Boy's World

Derek Zumsteg

Back to Chapter Three

Chapter Four

They rocked her in Auburn, lit her up like the town Christmas tree in Utica, chased her out of Watertown, her ERA the tab for an expensive meal with cigars and Cognac in New York. They whipped her pitches out of the park in Vermont, and Jamestown -- in Jamestown she never got out of an inning.

Karen felt guilty signing autographs, started sneaking off early, making hollow excuses.

Karen began to keep a log of her appearances.

July 1st, Vermont. Gave up three first-pitch hits on fastball, slider, fastball. DP off splitter, didn't like throwing it. Lucky. Fly out to end inning. GO-3 on fastball in, GO-5 on fastball in, single on second pitch, FO-8. Lucky. Third inning: luck ran out.

Karen tore her rental apart before leaving for a game, while knowing that forfeiting her security deposit wasn't going to help anyone. It was the kind of no-class stunt she expected from players she had a long standing dislike for, like Gary Sheffield and his ilk. She went to the park, got smoked for twelve runs so quickly that fans trying to score the game swore her out. Karen handed the ball to her silent coach and walked to the dugout, where the rest of the low A-ballers sat still and didn't look at her. Karen walked on back to the showers. She sat by her locker, leaned back and closed her eyes. The clubhouse smelled dank and hung with the scent of stale sweat on steam, and Karen took her shower alone, like she was supposed to.

Karen sat in the dark in her rental, dimes ticking away in her head as she cradled the phone.

"The jump to double-A is even harder," Steve said. He waited. "Or so I hear."

"Twelve runs in an inning, Steve. They're going to toss me off the team," she said. "What are you doing here? Is there a story in failure?"

"Only if you're noble," Steve said.

"I broke one of my chairs today."

"How'd you manage that?"

"I used it against the kitchen. It held up well for a while."

"Don't worry about it. They're probably just going to put you in long relief."

"I thought you'd cheer me up," Karen said.

"I'm sorry. I've been writing tennis stories. I hate tennis. I hate it."

"I can call back later."

"No. It's okay." Karen could hear his chair squeak as he leaned back. "Relief might be good for you, take the pressure off, let you get back into it, you know?"

"Maybe," Karen said.

"You thought of seeing if your dad can come out and help, a couple days even?"

Karen shook her head. "We haven't talked at all about it," she said. "I don't know why. He might even know."

"I'll bet he knows."

"I don't want to talk to him about it. I was so good in camp, he was so proud, and now..." She wiped an eye. "Dammit."

"He's a good man," Steve said. "He's still going to be proud of you."

Karen wiped both eyes with the back of her hand. "What's going on in Orlando? How's Alan?"

Karen stood on the mound in Oneonta in a light drizzle, the ball slipping in her hand as she turned it over and over, looking at the signs. This was long relief: taking on a game behind, with men on base and a power hitter up. Water dripped off her hat down her jersey, off the brim of her cap as she looked home. This wasn't her game, and it wasn't her problem.

Karen threw a beautiful slider that came off her hand wet and nasty, its motion not what she wanted but better still, and the draft-pick hard case came into the pitch too late. He snapped it off and Karen took two steps and dived, spearing it backhanded, sliding all-body into the mud, coming up and firing to first to double up the runner and end the inning. She stood, mud across her uniform, rain spreading the stains, grim and arrogant walking back to the dugout.

Karen pointed at the manager. "That's what I'm talking about!" she shouted, grinning. He nodded.

The next inning, she walked three and threw three wild pitches while striking out one. They pulled her and sent her to the clubhouse. Steve stood in the hallway as she went by, her cleats leaving mud puddle tracks.

"You headed to the showers?"

"Not with you here."

Steve looked uncomfortable. "I didn't mean...I'll see you outside."

"What are you doing in this cute little burg?"

"I'm in New York for job interviews. I thought I'd come out and see how you're doing."

"How come -- I'm not news anymore?"

"Because no one wants to write the failure story only to be shown up in a month, and the struggling story doesn't have a lot of news value."

"The way people swarmed on me in camp, I figured they'd run columns on me."

"After the season starts, other prospects, veterans, new races, better stories. I also suspect the Astros are leaning on the press wherever they can. Beat reporters are spineless." Steve picked at his ravioli. "You're in low A-ball because you went into camp and you put on a clinic. I saw you today and you might as well have walked up and put the ball on a tee for them. Are you injured?"

"I'm not injured."

"Are you sure?"

"I get regular exams, the team's and I've got a physician in Syracuse sympathetic to my cause I'm seeing on the side. I'm fine."

"What's your problem, then? Why are you just tossing the ball out there?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be getting shelled, genius."

They stared at each other.

"You lonely up here?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Sorry."

"Never mind."

"Karen, I don't want to write the struggling story I'm working on."

"Aha."

