batch of garlic knots—had rendered her unable to swallow. She took in a shaky breath and felt her body relax as the humid locker room air buried the lump and filled her lun
gs. She examined the page of her notebook where she had spent the last nine innings trying to come up with an utterly brilliant question for this very moment. Her colleagues, who didn’t seem to suffer from the same attack of nerves, fired off questions from all sides of her faster than Jarrett could extinguish them. Cat finally mustered up enough courage to shoot one of her own.

  “Jarrett, I know you’ve said you don’t have any hard feelings about the trade, but how did you feel hitting the winning run against your former team?”

  She held her breath, waiting and dreading a reply such as,

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Be a peach and get me a fresh towel.”

  “Who let you in here?”

  Instead, Jarrett smiled coyly and said, “Well I always want to help my team with whatever contribution I can. That’s first, you know? All that matters is that we got the ‘W.’ ” He paused before bursting into a big grin. “Yeah, I’d be lying if I didn’t say it felt awesome to stick it to ’em.”

  The crowd of reporters laughed with him for a few seconds, then thanked him and moved on to their next prey. Cat gulped when she saw everyone heading into the conference room to meet with the team’s crotchety manager.

  Ron Bouvier was the nastiest dish on a sportswriter’s menu, touchy with a side of rage. It wasn’t unusual for him to blow up at the most innocent questions, and that was after a good game. He’d gone on record as saying the only thing he hated more than an umpire was a sports journalist, and umpires had ejected the cantankerous manager more times than any other active manager in the game.

  The media filed into the conference room that adjoined Ron’s office, and Cat grabbed a chair on the end of the first row. She was encouraged by the manager’s bearded grin, hoping that it signaled he was in good spirits after the thrilling win.

  Ron plopped down at the head table with a grunt. “Well, whatta ya guys want from me tonight?”

  Cat began to chuckle and abruptly stopped when she realized her laughter was solitary; the manager wasn’t making a joke. Her face heated up, but her embarrassment went unacknowledged in the busy room. Just as they had with Jarrett, the questions detonated from all directions.