Our Game

By Jeffrey P. Shafer

With the assistance of Benjamin Hughes, one of the most successful African American entrepreneurs in the country, as well as the commissioner of baseball and a cadre of guardian angels, Maria embarks on her journey to play pro ball. However, Ken and two co-conspirators do their best to sabotage the efforts of the Company to ensure that a woman will never step foot into a major league baseball batter's box.

Maria experiences a gamut of emotions as she pursues her dream. She is afraid of making a fool of herself, uncertain of her talents, ecstatic when she starts to realize her dream, and elated when a new, supportive love enters her life. Maria experiences stress, comradery, and humor interacting with male athletes whether on the baseball diamond or in the locker room.

Throughout the story, hope spreads the seeds of healing to those who have been left out, left behind, or simply forgotten. Baseball reminds all Americans, again, why it is our national pastime. Why baseball is "Our Game."

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 1, 1900
• ISBN: 9798986644622

Book preview

Spring Training

Throughout the hotel, in each room, one could hear the strains of Spring by Vivaldi as the clock struck 7:00 a.m. Souls that had slumbered all winter long suddenly came to life. At 7:03, a familiar yet commanding voice summoned the sleepy souls to an earthlier awakening.

Get up, you lazy bastards. I want everyone downstairs for breakfast in twenty minutes.

They all knew not to cross paths with that booming voice. Some of the men like Chris and Mel knew the ramifications of second-guessing John when he was in one of his cantankerous moods. Others who had been on the team for only a brief period had learned their lesson the hard way. I’m just glad that this morning I’m not an umpire, noted Mel sheepishly.

As the players headed downstairs, they could see the morning sun coming up over the horizon. With a combination of juvenile jokes, yawns, and wails for coffee, the players—all with the anticipation of boys—welcomed the first day of spring training. The boys of summer drained endless cups of coffee and wolfed down heaping servings of bacon, eggs, pancakes, and Wheaties. While they were anticipating the day’s heavy workout schedule, though, two other ballplayers on a local college campus were groaning awake as well…

Son of a bitch, Maria whispered to herself. It’s like rooming with a chili dog.

Maria’s roommate Justine had just let loose the loudest and smelliest fart ever to invade Planet Earth.

Justine, can’t you control yourself, or at least get to the bathroom first? pleaded Maria. I’m dying here. How does your boyfriend stand it?

Oh, there are benefits, winked Justine. Maria giggled as she shuffled off to the bathroom, scratching her privates in a way that only ballplayers can.

As the boys and girls of summer made their way from breakfast to workouts to split squad games, the executive committee of the board of trustees settled into their seats in the boardroom to discuss the opening of the new season.

I don’t want to talk about it! exclaimed Ken, the board chairman. Wes, Andy, the subject is closed for discussion!

C’mon, Ken, said Andy. If this whole thing was up to you, I wouldn’t be sitting here, and Joe and the other guys would have been out of the doghouse a long time ago.

And if I had let them off the hook, answered Ken, the game would have lost its integrity and never gotten it back.

Don’t be so dramatic, Ken. Baseball would have recovered and turned a positive corner in no time.

Always the optimist, Wes rubbed his forehead, puffed on his cigar, and quietly whispered a prayer of thanks for this great game of baseball.

Ken, we tabled this issue on the last day of the season, said Andy, and I can see that in spite of a restful hiatus, you’re still in a bitchy mood.

Look, guys, I’m still the chairman, so you can both kiss my ass. Ken stormed out of the boardroom.

Andy shook his head and asked Wes, How did you guys let him take over this thing all those years ago?

The owners were scared, replied Wes. The country was recovering from the war and the pandemic and couldn’t handle a scandal of that magnitude.

So, what are you proposing we do? asked Andy.

Wes smiled. Prayer and a 38-ounce bat.

Andy returned the smile and thought, Always the optimist and always a genius, as he and Wes strode out of the boardroom.

April in Southern California was always a beautiful month and always a great time to start the season. Not too hot, not too humid, and no May gray or June gloom.

