NYY Part 1

 

“You make this deal, Scott, and I’ll leave. I’ll go to Chicago; hell knows they could use me.” A voice threatened, shaky but certain. 

“You wouldn’t have the guts. You’ll never make it there.” Another answered, his resolve much more planned out than the first voice. “Besides, she’s the only chance we have. We haven’t gotten to the postseason in twelve years.”

“Then look for some other players. This is the MLB, Scott. Not the WNBA. There are a lot of good MALE players. Do NOT make this deal.” Fists pounded on a desk, making a huge BANG sound. “You even think about making that call, and I’m out of here. The Cubs will win again if you do.”

There was a pause. A long, grueling pause. 

“Then get out of my office. Go to the Cubs. I hope to see you in the regular season.”

 

 

I sniffed the fresh air. It was a beautiful day to be outside. My face was calm and collected, trying to avoid all the stares boring into my skull. 

On the inside, I was screaming.

What was I doing here? What was I thinking? Okay, so the Yankees hadn’t gotten to the postseason-or even won five games straight-in twelve years. But still, this was an all-male sport. 

And here I was, Ivy Rzewski, 100% female, trying out for the once-renowned New York Yankees, who were now the worst team ever. My best friend, Oscar, had dared me to do this. 

“You can do this, Ivy. I’ve seen you play baseball. You could help kill the Cubs this season.” His voice still rang in my head, clear as a bell.

The once-infamous Cubs were now the #1 team in the country. So far, they’d won four World Series in a row, but only because their fielders and batters were awesome. Their pitchers sucked. 

“Next, Ivy Rzewski.” The old man croaked, raising an eyebrow. “Please come forward and identify yourself.”

I took in a deep breath. This was it. Would they take me? Would they even let me try? Moving with shaky steps, I brought myself forward, feeling the stares of every man waiting. When I got to the table that was set up, the man looked me up and down. I passed a hand through my white hair inconspicuously. I focused my deep green eyes on just the field, thinking that if this went like a complete explosion and I was accepted, I would play out there. 

“That’s my name, yes,” I told him, grinning halfheartedly. His eyebrow raised so it almost touched his hairline. 

“You do know that this is the spring training tryouts for the New York Yankees, the Major League Baseball team?” He asked skeptically. I nodded.

“Yes. I’m here because I’m a utility player, and I want to play for the Yankees. Is there a problem?” I asked. Here we go. If I even get to try, I get $100 from Oscar. I silently pleaded that he would let me in.

“Go ahead,” he said dismissively, waving his hand. 

 

That went a lot easier than when the pitching coach saw me. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” He bellowed, his face turning an unhealthy purple. I shrank away from his eruption, crawling into myself. “The Major League Baseball organization is strictly for men. I do not care how badly we do, we will not break the rules.” 

I looked away, thinking. All I had to do was come up with an excuse. A good one, one that would get me farther. 

“I’m strictly here for exercise, Mr. Low.” I said, remembering the Yankees’ pitching coach’s name thankfully. He stopped at that, thinking. His face still didn’t turn back to the peach color I hoped it to, but stayed the awful purple.

“Oh, if she’s here for exercise, let her play.” Someone said behind me, and I whirled around to see the manager, Scott Harborson. He was taller than me by only a few inches, his gray hair covered by a cap. Looking down at me, he smiled and took off the hat. “Look, we match.” He joked, ruffling his hair before replacing the hat. I was surprised into a smile. 

“What are you saying, Scott?” Mark Low bellowed. I turned back to him, seeing the purple was even darker. “She shouldn’t even be past that table! Go home, kid!”

“Coach? What’s wrong?” another smooth voice asked behind me. I turned to where it was coming from, seeing the Yankee’s best pitcher, Wil Cobra. His face was redding from the baking sun of Tampa, Florida. His fist was beating into his glove, breaking in the new leather. His brown hair was slicked so it was pointing straight backward, his hazel eyes filled with anticipation and energy, ready to take on anything. 

“This girl. She wants us to waste our time just so she can get some exercise.” Low explained, gesturing to me. His eyes locked on me and wouldn’t let go. 

“I have an idea!” Harborson exclaimed, snapping his fingers. We all turned to see him. “Cobra, you’ll be the deciding vote. Should we let Ms…?” He waited for me.

“Rzewski.” I prompted him.

“Ms. Rzewski play?”

Mr. Cobra thought. He bit the edge of his lip, just the way my younger sister, Willow does. 

“…Yes, we should. Equal treatment and everything.” He said, grinning at me. Low’s face turned once again to the purple. I vaguely wondered if he was going to have an aneurism. Only vaguely. The thought passed.

“See, there you go, Mark. Democracy is a wonderful invention.” Harborson beamed. Low gave out an angry grunt and stalked away. “Anyway, Ms. Rzewski. What position do you play?”

“I’m a utility player, Mr. Harborson.” I told him weakly. 

“Call me Coach. And from now on, I won’t treat you as a lady, Ms. Rzewski.”

 

This tryout stuff isn’t as hard as it’s cracked up to be. Fielding is my strong point, batting my slightly weak point. Pitching is about the only thing I can’t do. Coach watched me intently from where he sat. I could feel his stare poking holes into my head. We went through every warm-up, drill, and possibility in the book and out, so they could see who had the most stamina. By the first water break, I was panting and sweating. Good thing I hadn’t worn a white shirt. Now THAT would be embarrassing. 

