Big League Dreams Ch. 01

Finally, Terry stood up, sweat staining his gray t-shirt and beading up on his red face, and said, "Allie, that's all I can do for now." She nodded back to him, and smiled. I noticed that she didn't correct her father's use of her nickname and I remembered how my sister let my dad get away with things that she never did with mom. Allison saw me watching and smiled.

"Not bad, for a girl, right, Ray?"

"Not bad at all—for anyone," I said, and I meant it. I mean, I had no idea what was good for a high school softball pitcher, but she was really bringing it, and had what looked like pretty good control. Honestly, I wasn't sure whether I could hit her, but then again, I was emphatically not known for my batting skill.

"Hey, Ray, can I show you my hardball stuff?"

I was about to say, "Sure," when Terry interjected.

"Allie, you have soccer practice now, and you need to get changed and ready."

She shrugged and turned toward the house, gracefully heading in.

"So, you must be Ray. Terry." He reached out a large hand, which I shook. The man had a vice grip.

"Nice to meet you, Terry. I really appreciate you and Sandy letting me stay here."

He waved me off. "Not a problem, Ray. Enjoy it." There was an awkward moment of silence, the kind guys get when they just meet and don't know what sort of small talk to make. "So, whadd'ya have planned today?"

"Um, I thought I'd do some food shopping, then I need to head over to the park."

"Makes sense. We'll be at the game tonight."

"Yeah, I saw you guys last night."

"Good win. Balboa was untouchable."

I nodded. "I saw him pitch in spring training. When he is on, he is tough. I even saw him make Danny Caruso look bad in an intrasquad game."

Terry nodded to show his understanding of what that meant. "Have you had breakfast, Ray? Sandy made a bunch of pancakes, and I suspect that some of them have your name on them."

"That would be amazing." I followed him into the house and to the kitchen that was bigger than my entire apartment for a breakfast that would require me to spend some more time on the stationary bike.

*

The pitchers' meeting was no different from what I was used to, although I didn't know most of the opposing hitters, except for a couple that I faced before. Afterwards, I grabbed a hot dog from concessions and put on my new to me, unfamiliar uniform with an unfamiliar number and went out to loosen up and shag flies in the unfamiliar outfield.

Despite the fact that we had clinched first place, there was no going through the motions on this team—which was a credit to Teo, and also the guys. I sat in the dugout, watched, ate sunflower seeds and generally tried not to call attention to myself. But when Cal Burkowski, who had been unhittable all season, blew the save, the dugout got quiet, and when we went down without a peep in the bottom of the ninth, I could sense the disappointment of my teammates, even if I didn't quite feel it as strongly.

But tomorrow, I was starting and had a chance to become a part of the team. Since I hadn't really done much, and because our locker room, while nicer than what we had in my last stop, wasn't all that great, I decided to wait until I got home to shower. Driving past the big gates and up the driveway, I could see a figure shooting baskets at a well-lit hoop. It was, of course, Allison, and she was draining well more than half of her shots. I parked the car, grabbed my gym bag and went over to watch.

"Looking good, Allison," I said, after she hit four jumpers in a row. The night was warm, and the sweat was beading up on her forehead, and her t-shirt was soaked through. She looked at me and smiled, then whipped the ball at me. I was able to drop my bag and catch it before it did damage. I dribbled a couple of times toward the basket, jumped and watched the ball clang off the back of the rim. It had been a while since I had played the game, and it felt awkward.

Allison rebounded my errant shot, turned, and drained a ten-footer. "You said you played this game before?" she challenged.

Nodding, I said, "I have, but it's been a while."

"Apparently," she replied with a playful smirk. "Want to see a teenage girl beat you in one on one?"

"You do know that I just finished a game. I'll take a rain check."

"We were at the game, Ray. You never got off the bench. Are your muscles stiff from lack of use?"

For a high school girl, she had big league trash talk. The last thing I wanted to do was to play her, now. But I couldn't back down either. "Alright. Let's go."

She looked at me for a second or two. "Nah, Ray. I'll give you a rain check. I know that you are starting tomorrow, and I don't want you to pull a muscle or anything."