As Maria stood in the locker room admiring her new compression shorts, she wondered how ballplayers managed to endure the cold April games that were characteristic in the Plains states and the Midwest.

Are we talking softball or baseball? her mind wondered. Instantly her brain responded. Same old same old. Softball for girls, baseball for boys. Damn it. It was always the same answer. Women had broken and continued to break so many barriers professionally and personally, except when it came to competing in professional sports with men. I get it, she thought. There are anatomical differences that enable each gender to perform differently in various sports. But why can’t I play in the majors?

Maria was, without a doubt, the best of the best. As a junior in college, she had hit .376 with 28 home runs, and nobody could turn two like Maria. And while the other girls on her team were out partying or hanging with guys, Maria quietly spent endless hours in the batting cages hitting baseballs.

This being the last season of her college career, Maria wanted everything to be perfect. She dressed, tied back her ponytail, and put on her eye black to reduce the sun glare. Maria liked what she saw in the mirror. She was all muscle but could run like the wind.

The first exhibition game of the season turned out to be disappointing. The team lost the opener 8 to 4, and Maria only managed to scrounge out a bloop single. What’s wrong with me? Maria asked herself in the car after the game. She knew what was wrong. Her softball career would most likely be over at the end of the season. Sure, she was already receiving offers from professional softball teams, but Maria didn’t think she could turn down the offers she was also getting for a full ride for graduate school.

If I could only get one chance, just one chance to try out in Single A ball just to prove myself. If I can’t cut it, at least I’ll know that I didn’t make it due to performance and not because I don’t wear a jockstrap.

She parked her car, grabbed her gear, and headed to the batting cages. It felt good knowing that she could solidly hit an 80-mile-per-hour baseball. But to what end? Sometimes it felt like dating a married man. Where can this relationship possibly go? Why is the national pastime beyond my reach?

Before Maria realized it, she had been in the batting cage for over an hour. Sweaty and sore, she failed to notice the elderly gentleman who had been watching her swing the bat. Just as Maria was taking her final swings, the man vanished from sight.

Well, Clyde, what did you think? Wes had absolutely no patience when it came to scouting talent.

Not everyone in this game is as prescient as you, Wes, chided Clyde. But if you want my immediate, professional, barely-had-any-time-to-observe opinion—she’s for real. So, when are you putting in an offer to purchase that softball team?

Wes rolled his eyes, lit his cigar, and chuckled to Clyde. Glad you agree with me, my friend.

Wes, haven’t we gotten too old for this? asked Clyde.

"Old? I thought we agreed to leave old at the front gate."

A few days later, while driving south on I-15, Maria thought, Thank goodness it’s the weekend. She had been in a sour mood all week, wrestling with her indecision about her future. Her spirits began to brighten as she turned off the highway exit to head toward Pacific Beach. How could anyone have a care in the world in PB? Mission Bay on one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other. And along Mission Boulevard? You could have just about any tasty morsel you could want. The boardwalk was always teeming with walkers, bikers, and folks riding (sometimes haphazardly) rental scooters.

Maria rounded the curve in the road on Pacific Beach Drive and turned into her aunt’s driveway. Aunt Olivia, who rented the two-bedroom apartment, was always okay with Maria staying with her or using the apartment while she was out of town or out of the country. Olivia had never wanted to marry or have children. Her Mediterranean features enabled her to attract just about any guy she wanted, but the ones she liked all tended to be married. And contrary to popular belief, Olivia had found that most married men were hopelessly faithful to their wives. Not that they wouldn’t have enjoyed a tryst with her, but she had found that most of the married men she had met were happy and didn’t want to ruin a good thing.

This weekend was one of the few occasions when Maria was glad that Olivia was out of town. During the drive to PB, Maria had been thinking that sitting on a barstool followed up by a nocturnal rendezvous would do her some good. She hoped she would find just an average-looking single guy out for a similarly good time with no strings attached the following morning. Another roll in the sheets, breakfast, and then goodbye.

