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Let's Play Ball
Let's Play Ball
Let's Play Ball
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Let's Play Ball

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Miranda is a bright, attractive woman with an important government job, a nice home, and a prominent lawyer husband. Her fraternal twin sister, Jessica, is a sportswriter who has spent years sacrificing her social life and conventional career prospects to establish a magazine. Jessicas publication has finally caught on after she receives renown for an article she writes about local baseball star Manny Chavez and his perilous journey back to his native Cuba to retrieve his abducted son.

Jessica, now engaged to Manny, invites Miranda, her husband, and their parents to join her in a luxury suite to watch the hometown Washington Filibusters take on their archrivals, the Florida Keys, in a championship game. As they are wined and dined by the team owner, Miranda envies her sisters seemingly perfect life and faces the reality that her own is a facade. But when the forces of revenge and corporate greed catch up to the perfect couple and blow their world apart, Miranda is suddenly thrust into a world of international politics.

Lets Play Ball dramatizes the struggles of two ambitious sisters against the backdrops of immigration, global conflict, and the nations pastime.

LanguageEnglish
PublisheriUniverse
Release dateFeb 24, 2010
ISBN9781450207614
Let's Play Ball
Author

Linda Gould

Linda Gould is a career bureaucrat. She has a bachelor?s degree in English from Western Maryland College and a master?s degree in political science from American University in Washington DC. Her first novel, Secretarial Wars, was published in 2003. Gould lives in Silver Spring, Maryland.

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    Let's Play Ball - Linda Gould

    CHAPTER

    ONE

    HERE’s THE STORY OF how I got mixed up in a major crime and became a well-known heroine, when I could have been branded an outcast. I never dreamed I was the type to embroil myself in a police investigation, especially one with the potential to affect both national and international affairs and almost get me killed. But it turned out I was.

    The melodrama began to unfold at a baseball game—fittingly, because the sport has always been our family pastime. My parents, my fraternal twin sister, my husband, and I were privileged to watch this crucial, sold-out game from one of the owner’s boxes. It was practically the greatest experience of my life—or at least, it should have been. I sensed right away that this was a political setting, where private battles could become mingled with world events.

    While I grappled with personal demons, our hometown Washington Filibusters were playing the Florida Keys for the National League championship. The Busters were in desperate straits on that bright October Sunday, down three games to two in the series and facing elimination. It was shaping up to be the kind of game that packs in drama at every turn, confirming the adage that sports are a microcosm of life. And the gamesmanship in the luxury suites, high above home plate, competed with events on the field.

    I should have felt like a big shot, sitting with my husband, Tommy, at our own table, nursing a gin and tonic and sampling exotic appetizers while the game unfolded almost directly below me. At times when the alcohol penetrated my nervous system, I imagined myself above the fray in the suite, as well. The close, gripping game and the jarring personalities who were sharing our space each looked like a story cooked up for my amusement. I half listened to a debate between two particularly vocal city councilmen among the several local politicians who slipped in and out of the suite all day. A few years ago these two had fought pitched battles over the question of whether this spanking-new stadium we were sitting in should be built at all.

    What brought me down to earth was the sight of my parents and sister, seated at tables of their own, and Tommy, sitting across from me, oblivious to everything except the notebook computer in front of him.

    Tommy? I said tentatively.

    Hmm? he answered, not looking up.

    A Martian spaceship just landed on third base, and the aliens have already taken half of the Busters hostage. I kept my voice conversational.

    Great, he said without so much as a pause in the clacking of keys.

    I sighed and looked at my parents, who’d been married for thirty-five mostly tranquil years. It reminded me that these exceptional seats weren’t my doing. All day I had watched Mom and Dad exchange smug smiles and sometimes grasp each other’s hands excitedly. Isn’t this amazing? had been Mom’s first observation on entering the suite.

    I’ve been watching baseball all my life, responded Dad, and I’ve never had a seat like this in any ballpark.

    I looked at my twin, Jessica, who was occupying another table and pounding her own notebook computer. It was hard to believe that Mom and Dad had once agonized over her refusal to take a conventional career path. They had even pointed to me as an example of a responsible person. Hey, Jessie, I said, if Martians were really invading the ballpark, wouldn’t that make a bigger story than whatever you’re writing?

    Jessie glanced up, frowned at me as if annoyed to be distracted for even a second, and returned to her typing. Well excuse me, I thought, for trying to introduce some levity.

