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and we interrupted one another to protest earnestly that it
was she we cared about, and not her work. Even if she was
the best clubhouse manager that had ever drawn breath.
We did our post-game interviews quickly and kicked
the sportswriters out, and then the horseplay began.
Shakespeare snapped a sopping towel against Cranny s
broad butt, leaving a blushing welt, and Cranny whipped
around and sprayed deodorant at Shakespeare.
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The deodorant mist made Gonzales sneeze, so she
retaliated by shaking up a can of soda and letting the foam
fly at Shakespeare and Cranny. They grabbed soda cans and
went after Gonzales.
Zion and Marcia Chang merrily rubbed shaving cream
into Mulligan s red hair. For all I knew, they were preparing
to shave it off. Mulligan was too humiliated to struggle, but
she kept repeating, Shit! Shit! Shit!
I was helping the Chief stuff ice cubes inside Stryker s
underwear as she squalled, when I was pulled away and
slammed hard against the wall.
It was Mac, and she looked at me intensely and
indecipherably as she held me there. I was scared.
Up against the wall, motherfucker, she said, her
fingers at my neck and the heels of her palms pressed
against my collarbone.
Mac, nice piece of hitting today, I said, trying to
appease her.
Then Zion and Cranny flung themselves on Mac,
wrestling her away from me. Mac rarely played, and they
weren t about to let this opportunity go by.
I m not finished with you, Mac said to me, before
putting up a fight and swearing liberally at Zion and Cranny.
They dragged her scuffling into the showers and turned
the water on as cold as it would go. Mac gasped and swore
some more and twisted mightily to free herself, but Zion
and Cranny had her good.
Say uncle, you bastard, Cranny said.
Uncle, you bastard! Mac snarled.
Say it nicely! Cranny said, and she laced her fingers
into Mac s hair and forced her head under the piercing cold
water.
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Mac sputtered and struggled. Uncle! she said. Uncle!
They let her go and retreated, laughing. Mac limply
shut off the shower and stood there shivering.
I must say, I enjoyed it. The cold water had taken the
fight out of her, and she didn t have the will to come after
me again.
Like the children at the Judy Johnson ballpark, we spent
our energy extravagantly and gave out.
Miss Jewel looked around and shook her head. There
were soaking clothes and towels everywhere and spilled
soda, empty soda cans, puddles of water and shriveling gobs
of shaving cream.
Girls, girls! she said, with happiness and love stretching
her smile wide. Look at this mess! Just look at it! And I m
not allowed to clean it up!
Well, someone would but not us. We were ballplayers
and we had something else on our minds.
Most of us went to the Deer Park tavern to celebrate,
and when the drinking was done, not too many of us meant
to go home alone.
From the Deer Park entryway, I called a Boston
sportswriter who had seemed interested when I played
for the Colonials. She was in town to write a feature on us
before the big match-up between the two teams.
The sportswriter was willing, but she had a story to do
and couldn t meet me at the tavern. She said to come by her
motel room after she was off deadline.
I got a beer and sat down at a table with Shakespeare
and Cranny, who were staring lasciviously into each other s
eyes and whispering about what they wanted to do to each
other once they were home. What I overheard was pretty
spicy. I wondered why they had bothered to come to the
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Deer Park. Anticipation, I guess.
S.B. slid onto the bench next to me.
What do you say, S.B.? I said.
I say I m going to have a drink with you and then go
romance that history professor I m seeing. She had a class
tonight, or she d have come to the game. S.B. liked them
intellectual.
How s it going?
She s into American Studies this semester. Last time
she told me about Martin Luther King before we got down
to it. I think it s Watergate tonight.
Why don t you come home with me, S.B.? I know who
Richard Nixon was. I wasn t serious, and S.B. knew it.
Sorry, Smokey, I room with you. Your body holds no
mystery for me. We laughed, and then S.B. said smilingly,
Anyway, this friendship we have, there s nothing casual
about it.
She tousled my hair. I was touched. You ve helped me
survive, S.B.
She laughed. The season s not over yet.
The feeling I had was too emotional to prolong. I
escaped by drinking my beer.
Come on, Smokey, walk out with me, S.B. said.
I checked my watch. It was almost time to see the Boston
sportswriter. Okay. I m tired of watching Shakespeare and
Cranny make eyes at each other, anyway.
I drove to the sportswriter s motel and rang up her
room. She was there and invited me up. We messed around,
but it wasn t great sex.
Spare me from reporters. I think they d rather write
about it than do it.
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* * *
Coach Lefevre called us together the next day, before
the start of a three-game series against the Charleston
Rebels.
The clubhouse had indeed been straightened up, as we
knew it would be. Ball players possess a simple faith. We
may outgrow our belief in Santa Claus, but we never stop
trusting that someone will pick up after us.
At Lefevre s summons, we lounged on the clubhouse
benches and against the lockers. We looked nothing like
the disheveled mob that beat it out of there the day before.
Instead, we wore our white home uniforms, cleaned and
pressed, and we angled fresh blue baseball caps over our
combed and styled hair.
You all did a lot of celebrating last night, Lefevre said,
a mocking tone to her voice. You all did a lot of celebrating
for a team that needed four tries before you finally took a
game from a fifth-place club.
Hell, I thought, this is not going to be fun. I made the
mistake of clearing my throat and attracting Lefevre s
attention.
O Neill. You were having yourself a rip-roaring good
time. Did you manage to behave yourself?
Unlikely that I d say, I said mildly.
O Neill. And I thought you were one of those Girl
Scout types, honest in thought, word and deed.
I shut up and waited for the snickers to die down.
You ve had your fun, people. Now it s time to get
focused, Lefevre said. Let s review where we are. Boston
lost yesterday, so we re a game out of first. Boston got
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swept by the Charleston Rebels, who are coming in here
now and hoping to sweep us again, the way they did it to
us in their ballpark. They are making a habit of this. If the
Rebels get any more sweeps, they re going to be doing
broom commercials. They are making a damn fine run at
knocking New York out of third place. I remind you of this
because I figure you re all thinking about Boston coming
in here after Charleston leaves. We can t afford to look
beyond this series. We ve got to focus on the Rebels now, or
it won t matter a damn how we play Boston. After Boston,
the season has two weeks left in it. We are at the nub of the
matter right now. If we put it to Charleston, we control our
own destiny when Boston comes to town. This is where we
want to be. This is what we ve been driving for.
Lefevre started walking among us. When she got to
S.B., she put her hand on S.B. s shoulder and said, It s not
supposed to be easy. We don t even want it to be easy. If we
were leading a division of mediocre teams, no one would
remember us. The Goldrushers are running away with it in
the West, and who even cares? But everybody in the country
is talking about this rivalry between Delaware and Boston,
about two teams with a lot of heart taking it to each other.
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