Chapter Eighteen
Living Ocean Day at the ballpark was so successful that Jackie’s cheeks hurt from smiling—all the kids getting into it, all the people toting around bags with the Center’s Live Well with Ocean Life motto printed on them, all the buzz about their mission. Maybe awareness about the sea animals would encourage people to care about the ocean. Children loved the seals and the otters. Maybe they’d get their parents involved and parents could get their communities involved and—she stopped herself. She was becoming mush-brained. Must be the sun.
The Center’s volunteers had set up a series of educational booths in strategic spots around the ballpark and as she wandered through the massive stadium, she saw that they were crowded with curious fans. And they weren’t the only ones surrounded by fans—just before batting practice began, she saw Alex and several other players down on the field signing caps, balls, even hands.
As the Giants began drills on the field, she and Gage settled into their seats a few rows behind the dugout.
“Garlic fry?” Gage said, offering the tray. She took one and savored it. The garlic gave the fries a sharp, pungent taste. She took another, then looked over to where Alex stood at first base. He turned and flashed her a smile, then spun around as a ball hit by one of the coaches bounced up and smacked him in the thigh.
“He’s smitten,” Gage teased. “Didn’t even see that ball. You may just bring down the whole sport, Jack.”
She wrinkled her nose and grabbed a beer from his tray. Her body relaxed as she sipped it.
After the Giants finished their practice, Michael Albright waved out at the crowd from the top of the Giants’ dugout and made a short speech about the Center’s work. The man loved attention. The Giants’ mascot—how perfect that he was a seal—cavorted beside him, to the glee of the families seated nearby. The screen above center field flashed a short video showcasing the Center’s work, and the crowd cheered at the footage of sea lions charging back into the ocean, porpoising and touching noses as they swam off into the waves.
Jackie’s smile faded when she saw Volkov and his Russian colleague high-five Michael as he stepped down from the dugout. Why she hadn’t expected to see them, she wasn’t sure.
Michael made his way over to where Jackie and Gage sat, a smug look of accomplishment playing on his face.
“See you at the tailgate party,” he said with his usual ease of command.
“Sure, chief.” Though she was still put out that he hadn’t consulted her about the event, she couldn’t be angry about the result.
He leaned close to her. “Better hope they win,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve got money on the game with Volkov. Could fund that new pool. He’s foolish enough to bet against the Giants.”
She started to tell him that she’d not found Volkov's name on the alumni roster of the Ivy League school he’d claimed to have attended, but thought better of it. Michael deserved a good day; he’d done so much for her, for all of them. Questions about Volkov could wait.
She settled in to watch the game and was thankful to have Gage’s move-by-move analysis. So much of the game still escaped her. One thing that didn’t escape her was the fuzzy feeling that ran through her whenever she focused on Alex.
“Do they always miss the ball this much?” she asked Gage. Eight innings had gone by and neither team had scored. Worse, Alex had struck out twice.
“These are the two best pitchers in the league,” Gage told her. “But they’ll likely pull Scotty. He rarely pitches more than seven innings.”
The Giants manager came out of the dugout and tapped two fingers to his arm. Though the terms for the game were becoming familiar, the signs and arm movements continued to bemuse her. Scotty scowled at him as he walked to the mound. He patted Scotty on the bum, and Scotty shrugged and walked to the dugout.
“See, told you,” Gage said, as if he’d been responsible for the manager’s decision.
She checked out the fans surrounding them while the new pitcher warmed up.
“Top of the ninth,” Gage said when the opposing team’s hitter stepped up to bat. “If neither team scores, it’ll go to extra innings. One time a game went to nineteen innings, and they had to finish it the next day. It’s a cool thing about baseball, that it doesn’t kowtow to time.” He pointed to the player preparing to bat. “But that’s Duarte. It’s not like him to go a whole game without a hit.”
A sharp crack pulled her attention back to the field just in time to watch the ball soar high, arching toward the far side of the stadium. Duarte ran toward Alex, at first base, then, as he watched the ball fly into the stands, he gave Alex an almost imperceptible pat on the butt and slowed his steps, merely jogging now, and touching all the bases.
“Bummer,” Gage yelled. He turned to Jackie. “That’s the guy chasing Alex for the Triple Crown. It helps that there weren’t any men on base, but it’s still a bummer.” Gage leaned his elbows on his knees and held his face in his hands, riveted to the field. The next hitter smacked a ball so fast toward first that it hit Alex’s glove before she could track its path. He spun and threw to second base.
“There wasn’t anyone on that base,” Jackie said.
“It’s routine after catching an infield shot like that. Keeps everybody sharp.”
She watched as the umpire signaled strikes and balls thrown by the new pitcher. The next hitter smacked a ball that sailed over their heads and into the stands a few rows behind them.
“Should’ve brought my glove,” Gage groused. “I could’ve had that.”
She reached for her beer cup. Empty. “Can we get another beer?”
“Nervous?” Gage said with a twinkle. “Welcome to the ball game.” He offered her a sip of his. “No beer sold after the seventh inning,” he said. “You’ll have to wait for the tailgate party.”
A fly ball ended the inning, and Jackie sat back in her seat unclenching her hands and taking in a long, slow breath.
