Lisa Ruff - Man of the Year

“To change that perception, we need to recast the Rainiers as a completely new team. The old is gone. Here’s this new gang of kids that no one knows anything about. It’s our job to introduce them and show how they’re starting out fresh.” She paused for emphasis. “So I think we should show what the players were like in grade school.”

“Grade school?” was the startled question from several people.

“Yep. Grade school.” Samantha went on to outline her idea as she had to Brenda. “What if we set them up as a sandlot team on the playground. Make their individual talents come from something they did then. Exaggerate to show how they started out in the game.”

This set everyone into another flurry. Ideas spun around the room like Frisbees.

“Like the kid that hits a home-run ball through the plate glass window two blocks away,” Lane said.

“Or a pitcher that used to hit birds with rocks,” Stuart added.

“No. That’s too mean. Besides, the animal-rights activists would have a cow,” Carol countered. “How about throwing newspapers on a paper route. Or winning all the Kewpie dolls at the county fair. Something like that.”

“But what about the aliens?” Lane asked plaintively. Everyone laughed.

The group’s creative juices flowed freely. Once a basic theme was set, their ideas began to mesh. At the end of the meeting Samantha knew they were on to something good. She divided her staff into two creative teams—Stuart and Lane in charge of one, Carol and Pam the other. Then she assigned several of the more urgent items on Brenda’s list.

“Everyone know where we’re going and what we’re doing?”

There was a chorus of acknowledgment.

“Good. I want both groups to work closely with one another on this. It all has to mesh. Let’s meet again on Wednesday afternoon to go over the preliminaries. If you have any questions, I plan to be in all week. Thanks, gang.” The meeting was over.

Samantha watched as they exited en masse. Pam and Carol were already sketching ideas in the air for the project. Between them, she knew she’d have some good, solid stuff by midweek. Samantha crossed her fingers and hoped the Rainiers would be just as excited.

The wait to find out how the Rainiers felt didn’t take long, or at least it seemed that way. The week flew by and before she knew it, she had delivered her pitch to Andrew Elliott and the rest of the Rainier managers and coaches.

“A skookum presentation! I like it.” Elliott pounded his cigar into the ashtray on his desk. He was about sixty years old with the energy of a teenager. His short, round frame and rosy cheeks held all the good humor of Santa Claus. Except when he was crossed. Then he could outdo both Scrooge and the Grinch. The cherubic exterior hid a core of pure steel.

“Thank you, Mr. Elliott. If you’re satisfied, we’ll get the first commercial ready to shoot in about a week.”

“It’s wonderful, Ms. James. The campaign’s shaping up to be a real corker. Just what this team needs.”

Samantha chuckled at his quaint colloquialism. “I’ll let your staff know where and when we begin shooting as soon as I make the final arrangements with the director and the camera people.” She shook Elliott’s soft, chubby hand. As gentle as his grasp felt, Samantha knew it cloaked the proverbial iron fist with which Elliott ruled his organization.

Before she won the contract with the Rainiers, Samantha had wondered why Elliott had let the organization run so far into the dirt. Fearlessly, she asked him that exact question early in their negotiations. She had a lot at stake by taking on a project this size. If the owner wasn’t committed to bringing the team up to par with the rest of the league, there was no reason to stick her company’s neck out. After all, the advertising contract only covered one season. If the team did well—that is, if the stands were full—it would be extended to the next season. The gamble was acceptable to Samantha only if Andrew Elliott had the wherewithal and desire to pull the team from the bottom of the standings. Otherwise, what was the point?

Her direct and candid question was one of the ways she had impressed Andrew Elliott. He admitted his mistake: turning too much power over to the wrong man. His confidence had been misplaced, and he had found out only after disaster struck. Consequently, ninety-nine percent of management had been fired—canned was his word. Now Elliott was making the decisions, and the team would change. Which was not saying it was a sure thing. If they didn’t improve, Elliott planned to put the whole kit and caboodle on the auction block and sell to the highest bidder. Samantha liked his honesty, and despite the high stakes, she had signed the contract.

“I’ll talk to you Monday morning. The team photos are scheduled for Tuesday. I left a copy of the details with your secretary.”

Once out of the office, Samantha did a little dance of elation. The campaign was going exactly as she had hoped. Impulsively, she decided to walk over to the ballpark. Where better to revel in this small success? Besides, inspiration had hit her there before. Maybe another bolt of ideas would come with a new visit. She still had to catch up to Boomer, too.

Management offices for the Rainiers were in a four-story structure just north of the stadium. As she strode toward the main entrance, she was struck by how little Sicks Stadium looked like a ballpark. With its brick-and-wood facade, the old structure looked more like a large factory. Inside, a pitched roof covered the horseshoe-shaped stands. Like other stadiums built in the early part of the last century, the playing field was open to the elements.

She showed her badge to the security guard and wound through the maze of tunnels to the field, following a path she had memorized on her first visit. She didn’t see anyone until she climbed out of the dugout onto the field: a few players and coaches stood near the bullpen. Samantha ignored them and slowly turned in a circle, taking in the entire spectacle.