That evening, Maria ambled along the Pacific Beach boardwalk and finally decided on a pub named Smitty’s. The atmosphere was just what she was looking for. The place was crowded but not packed, and the noise level was vibrant but not earsplitting. It was the kind of place where one interested person could strike up a conversation with another interested person. Maria peered inside and saw just what she was looking for. The place was worn but not stodgy. There were peanut shells on the floor and patrons of all ages, sizes, and backgrounds.

Maria knew that she had a quick minute to scope out her cuddle for the night without becoming obvious. There he is, she thought. Yep, an average-looking slim guy, sitting at the bar, talking to a man and woman who looked like they had just flown in from Woodstock. Even better, there were three barstools empty to the left of the trio. Maria sauntered up to the bar and sat down. She discreetly left an empty barstool between her and her cuddle-target so as not to be too obvious. Her outfit was perfect. She had intentionally worn her Padres workout shirt (you didn’t want to wear a Dodgers shirt in PB) and Lulu pants that garnered her plenty of walking-away looks from guys. She ordered a large IPA and commenced an innocent conversation with the bartender.

Bolstered by a couple of IPA gulps, Maria glanced discreetly to her right. The guy had nice-looking shoulders and from what she could see from the barstool, a good ass. Not only that, but he was also talking to the hippies about literature! They were discussing the troubles of a fictional Thomas Hardy character whose name sounded like Tess D’Urberville. It was time to make her move.

She tapped the guy on the elbow and innocently requested, Could you please pass the bar snacks my way? He turned, smiled, and pushed the bowl of snacks toward Maria before returning to his conversation. Damn! This was going to require more finesse. Just as Maria was reaching for the bowl, she knocked over her beer. Fortunately, the beer spilled away from her; she was in no mood for a wet T-shirt contest. Maria and the literary trio all scattered.

The bartender smiled. It wouldn’t be a Friday night without a beer spill. People forget how to drink during the week.

It was just the right amount of levity to break the tension, along with Maria’s apology and offer to buy everyone a new round. The baby boomers thanked Maria but indicated that they needed to be on their way. Alone at last!

The dude’s name was Marlin. He was twenty-five years old and a burgeoning real estate investor with a degree in architecture. More importantly, he was a rabid baseball fan. His smile, wavy hair, and brown bedroom eyes, along with her second beer, convinced Maria that she had come to the right gin joint.

Everything had gone off without a hitch. Marlin had been just as interested in the evening’s entertainment as Maria. The next morning, they showered, dressed, and scootered to Woody’s for breakfast. As they walked out to Mission Boulevard, Marlin and Maria said their goodbyes, keeping with their contract—no phone numbers and no future contact. Maria had made her decision. She headed back to Aunt Olivia’s house, packed up her things, and drove north back to campus.

While Southern California weather in April was almost always gorgeous, the weather in Tórshavn never seemed to vary that much. Cloudy, windy, and rainy seemed to always be the climate du jour. Debbye stepped back into her Airbnb and poured herself another two fingers of scotch. I know, she thought, I’m still drinking like a fish. Debbye knew that she had reached bottom and was trying anything to lift herself out of her constant state of the blues. She managed to chuckle to herself that at least the weather in the Faroe Islands was worse than her current state of mind.

Three years ago, Debbye and her husband had taken a whirlwind trip to Iceland, the Faroe Islands, and Ireland. Their daughter had been conceived during that vacation. From the moment the Atlantic Airlines jet touched down at Vagar Airport, Debbye had fallen in love with the country. The archipelago of islands struck her as a cross between Iceland and Ireland. Iceland was majestic and rugged, while Ireland was truly the Emerald Isle. The Faroe Islands consisted of steep terrain and winding roads, and everywhere you looked, the landscape was covered with green grass, streams, and waterfalls. Not to mention all the sheep. The Faroe Islands were a wool wearer’s, lamb eater’s paradise. Debbye recalled that about fifty thousand people populated the islands along with over seventy thousand sheep. The sheep were as lovable as dogs and as dumb as doorstops. In particular, she had been awestruck by the island of Eysturoy and the town of Gjógv. The trail behind the Gjaargardur Guest House led to a steep flight of wooden steps and up a mammoth hill. She had never experienced a more breathtaking sight than the top of that hill on a sunny afternoon.