 

At the end of the tryouts, it had started raining. Coach called it quits and decided that everyone should go home. They would be getting a package in the mail if we were to be accepted. I snorted inwardly. Like that would happen. But, I still listened patiently and nodded when necessary. As I started to pack up, there was a rough hand on my shoulder. I looked over my shoulder, seeing the catcher behind me. His face was chubby, as was the rest of him, but his eyes were calm and happy and bright.

“Can I help you?” I asked, trying not to cower into my brain. Even though he was kind, I knew from a conversation I’d had with him, he still was towering over me. And I wasn’t that small, about 5’8. My best guess would be that he was 6’5.

“You’re Ivy Rzewski, right?” He asked, his voice rough and edgy. 

“Yes, that’s me.” I said. What other Ivy Rzewski was there in this place? No, I have a better question. What other female would be crazy enough to try this?

“I was watching you play today. If women were allowed, you would be the new utility player for us.”

“Um…thank you.” I said, smiling lightly. He grinned and waddled off. I sat there, dumbfounded. No one had ever told me stuff like that. The only coach I’d ever had was my uncle, and he’d pushed me so hard that I pulled muscle after muscle. 

 

On my way out, I was stopped by the pitcher, Mr. Cobra. 

“Hey, Ms. Rzewski!” He called, waving. I turned and waved back sheepishly. I waited for him to catch up to me. He smiled blindingly, his white teeth shining in the summer light. “That was awesome! You’re the best player I’ve seen in years! If only you weren’t a girl…then everything would be sweet.” He said dejectedly. He peeked at me from the corner of his eye, and I swear for a second I saw a smile on his face.

“Yeah.” I agreed, thinking of what it would be like to actually make it. 

“Why?” He asked suddenly. I looked up at him, and he was grinning at me.

“Why what?” I asked back.

“Why did you come? You must’ve known they would explode.”

“I know. I’m…actually…here on a bet.” I admitted, looking back down at my feet. He burst out laughing. 

“Are…are you…se…serious?” He spat out between gasps, chortling uncontrollably. I shot him a deadly glare.

“Yes, I am. My friend Oscar bet me $100 that I couldn’t get in to even try. Guess he owes me.” I grinned.

“Yeah.” He said curtly. I looked up at him and saw he was deep in thought.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, stopping. 

“No, no.” He assured me.

“Then why are you looking like that?” I pressed.

He hesitated, stalling.

“Will you go see a movie with me? Like, as teammates, not like on a date.”

Sure, I was taken off guard, but Mr. Cobra took that offensively. His eyebrows pulled together and his mouth pursed into a frown. 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” I stuttered. I’d never been good at this kind of thing.

“Cool, when should I pick you up?”

“Um,” I wracked my brain for an answer. I could just hear my little sister yelling, ‘Go for it, Ivy! He’s just the one for you!’ “I don’t know, anytime.”

“Seven?”

“AM?” I asked, incredulous.

“No, PM. Like, tonight.”

I took out my cell phone and checked the time. When I’d arrived, it’d been 9 AM. It was now 4. Sighing, I replied. “Yeah, seven is perfect.”

“Cool. See ya then, Ivy!” He grinned, running off to his car. Dumbfounded, I watched him go. When he disappeared into his Ford Mustang, I finally turned back to my wimpy Focus and started the engine. 

 

Unlike New York in the end of March, which was so icy it made the roads impossible, in Tampa it was perfect. There was no traffic due to snow backups, I mean I was stunned. No one swerved into the curb in front of me or anything. It was amazing. At the hotel, I walked into the lobby to find Oscar and Willow walking to the elevator. I rushed over, my bag thrown over my shoulder. Oscar turned around just in time to see me jump to a stop behind them.

“Hey, Ivy! How’d it go?” He asked, whirling around to face me head-on.

“Ivy!” Willow cried, hugging me tightly before cringing away in disgust. “You’re wet. And you smell.”

“It’s good to see you too, Willow.” I smiled, turning serious to Oscar. “You owe me.”

“What? Old man Harborson let you in? What’d you do, bribe him?”

“No. I told him that I was strictly there for exercise and they let their pitcher, Wil Cobra decide.”

“Wil Cobra? Are you serious?” Oscar gaped, leading the way into the elevator.

“Yep. But…lets just say that Mark Low wasn’t too happy about it.”

“Oh, really? I wish I’d been there.”

“Yeah, you do wish. It was funny.”

 

In the hotel, my brother Jude was glued to the TV. The NBA season was still going strong and the Lakers and Heat were facing off. 

“Hey Jude.” I greeted, throwing my bag on the bed. He grunted his response, only half interested. “Jude?” I asked, waving my hand in front of his face. Absentmindedly, he pushed my hand away and frowned.

“What?”

“Hello, sleepyhead,” I teased, ruffling his hair. 

“Where’ve you been?” He demanded, standing up.

“Where do you think I’ve been? Why are we even here?” I asked, trying his memory.

“Oh.” He nodded. “Right. How’d it go?”

“They let me in. Oscar owes me one hundred dollars.”

“Haha!” Jude laughed, pointing. “I knew you shouldn’t’ve doubted Ivy! Not even I can beat her!”

“Ha. Ha. Don’t rub it in,” Oscar growled, turning to me. “So, what do we do for the rest of the night?”

“Well, I can’t go out with you guys,” I admitted. “I have a date.”