    Thanks to the combined efforts of Tommy and Jessie, the beeps and clicks of productivity were bombarding me in stereo. For a moment I wondered if they were in cahoots to make me feel as insignificant as possible. But no, that would require one or both of them to be aware of my existence. I sat back in my seat with arms crossed and tried to focus on the game, a tense but fast-moving pitchers’ duel. Both teams’ aces were mowing down batters, allowing no walks and only a few singles.

    I knew Jessie was recording impressions of the game for an online sports magazine that she had helped found. But maintaining journalistic objectivity would be a special challenge for Jessie today—her fiancé, Manuel Chavez, was in right field for the Busters. She was about to become, at twenty-nine, the second wife of the foreign-born ballplayer, whose future might be riding on this game.

    If Jessie ever felt jealousy toward me, her three-years-married sister, she didn’t show it. Nor did she envy my relatively comfortable federal government career as a budget analyst. The tables had really turned for both of us since Jessie returned from the University of Florida seven years ago in despair. Manny had just broken up with her to marry a beauty pageant winner who, like he, had emigrated from Cuba as a child. Back then my sister had reason to be jealous of me.

    Happy as she was now, she did look nervous about today’s game. Her Manny was on the brink of free agency. Going into the bottom of the sixth inning, the game was still scoreless, and Manny was due up third. He was hitless so far today and had struggled throughout the series, a disappointment after his fine regular season. His chances of signing a big contract during the upcoming off-season might depend on his ability to handle this kind of playoff pressure. No wonder Jessie kept interrupting her typing to wring her hands and wipe sweat off her face.

    She was not only nervous, but also a tad paranoid. Hours earlier when we’d picked up our special passes at the will-call window, she had warned us to be careful about what we said in the suite today. Although she couldn’t prove it, she suspected the place would be bugged. Call me crazy, she’d said, but I just don’t trust the people running this ball club. Mom and Dad tried to laugh this off, but I noticed Tommy did not. Still, we kept our voices fairly low. The councilmen drowned us out, anyway.

    Bugged or not, our suite was equipped with a high-definition TV monitor. This allowed us to catch nuances of the game that only a network broadcast could provide while continuing to watch the live action. Bob Erickson, the regular play-by-play announcer for the Filibusters, was working this national game with his usual boyish charm and relaxed style, which sometimes cushioned what he was saying.

    The Filibusters are in a rather unique position right now, he told his partner. There are an unusual number of prominent players looking for new contracts at the end of this season or next. Naturally, management won’t be addressing those issues until the team is done playing for the season. But there have been hints that they’ll be looking to reduce payroll, whether the Busters win this championship series or not.

    I would think Busters management would be looking to keep a solid team like this one intact, remarked the other announcer.

    Most team owners would, replied Erickson. But Mr. Carter’s philosophy is that solid isn’t good enough. He wants that, of course, but he also believes in youth and economy.

    The commentators went on to mention the bad blood that had existed all season between the Busters and the Keys—the usual beanball battles and bench-clearing incidents. But the feud doesn’t seem to have done any lasting damage, added Erickson. Today’s game has been intense, but clean. Not a single hit batsman so far, knock on wood.

    As an ardent fan of this relatively new DC franchise, I had expected to be excited to see the two combative teams play for such high stakes. What I didn’t expect was to have the breath knocked out of me when the door to the suite burst open and both team owners entered. It was suddenly as if they commanded all the oxygen in the room. The two debating city councilmen fell silent. Both Tommy and Jessie stopped typing. Mom dropped Dad’s hand as if it were a hot potato.

    The new arrivals made quite a contrast physically; one was ruddy, medium height, and balding, while the other was tall and slim, with abundant, dark hair and a full mustache. The former’s name was Johnson Johnny Carter. The majority owner of the Filibusters, Carter was around sixty-five and a weekend athlete with large gestures. His counterpart from the Keys, Javier Javy Castilla, was younger and more reserved, but almost as friendly as Carter. Both of them looked us over with evident interest. We were strangers to them; even Jessie, who had spent time in the press box, had not met them face-to-face.

    You would have thought the Austen family was a big deal. Sidestepping the quarrelsome politicians, Mr. Carter made a beeline for me and introduced himself and his fellow owner. I rose halfway from my seat, extended a hand to each in turn, and stammered, I’m Miranda Stone, and this is my husband, Thomas Stone. I hoped they didn’t notice my flushed face and sweaty palm. They looked slightly perplexed, which compelled me to add, I’m Jessica Austen’s twin sister.