What had started as a dream, though, had turned into a nightmare. Debbye had lost her beloved Abigail during childbirth, and when the doctors told her and her husband that it would be catastrophic for her to have another child, the strain of the tragedies had destroyed their marriage. It had been an amicable divorce but a failure, nevertheless. And then she had started to drink.

Debbye had had enough. She had hoped that this trip would help to heal her wounds, but instead it had made her even more depressed. Something inside told her it was time to move on. Besides, it was spring training back home. Debbye had taken a leave of absence, which the university had gladly granted. As the head coach of the softball team, Debbye had led the team to three national Division 1 championships over a period of eight years, and oh my how the money and sponsorships had rolled into the university! The vice presidents of athletics and academic affairs did not want to lose their goose who was laying the golden eggs. For Debbye, her reasons were much more personal. She intuitively knew that a fresh season would help to take her mind off her tragedies. On top of that, the team would be losing some key players to graduation at the end of the season. If she was going to maintain her reputation as a miracle worker, she needed to get going with recruitment efforts. More importantly, Maria was not only graduating, but she had also sent Debbye a melancholy text. Maria was torn between graduate school and professional softball and needed Debbye by her side to mentor her through the decision.

After packing her bag and saying goodbye to the family who lived on the first floor of the two-story Airbnb, Debbye fired up the rental car and headed to the airport. Of course, the rental car company had found a thumbnail-sized scratch on the frame of the front door, which miraculously would cost her the precise amount of her deductible. In the US, the bloody thing wouldn’t even have garnered a glance by a return agent. It was going to be a long day—Torshavn, Keflavik, JFK, LA.

After her plane touched down in Iceland, she headed straight for her two stopover destinations—the duty-free shop to pick up some small bottles of Jameson and then over to Joe and the Juice to get a smoothie and a couple of their awesome grilled spicy tuna sandwiches.

Benjamin Hughes knew this would be his last time seeing the old ballpark; well, what used to be the site of his beloved ballpark. He was still hale for someone ninety-six years old, but he could feel that his time was limited.

His companion and bodyguard Alexis helped him out of the chauffer-driven limousine. Benjamin no longer needed to check whether Alexis was packing. Having served two tours in Iraq, the hardened combat vet and former gang member could make mincemeat out of any perpetrator with her hands, a blade, or a piece.

Not that he was as recognizable in public as he used to be. Benjamin Hughes was one of the wealthiest and most successful African American entrepreneurs in the US. He couldn’t help but smile to himself as he and Alexis walked (hobbled in his case) down the street together. Benjamin had insisted that they start their walking tour at the corner of North 15th and West Huntington Street. This is where he remembered the majestic turret and grandstand entrance leading into the ballpark. Like any kid seeing a major league field for the first time, Benjamin had been mesmerized by the blue sky, the green of the grass, and the sandy infield turf. Most of all, he couldn’t believe the distance from home plate to the center field wall and clubhouse.

They meandered up North 15th Street, past a couple of churches, and turned right onto West Lehigh Avenue. Benjamin vaguely remembered how tight the street was at the back of the ballpark and that there was another entrance on Lehigh. Yep, he thought. There’s the old Ford building. Benjamin thought he would be feeling sad and melancholy by this point in their tour, but to his delight he was feeling childlike and energetic.

Whatcha thinkin’? asked Alexis.

Honestly, I wish I could have a hot dog and some Cracker Jack right now, confessed Benjamin.

I got you covered, replied Alexis. At least on the CJ. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a real box of Cracker Jack. I bet there’s even a prize in the box, she said.

Benjamin tore open the top like an eight-year-old kid and dug his fingers into the box. And sure enough, there it was—a baseball card. Not just any baseball card, but a card of his boyhood hero Chuck Klein—the man who’d won the National League Triple Crown in 1933. He gently turned over the card and was elated to see Klein’s entire career stats on the back. As he perused the numbers, Benjamin reached into the box and tasted the caramel corn and peanuts. He could almost hear his mom calling him in for dinner. As tears welled up in Benjamin’s eyes, Alexis pulled out from her cooler the