I nodded, because she was right. If I got hurt and blew my chance because I was playing basketball with a girl, I'd never forgive myself. And even more if she beat me, which seemed like a better than even chance. Picking up my bag, I said, "Fine, but when we have an off day, you are going down."

"You wish, old man. You wish."

"Good night, Allison. You'll be at the game tomorrow?"

"Dad and I will be. Good luck tomorrow."

"Thanks. Say good night to your mom and dad for me, and thanks."

"Will do, if they aren't asleep." She turned toward the hoop and threw up another shot that rolled around the rim and leaked out.

The A/C in my apartment was incredible, and it dried the sweat off of me instantly. I popped a beer and drank about half of it in one swig before heading to the shower. It was the night before my first start with a new team, and I needed to get to bed and be ready.

*

"Good job, kid," Al said in his gruff voice, as he reached out his hand for the ball. I deposited the worn sphere into his callused palm and smiled at the compliment. The enthusiastic crowd applauded as I walked toward the dugout, and I felt the sweat drip down the back of my neck, despite the fact that it was a night game. I had done a good job. After nervously grooving a pitch to the first batter, who promptly deposited it in the left field bleachers, I settled down, scattered a handful of hits and two walks, and left with two out in the sixth, with the team up 6-2. It might have been a meaningless game in the standings, but it made me part of the team, to a degree, and showed me, to a degree, that I could pitch at this level.

Right as I got to the dugout, I could see Terry and Allison applauding and smiling from their seats a few rows back. I waved to them before descending the steps to have my back pounded by my teammates. Someone handed me a towel and a bottle of cold water, and I grabbed them and sat down on the bench. I was tired, and I suspect that Teo and Al could see that I was running out of gas and adrenalin, which is why they brought in Hatcher to finish the inning.

We all went out after the game, and despite the fact that only a few days had passed, I felt way more comfortable. I was able to notice that the bar was filled with team memorabilia, going back what seemed like decades, and jerseys from major league players who obviously had enjoyed the joint's hospitality in their minor league days. I also noticed that there were a number of attractive young women, drinking, chatting and playing pool, and a fair percentage appeared to be unattached.

As I may have mentioned earlier, I'm not the most experienced guy, but I'm also not a monk. When the serious jocks in high school were scoring with the cheerleaders, I was a short, middling pitcher who was often tongue-tied around attractive members of the opposite sex. I did manage to get a serious girlfriend senior year, and wasn't a virgin when I went off to college. My college was small, and I struggled to find someone. After I shot up and became more of a star, I found more girls interested in me, but only dated fitfully, focusing on developing my new talent, until junior year, when I thought I was in love but it turned out she wasn't, at least with me. My heartbreak pushed me to focus on school and pitching senior year, which probably got me drafted. So, thanks, Liz.

In rookie ball, we played in a small farm town, and there weren't many available women, although I did have my one and only one night stand that season during a road trip. And this season, I had dated someone for a couple of months, early on, when I was struggling, and I don't blame her for dumping my mopey ass. Which is a long way of saying that sitting in the bar with my teammates, I would have been very happy to find some female companionship for the night, knowing full well that the season was virtually over.

Sitting at a table with Roscoe, Mason Irvin, the backup shortstop who I had played with in rookie ball, and Caden Burris, an outfielder who was, by all accounts, on the fast track to the show, I noticed a very attractive woman playing pool. She was tall, with shoulder length light brown hair. Her tanned shoulders held up the straps of a tank top that hugged her well-proportioned chest and stopped an inch or two above a pair of tight Levi's which were tucked into low boots. She turned her head and her eyes locked onto mine. I turned away, embarrassed at being caught staring, and it appeared that a smile flashed across her lips.

Mason followed my gaze, and I could see his eyes open wide. "Shit. I've been here all season," he drawled. "Ain't never seen her here before. And I'd a noticed."

Caden and Roscoe took a quick, appraising look and nodded. "Nope, never saw her before," Roscoe agreed. "Dude, you saw her first, so you better go for it before someone else does."

I'd had a couple of beers and was feeling pretty bulletproof after the game, so I figured, what the hell, stood up and headed for the pool table, hearing some whooping coming from my teammates. As I approached the table, she bent over it, to take a shot, and I was mesmerized by the view of her butt. I watched as she lined up the shot, smoothly stroked the cue stick, and heard the sound of cue hitting ball and ball entering pocket. She turned, and smiling, said, "You want next?"

