Perfect Catch(12)

The rest of the players made their way out to the field, and once everyone was in place and the game was ready to begin, Alice rumbled a gruff, “Play ball.”

Alex waited until the batter was in position then put down one finger against his inner thigh. Miles shook his head.

Jesus, kid, questioning me already?

He held down one finger, then three against the opposite thigh. Miles nodded and pulled back for the pitch. Alex had called for a slider—a curving fastball—but Miles was off in his delivery and the ball didn’t curve as it ought to, instead lining up perfectly for the batter, who smashed it into dead center field.

One of the new recruit outfielders—a trade from Florida named Anibal—snagged the ball easily and threw it back. One away.

For the first couple of catches, every time Alex wriggled his way up to a high crouch, he was conscious of the fact he was within touching distance of Alice. Yet she maintained a professional distance the whole time. When she squatted behind him to call the plays, she didn’t crowd him, and whenever she passed him a new ball, there was no attempt made to brush fingers.

She was cool and aloof, and everything a good umpire should be.

If she could do her job, he reasoned, so could he.

By the time the third inning rolled around, he’d all but forgotten she was there. Only her feminine inflection when she said ball or strike stood to remind him there was a woman behind him and not any other ump. He had to admit, though, the enthusiastic way she cried You’re out after the third strike was thrown made her all the more endearing to him.

In the fourth inning, things got interesting.

A batter for the Twins, a new, young guy Alex had never played against before, came up for his second at-bat. He swung at the first pitch, an unquestionable strike. The second pitch was a fastball inching over the corner of the plate, Alice called, “Strike.”

“What the fuck?” the batter grumbled, kicking the dirt next to the plate.

It wasn’t out of the norm for guys to swear or make a fuss when they didn’t agree, but something about this kid’s tone set the hairs at the back of Alex’s neck on end. There was a venom to it he wasn’t accustomed to hearing.

Frustration was one thing. Disagreeing with umps was as integral to baseball as peanuts or pine tar, but knowing Alice was the one standing behind him made Alex wonder if there was more to this than just simple annoyance.

The next pitch was called a ball, but even so the batter muttered, “Come on, come on.” He choked up higher on the bat.

Alex called for a plain fastball, wanting nothing more than to get this guy out of the batter’s box. He moved himself into position, prepared for the catch, and Miles threw a beautiful, clean fastball across the heart of the plate.

The batter arched back dramatically, as if the ball had come within inches of hitting him. Alice, nonplussed by the showy gesture, called, “Strike three, you’re out.”

“That was a fucking ball,” the guy countered, turning around to glare at her. His cheeks were red, either from too much sun or the rush of his anger. For the moment Alex wasn’t sure what to do. It wasn’t his job to be Alice’s knight in shining armor. He’d never stepped in for another ump when someone was bitching and moaning. Why should he treat her any differently?

Yet the part of him with sisters saw an angry man, and a woman who was the focus of that anger. Decency more than chivalry told him he ought to remain between the two of them.

“It was a strike,” Alice replied coolly.

“Are you fucking blind?”

“You bouncing back like a sideshow act isn’t going to convince me. And you swearing definitely isn’t going to make me change my mind. Sorry. It was a strike, you’re out.”

Alex admired the way she kept her tone low and didn’t rise to meet the batter’s rage.

“Fuck you.” The guy threw his bat in the dirt and took a step towards her, finger pointed at her chest.

Alex was on his feet then, not exactly standing in front of her but hovering nearby should the necessity arise. Somewhere in his haste to stand, he’d shucked off his glove and mask.

“This is your one warning. Pick up your bat, go back to the dugout and calm down.” Alice hadn’t counter-stepped, still holding her position behind the dish.

“I’m not going anywhere until you admit you made a bogus fucking call. But what should I expect? Women can’t drive, why the fuck would they be able to call a goddamn ball when they see one?”

Alice, who until that point had kept her face guard down, raised it up so nothing was obstructing her view of the irate batter. “Not only can I drive, Mr. Donaldson, I can throw you out of this game. How’s that for balls?” And without waiting for his response, she gestured boldly to the exit doors, a visible cue for the crowd and team managers of her decision to evict him from the game.