    Ah, Jessica Austen’s twin sister, exclaimed Johnson Carter, his eyebrows shooting up. His gaze slipped from my dark brown shoulder-length hair and rather flat chest to Jessie’s blue-eyed visage and voluptuous presence. Jessie was twirling one golden lock around a manicured finger as if she were oblivious to Carter’s attention. Finally, he glanced back at me. Fraternal, I assume? I nodded, surprised to find myself seething inside.

    But determined to overcome my tongue-tied state, I sparred with Mr. Carter as best I could about the family’s interest in baseball and the lack of obvious resemblance between Jessica and me. Still, my internal distress did not subside. I guess I hadn’t realized, until that moment, how much I craved recognition for myself.

    Even more disturbing was the contempt I felt for my husband, who now came out of his funk and started playing up to these rich and powerful men. What’s that you’re working on, Thomas? asked Carter, glancing at the legal brief or whatever it was that had absorbed Tommy all afternoon.

    Oh, I don’t think he’s at liberty to say— I jumped in, before Tommy brushed me off with a wave of his hand.

    Honestly, Randi, he said, you act like I’m a CIA agent or something. He exchanged an amused glance with Carter, as if to say, aren’t women overly dramatic at times? He spilled a few details about the case, and Carter reminisced about a deal or two that Tommy’s firm had negotiated on his behalf. Tommy nodded knowingly, as if he had been personally involved in that work.

    The pair of owners moved on to my parents, charming them, and then to the politicians, neutralizing them. All this time, my sister had been silently taking in their moves. When they approached her, she met their gazes head-on. I already know quite a bit about you gentlemen, she said in a mild tone, and I suspect you know me by reputation. No wonder I admired her more than I resented her.

    After exchanging pleasantries with Mr. Castilla and thanking Mr. Carter for his hospitality toward her family, Jessie slipped almost imperceptibly into journalist mode. I thought I might be privileged to encounter one of you today, but certainly not both of you. You’re not in the habit of attending games together, are you?

    It’s a pretty small club we belong to, said Carter, smiling. It’s hardly surprising that we would run into each other at a game.

    Our friendship goes back a long way, added Castilla in a calm voice that displayed only a slight accent.

    I didn’t know the two of you were particular friends. Jessie spoke as if she had certain knowledge that they were not. And isn’t this an unusual time to be hanging out together?

    Carter and Castilla offered further explanations that I knew my sister would recognize as glib. Having grown up in the post-Watergate era, she considered every official statement a potential cover-up. She was always following the money and cultivating her own modern-day Deep Throats. She defined her journalism as an ongoing battle against new and evolving forms of Fascism.

    I thought this was pretty ambitious for a mere sportswriter, but Jessie always had aspired to be greater than her current career. I often warned her not to alienate too many high-level sources, as she had been known to do before. I feared it might happen again as she zeroed in on the surprising fellowship between these two team owners. Luckily, her pursuit of this possible story was overtaken by events on the field. The Busters’ three best hitters were coming to bat against the Keys’ formidable pitcher, Ron Olgesby, in the sixth inning. The ace had scattered only five singles so far and had throttled the third, fourth, and fifth batters in the lineup. The two owners departed, presumably to watch this critical half-inning from a more private vantage point.

    Those two are definitely up to something, Jessie declared. It smells like collusion. I’m going to track them down and ask a few questions before this day is over.

    I’d be careful with those guys if I were you, I said. Do I need to remind you about the biggest source you ever blew? Deirdre Smith is at the game today, in case you’ve forgotten. Upstairs in the presidential suite. But have we been invited there to see her? You’ll never get near her again, since you saw fit to insult her.

    Jessie winced at my mention of the daughter of the president of the United States. We had first gotten to know Deirdre during our high school summers when we’d attended an arts camp. Her father had been a Virginia congressman who was eventually elected governor. We’d kept in touch with Deirdre during our college years and managed to get ourselves invited to a weekend retreat for young women at the governor’s mansion in Richmond.

    Are you ever going to stop bringing that up, Randi? We were college kids then, for God’s sake.

    Well, how can I forget it, Jessie? It’s not every day that I get to hear my sister refer to a roomful of prominent Virginia society women as sheep.

    How many female anti-feminist speakers did they expect me to endure? returned Jessie. All of them telling us that the heights of our ambition should be to marry prominent men and be stay-at-home mothers. They’re lucky they didn’t get a worse jibe than that from me.