The last time I had picked up a cue was back in college, and I was not good. But I was transfixed by this woman, and if it meant that I would get to spend some time with her, it was worth getting my butt kicked, in public, in front of my teammates. I nodded. "Sure, rack 'em up," I responded, because I thought that is what you're supposed to say.

I got another smile, and she replied, "You rack, I break." Which was right, and I felt like an idiot. While I fumbled with the rack and balls, I heard my opponent say, "Eight ball." It took me a second to realize that I had to put the black ball in the middle, and make sure that the striped and solid balls were distributed in the rack.

Finally, I had everything set up right, and looked up. She was lining up her break shot, and when she bent over the table, I was able to see a bit of cleavage. Drawing back her stick, she thrust it forward and the cue went flying toward the triangle of balls, smashing into them with a loud crack. Balls went careening around the green felt table, and two dropped into the pockets. I was screwed, especially when we realized that she had sunk two solid balls.

She looked at me with her light brown eyes, and shrugged. "Lucky, I guess," she said, but it was clear that luck was not the reason for her success. She sunk another ball before narrowly missing her next shot. She left me with a pretty easy chance to sink the 13 ball, which was about an inch from the side pocket. Nervous, I lined up the shot, and as I peered over the cue at the 13, I noticed that my adversary had, likely not coincidentally, stood next to the table by the pocket, facing away from the table. Distracted by the sight of tight jeans hugging two round cheeks, I shot too hard, and the ball, rather than falling gently into the pocket, rammed against the rail and bounced away.

Turning back to the table, she smiled brilliantly and said, "Bad luck," in about as insincere a voice as I had ever heard. And yet, I was more impressed than angry by her gamesmanship. The game moved quickly from there, and she ended it with a called two bank draining of the eight ball in the corner pocket. The handful of my teammates watching whooped in delight at my humiliation.

I bowed to her, saying, "That was showing off, wasn't it?"

"You got me," she responded without any trace of apology.

It was now or never for me. "I'm Ray. Ray Poole. I think I owe you a drink."

She stared at me, clearly seeing through my feeble attempt to buy some time alone with her, but she nodded, "Sure, Ray, Ray Poole. I'm Jillian Lowery. Maker's on the rocks, OK?"

I nodded and turned to the bar, ordering two Maker's, and when I returned, Jillian was sitting, alone, at a table on the opposite side of the room from where my teammates were drinking.

Sitting down, I handed her the drink. "You earned this. Where'd you learn to shoot pool so well?"

"My daddy had a table in the basement, and he insisted that I learn to play." She had a deep voice, with only a trace of a southern accent. "Poor man was desperate for a son, but ended up with three daughters. And it's gotten me a lot of free drinks over the years." She raised her glass to me and took a sip. It struck me that pool shark or not, she would rarely have to pay for a drink if she didn't want to.

From that point on, conversation flowed easily. I learned that she was a local, just home for the summer after graduating from Duke and travelling in Europe, before heading up to New York to work at an investment bank for a couple of years. I think she was surprised to find out that I was also a college graduate, and not just some dumb jock. She offered to buy the second round, insisting that she understood that minor leaguers made almost no money, and she would brook no dissent.

When she excused herself to go to the bathroom, I looked at my watch and was surprised at how late it had gotten. Most of my teammates were gone, except for Tyler Parks and Jamari Post, who appeared to be sleeping, sitting upright, at a table covered with empty pitchers and glasses.

I could only admire Jillian's form as she returned from the ladies room. "Jillian," I asked, "do you need a ride home?"

Smiling, she responded, "actually, I do, Ray. My ride left an hour ago. Are you in any shape to drive?"

I stood up. "Yeah. I'm good."

As we walked to the door, she turned to me and said, quietly. "Just so you are clear, you are driving me home, saying good night, and dropping me off. Nothing more, OK?"

I must have looked disappointed as I responded, "sure," because she continued, "Ray, I had a good time tonight, and you seem like a good guy. Understand that I've been hit on at that bar by ballplayers since I was fifteen, and I'm not the kind of girl who's gonna make it too easy for you." By this time, we had gotten to my car. Jillian reached into her purse and pulled out a pen and a napkin, scrawling something on it before handing it to me. I took a quick look and saw her number.