"No. You're out there and you're not pitching anymore. You don't look imposing on the mound. You don't look like a woman ready to put on a clinic, you look like you've just been demoted."

"I feel like I've been demoted. This is barely ahead of rookie league, and they're making me look like a chump out there."

"I sort of think that you're making yourself look like a chump." Steve shifted and rolled his shoulders a little. "Don't worry about getting lit up. I've seen your stuff; it's unhittable. Let them try to hit it and let them fail. You've got great instincts for killing batters, but you're not doing it."

"No."

"So do it. Knock them down instead of walking them. Bring the high gas and then put them on their knees."

"It's easier said than done."

"For me," Steve said. "For you, it's easier to do than anything."

"What're you going back to Florida with?"

"A couple of decent job offers, some pictures that'll make Alan jealous. You know."

Karen took the mound next in a clean heat that smelled of grass in Oneonta, taking over the late innings for a high draft pick coming back from a ligament pull. The leadoff batter had previously worked Karen for twenty pitches, fouling them back and then taking his time getting back into the box, until he finally collected his fourth ball and trotted to first free of charge. Karen had never thrown so many pitches to one batter. It had been a long start to a short start.

He grinned at her as he dug in. Karen threw at his shoulder and put him on first the hard way.

She took the number two hitter with fastballs in on his hands, and he left swearing, shaking his stinging fingers and tossing his helmet into the dugout. Then she picked the runner off with an easy, artistic flair that seemed to freeze him in his four-step lead, out as soon as he realized he'd been caught.

And the number three, the fresh-faced guy who blushed whenever he saw her, straight breaking pitches he watched into the catcher's glove. Karen turned as the ump called the third strike and walked back to the dugout, as her teammates patted her on the back as they jogged in past her.

"That's what I'm talking about," her coach said as she walked past.

Steve sat in a cool cloth chair in Karen's apartment, thinking of the smell of Chinese food, eyes closed.

Karen was in the kitchen, sitting on the counter with the phone.

"I think it's getting better. No. Yeah, I had to get it together." She laughed. "Take it one day at a time, realize I had to go out and try to keep the team in the game." She started to laugh. "No, I stopped worrying about it so much.

"We don't work much on mechanics, it's mostly pitch selection and that stuff. Thanks, Dad. I'm going to get some dinner now, okay? I'll talk to you tomorrow, unless I get shelled again. No, I will."

Steve opened his eyes as Karen hopped onto the tile floor. "Let's get some food," she said.

"You're growing your hair out."

"Why is that important? Are my fashion choices news?"

"They will be."

Karen sighed. "I didn't want to hear that."

They kept rocking Karen, but Karen came back now, undisturbed, and learned. She worked on pitching around what they came up to the plate visualizing, and the naturals, the draft picks, and the too-old to-be-prospects looked at her with confusion and fear in their eyes as she fed them their favorite mistake pitches off the corners and at their head and then gave them their nightmares for the out. They were counting pitches, and Karen was working combinational proofs.

"What happened?" Steve asked her two games into her comeback.

"If I have to be perfect, then I'll be perfect," she told Steve with a straight face. He looked at her for a long minute, trying to figure out whether she was serious, and decided to pass up the quote. Later that night, Karen kept giggling as she tried to fall asleep, thinking of the sportswriter's totally inability to deal with straight humor over the plate.

Afterwards, Karen walked along the stands, shaking hands and seeking out the girls in the crowd, signing their programs, brushing off the clumsy, repetitive advances and passes of husbands, hick boys, other women, until the crowd waned or Karen's hand gave out on her.

July 27th, Pittsfield: relieved Price in 4th, pitched four innings, three hits (first pitch fastball, first pitch fastball, third pitch curve 1-1), one walk (3-1), two strikeouts (0-3 fastballs, 1-3 fastball/curve/curve/curve), HBP (see hit #1). Apx 60 pitches. Ejected for HBP but the ump was smiling.

Karen worked her way back into the starting rotation in the same way she'd muscled her way into low-A ball: by being so good that her performances demanded it, and she responded by throwing a 82-pitch shutout. The article was taped to her locker.

The best test of a player's future is failure. A player, especially a natural, highly touted, a high draft pick, may have never tasted failure before, and the first defeat has ended some careers. Many sure prospects become afraid of themselves and never develop because they're afraid to lose to learn.

Karen Moran isn't a draft pick, she's not highly touted or listed on anyone's Top 50 Prospects, but that should change. Moran started the season with the Auburn Doubledays and struggled, losing game after game, but she learned as she lost and now displays the kind of mound presence and intelligent pitching last associated with a young Oral Hershiser. In her three-hit shutout of Utica Moran was masterful, and if she can maintain this level of performance her promotion up the organization is assured.

"Who writes this stuff?" Karen said. She folded the sports section back on itself and threw it at Steve.

To Chapter Five

about the author

Derek Zumsteg's most desperate wish is to pitch just one inning in a major-league game...and a pony.