After another few minutes of seemingly needless delay—necessary for TV commercials, Gage had assured her when she complained—the chanting in the stadium was near deafening when one of the Giants’ hitters stood ready to bat. Alex stood off to one side, swinging a bat as he waited his turn. The muscles of his arms rippled, sinewy, as he swung. She knew those arms and for a moment could feel them against her. He didn’t look around; his eyes were trained on the pitcher. She could almost see the concentrated energy shooting out from him. The catcher jumped up and threw the ball back to the pitcher, snapping her attention back to the game.
“They changed pitchers,” she observed.
“He’s their closer. The guy can throw ninety-eight miles an hour. Not for long, but long enough. Alex can hit this guy. I’ve seen him do it. But Cardera, at the plate, he’s not so good against him.”
The lump of tension in her throat rose higher. She glanced around the stadium. The energy of the sell-out crowd was funneled to the man preparing to hit. He whiffed at the first throw.
“No one can hit that slider. Not even Alex,” Gage said, draining the remaining beer from his cup.
The batter watched the second throw go by him. The pitcher drew back and threw again. This time the hitter swung, and Gage jumped out of his seat before she could see where the ball went.
“Yeah! That’s it, that’s it!” Gage shouted and punched her in the shoulder. She watched as the ball skidded through the space between first and second base, spinning and curving. Two players dove for it and finally one of the outfielders got his hands on it and threw it to second base.
“Seeing-eye ball. Perfect,” Gage said. “That’s enough of a table set for Alex.”
Gage was so focused on the game that she could’ve yelled “fire” and he wouldn’t have flinched. She leaned forward. The muscle in her jaw stiffened as she watched Alex swing his bat a couple of times and then take the stance that she recognized. The whole stadium seemed to suck in a breath as he stood, ready to hit.
He watched the first ball go b
y him, and the umpire signaled a strike.
“Why do they let those first balls just go by if they’re so good?” Jackie asked.
“Shhh,” Gage said, using his hand to hush her.
Alex swung, connecting to the second pitch. It sailed into the stands behind the opposing team’s dugout.
“Late,” Gage muttered. “C’mon, Alex. C’mon.”
The pitcher looked in at his catcher, shook his head, and then shook it again. The catcher waved his hand. Alex stepped back, and the catcher trotted out to the mound.
“Jeez,” Gage said, disgusted. “At least they’re afraid of him. That’s good for us.”
Us. For a moment Jackie envied his use of the word. For some people, their fascinations brought them a sense of belonging. She looked around at the fans, dressed in black and orange, holding signs with hand-lettered slogans, waving rally towels and shouting. She swallowed down the empty feeling that plagued her, that of not being part of the crowd, and snapped her eyes back to the field.
She pointed toward the pitcher and catcher conferring on the mound. “Why do they hold their gloves in front of their mouths like that?” she asked, more to ease the tightness in her throat than to know.
“So no one can read their lips and know what they’re saying. God only knows what he can throw now. I think Alex has his number.”
When the catcher squatted in place behind the plate, Alex stared at the pitcher. She could’ve traced the line his eyes made to the pitcher, it was so direct and strong. The pitcher nodded at the catcher, wrapped his hand around the ball in his glove, then hauled his arm back and threw. Alex pivoted out of the way, and Jackie flinched to see the ball fly so close to his face.
The crowd roared with anger.
“That was intentional.” Gage huffed.
A burly man—Gage had called him the team manager—came charging out of the Giants’ dugout. Alex held a hand up and signaled to him, but the manager marched over to the umpire anyway, unswayed. The umpire kept a placid face as he stood in the face of the manager’s spitting ire. Then he made a rolling motion with his hands. The manager looked back at Alex and ambled to the dugout.
Alex tapped his bat against first one foot, then the other, and she watched as red dirt clumped to the ground from his cleats.
He shook out his shoulders, then took his stance in the batter’s box. The pitcher eyed him, then looked to the catcher. Even at a distance she could see a tendon in Alex’s neck twitch. He slitted his eyes. He looked like a gunslinger from movies when the good guy and the bad guy had a showdown at high noon, and the bad guy knew even before he drew his gun that he’d lost. She hoped Alex was the good guy.
The pitcher threw to first and the runner dove back to the base just in time. Gage moaned beside her, but she didn’t take her eyes off the field.
The pitcher looked in to the catcher, shook his head, shook it again, then nodded. What happened next felt like slow motion. The ball seemed to hang over the plate. Alex’s bat connected with a crack that shot through the noise of the stadium. The crowd roared and leapt to their feet. Jackie sprang up and held her breath as Alex sprinted toward first. She glanced at the ball as it arced over the center field wall and into the stands, then snapped her eyes right back to Alex. He pumped his hand into a fist and drew it into his chest in a universal sign that anyone would read as yes!
Gage screamed something at the field, at her, it didn’t matter. Then he grabbed her in a crushing bear hug. She wriggled out and watched as the other runner crossed home plate and the Giants leapt out of the dugout, shouting and celebrating. The pitcher stood on the mound as if stunned, watching it all unfold. She looked back at Alex and followed him with her eyes as he jogged the bases, grinning. She felt the lift of his elation in her own heart and cheered, her voice melding with the jubilation of the crowd.