We listened to the radio as I followed her directions to her house, a large white colonial in a nice neighborhood, not nearly as nice as the Pullmans', but still very nice. Turning toward me, she put her hand on my arm and said, "G'night, Ray," before getting out of the car and walking toward the door. I watched her walk away as long as I thought I could get away with, before returning to the Pullmans' and my unfortunately empty bed.

*

Between winning my first game for the team, and the unmerciful teasing I got when I arrived in the locker room the next afternoon, I actually began to feel like part of the team. I tried to use the "a gentleman never kisses and tells" line in response to questions about my activities after leaving the bar, but they saw through it. Which led to more teasing. As Mason observed, "You must be one sorry-ass motherfucker of a ball player if you can't get laid by the local talent." Roscoe jumped to my defense, sort of, by pointing out that she was way out of my league, anyway.

After getting in my running, stretching and some easy catch, I had time to kill before the game. I sidled up to Roscoe, and tried, quietly, to ask his advice for somewhere to take Jillian for dinner, assuming she agreed to see me again. "Shit, dude, you like this one, don't ya?" he asked, loud enough to get the attention of the guys who were in the locker room. This led to everyone yelling out ideas, ranging from the local strip club to just ordering pizza in bed, to the fanciest restaurant in town, which none of us could afford. Finally, when everyone got bored with teasing the new guy, Cal Burkowski, a former Rookie league teammate, came up to me and said, quietly, "take her to Alberto's downtown. Good Italian food, nice place, and if you tell them you are on the team when you make the reservation, they'll probably take something off the bill."

"Thanks, Cal," I responded.

He smiled back at me. "And after that, if you don't get laid, you really are a sorry-ass motherfucker." He turned and walked away before I could respond.

I walked out into the hallway to call Jillian—I had put her number into my phone before leaving for the park. It rang before going into voice mail. "This is Jillian Lowery, please leave a message."

"Uh, hi, Jillian, uh, this is Ray, Ray Poole. I had a good time getting my butt kicked at pool last night. Give me a call back when you have a chance. Uh, bye."

Well, that was pretty pathetic, I thought, but the ball was in her court. I walked back into the locker room and tried to find a place that wasn't too hot to nap. My work for the day was done, and there was essentially zero chance that I'd have to play today, so I was just marking time. The buzzing of the phone awakened me just as I was passing out, and I fumbled with it before seeing that it was Jillian.

"Uh, hi, Jillian."

"Really, Ray, Ray Poole? What kind of grown up person has a job that lets him take an afternoon nap?" she said in her deep, slightly accented voice.

I didn't even try to deny that I was sleeping. "The kind of grown up who plays a kid's game, I guess. If only someone would give us milk and cookies, it would be perfect."

She laughed a full, sexy laugh before responding. "So, I guess I made an impression on you to get a next day call."

"I guess so," I replied, "It's not every day that I get walloped in pool by a beautiful woman."

"Well, seeing as how bad you played, I suspect that either means that you don't play all that much, or that you mostly play against men and ugly women."

I chuckled. This one would keep me on my toes. "Look, Jillian, we have a day game tomorrow, so I wonder if you'd have dinner with me."

"It's a date," she replied. "Pick me up at 7?"

"Perfect. Text me your address. I'd never be able to find your house again."

"Will do, Ray. See you tomorrow. Have a nice nappy-poo." She ended the call. I couldn't fall back to sleep, and decided to use the treadmill some more.

I was up early the next morning, to get in my bullpen session before the game. We had lost the night before, and while the game was meaningless in the standings, the team hadn't lost much recently and the guys were happy to have an early chance to get the bad taste out of their mouths. Al spent some time with me in the pen, pointing out some places where I wasn't being consistent in my arm slot, and I felt good throwing—and knowing that I had a date with Jillian that night. We won, in a laugher, and the good feelings were everywhere after the game.

Both Allison and Terry were at the game, but they must have left early, because they were nowhere to be seen when I came out to the parking lot, and started to drive back to their house. My suspicions were accurate, because when I arrived, Allison was already sweaty and throwing to her father. I walked over to watch a bit, and was again impressed by Allison's pitching.