Anticipation filled the air, as if the old building was waiting for the season to begin. After so many summers of baseball, so many games won and lost, maybe the fanciful sensation was true. Maybe this place, like the fans that would fill the seats, waited impatiently for winter to end and another long summer to begin. She laughed at herself: she had definitely been spending too much time thinking about baseball.

JARRETT PICKED UP A new ball, gripped it loosely and slowly pulled his arm back to throw. He went through a pantomime of a pitch in slow motion, not actually letting the ball leave his hand. He repeated the movement over and over, loosening his arm and shoulder muscles. As they warmed, he could feel them easing, a fluidness coming in where rigidity had previously lay. He exaggerated the motions of pitching to work his entire arm, up into his back, down to his legs and toes, preparing his body for the real thing, the whole business of muscle and bones working together in perfect harmony.

Or not.

Jarrett had once taken the gift of painless motion for granted. Not so long ago, those muscles worked perfectly, giving him the control to pitch a baseball however he chose, as fast as he chose. He could fine-tune each pitch to place it low or high, inside or out, with any sort of spin the catcher signaled. And speed? His fastball was a thing of glory. These days, he struggled to reach that perfect grace. When it did return, it was often accompanied by grinding pain.

Nor had he always been so aware of the muscles in his arm. He had known the names of the major muscle groups, but that was it. Now he knew, down to the tiniest connective tendon, the name and function of each part of his shoulder: deltoid, trapezius, teres minor, teres major, scapula. He swore he could feel each one during his slow warm-ups. Learning how his body worked had been one of the ways he had kept his sanity during the long recovery. He had thought that if he understood the anatomy, he could somehow heal faster. It had helped him focus during therapy. With every pinch of discomfort or stab of outright pain, Jarrett would name the muscle and think beyond the agony. He supposed his method had worked, since he was pitching a baseball again, but at a price. His shoulder never completely stopped hurting him and control was elusive.

“All right, Corliss,” the pitching coach yelled from the other end of the bullpen. “Let’s see some heat.”

Jarrett stepped up to the mound and took his stance. He tried not to think about anything at all. Just throw the ball. The first pitch was wild, and Jarrett winced. The second wobbled a bit, but made the strike zone. With each throw, he tried to place the ball where he wanted it to go. Speed would come later in the session.

The coach stood, arms folded across his chest, hat pulled low over his eyes. Jarrett couldn’t read his expression and hoped his own was as blank. Training was always this way, from bad to better with each pitch. He just wished he didn’t start at square one each day.

“Try dropping your shoulder a bit on the follow-through,” the coach said, coming toward Jarrett. He picked up a ball and mimed his request. “I think you’re too high when the ball is here. See?”

Jarrett continued his practice, but control came hard. A few balls would be on the money, but the next would fly wildly astray. He felt frustration rise, which did nothing to help his game. He knew the coach was unhappy, too. As they discussed another tactic, Jarrett caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. When he looked, he was surprised to see Samantha James climb the steps out of the dugout and walk onto the field. The coach spoke again and Jarrett wrenched his attention back to his job, but his concentration was abruptly shattered. What was she doing here? And how could he get away from practice long enough to talk with her?

He had spent considerable time thinking about the lovely advertising executive. He hadn’t had a chance to pursue his attraction to her, but here was his opportunity. If he could just get away for a moment. The coach tossed him a ball. Jarrett wound up and threw. Perfectly. He blinked.

“Hey! Whatever you did, do it again,” the coach demanded.

Jarrett followed orders, and the pitch sailed over the plate. Without a word, the coach threw him more balls, and Jarrett pitched them. Each one flew as good as the first. Control was suddenly back in his hands.

The coach walked up to Jarrett. “What’s the deal, Corliss? You been holding back all this time?”

“Not on purpose.” Jarrett was as amazed as the coach. Where had this control come from? He looked over to be sure Samantha hadn’t left yet and an idea occurred to him. “Maybe I’ve been using the wrong lucky charm,” he said slowly.

The coach followed his gaze and saw Samantha. “Nice. And better looking than that mangy rabbit’s foot Seibert wears around his neck. Is she yours?”

“No,” Jarrett admitted, sharing a grin with the other man. “But if you give me a break, I’ll make that a yes.”

The coach chuckled. “Sure, Corliss. Go for it.”

Jarrett pulled off his glove and opened the gate on the bullpen. As he jogged over to her, he remembered how hot her gaze had been, stroking along his skin. This time there would be no interruptions. There was no telling what progress he could make today. He was back in control.

THE SUN MAGICALLY APPEARED for a moment to brighten the wet grass of the infield. Samantha took a deep breath of air and smelled her past: early mornings spent at the ballpark with her father and brother before school started, the air cool and damp, the grass wet with dew. Here she was again, wondering why the game had fascinated so many for so long. And how could she make one team recapture that allure and fill all these seats? Was she the right person for the job? Too late for second thoughts, she reminded herself.