    Actually, they did, I replied. Remember when you proceeded to accuse Governor Smith himself of ignoring or succumbing to numerous examples of encroaching Fascism? If you didn’t shock the gathering before, you did then.

    Well I’m sorry, Randi, if I spoiled it for you. I had no idea keeping Deirdre’s friendship was that important to you.

    It wasn’t, I said, but you could have salvaged something from it yourself. She was perfectly sweet to us as long as that weekend lasted. She would have been willing to keep up appearances if you had met her halfway. And now that she’s not only the president’s daughter, but the wife of a Florida congressman, she could have been a fount of information.

    Well, snorted Jessie, not all is lost. At least we’ve been on the White House holiday card list every year.

    It was time to turn our full attention to the field. Jessie’s sports writing had always focused on personalities and backstories rather than the technical aspects of games, and something told me that this would be the inning when those subplots emerged. Busters center fielder Petie Jansen was digging in at the plate. Following him would be first baseman Wilson

    Boyd, and then Manny, the right fielder. Jansen and Boyd were known to be best buddies, country boys who referred to themselves proudly as rednecks and who didn’t hide their frequent irritation with the immigrant contingent in their sport.

    Watch Petie, I said. He’s overdue for some flaky behavior.

    Jessie glanced at me with raised brows, no doubt wondering how well I knew Jansen. She had always grappled with the fact that Tommy and I had met both him and Boyd at a shooting range and had struck up an acquaintance while indulging in target practice together.

    Besides that, I suspected she still resented Jansen for an incident this past May, when he and Manny had collided in the outfield while chasing a fly ball. Petie had walked away almost unscathed, while Manny spent a week in the hospital, undergoing tests to make sure the initial temporary paralysis he’d suffered was unlikely to recur. Petie paid him a visit, which happened to coincide with one of Jessie’s sojourns in his room. She claimed that Petie had sneered to find her nursing Manny back to health by reading to him from her archive of articles. That day, Manny had requested to hear the one that had brought them back together a year earlier. Jessie had chronicled his ultimately successful battle to retrieve his son from his ex-wife, who had snatched the three-year-old after their divorce and fled with him to their native Cuba.

    Now, watching Petie strike out for the third time in the game and risk ejection by taunting the umpire as he walked away, Jessie did not bother to suppress a chuckle.

    The next man up, first baseman Wilson Boyd, was harder to figure. An extreme extrovert, he organized frequent hunting and fishing trips and tried to include every teammate. It was only those who disliked outdoor sports, like Manny, whom he denounced as skirts. Boyd never stopped trying to make friends, but Manny harbored a professional grudge against him. Although Manny never complained publicly, he resented that Boyd, on joining the team this season, had replaced him both as first baseman and left-handed cleanup hitter.

    To some experts, these moves were counterintuitive. With his thirty-five home runs during the regular season, Manny had proven himself to be the best power hitter on the team. This should have secured him the cleanup position. Boyd, who led the team in batting average but hit ten fewer homers, seemed to belong in the second or third spot in the lineup. Jessie rarely discussed team issues with Manny, who was a suck it up type during the season. But she had shared some of her darker suspicions with me.

    You girl reporter types are always looking for conspiracies, I’d kidded her. But I couldn’t totally discount her theory that some of the lineup decisions were political. Johnson Carter had served two terms in Congress as a dependable conservative from southern Virginia, just like his friend and mentor, President Jeremiah Smith. When he had bought the Filibusters, he’d recruited several African-Americans as investors, but since then the co-owner group had become divided and minimized. He had appointed his eldest son field manager. The general manager he selected was a former fundraiser for his campaigns, and one of his younger sons and his daughter, Madeline, also served in high management positions.

    Boyd stepped to the plate. Well, let’s see if Wilson the Conqueror can earn his exalted status right now, said Jessie, using her sarcastic nickname for the cleanup hitter. What better time for him to prove Busters management was right to favor him over Manny?

    Even if I sometimes accuse you of being paranoid, Jess, I have to admit that when you’re right, you’re right. Manny’s outplayed Boyd all season.

    He sure has, she replied. And that’s not the only thing I intend to ask Carter about once I actually score an interview with him. I’ll pick the damned outfit apart. What about all the other immigrant players he’s sold, traded, or demoted? What about the African-Americans who somehow never got long-term contracts? Anger crept into Jessie’s voice as she counted the names on her fingers, her engagement ring blazing as it caught the light of the overhead chandelier. Hernandez, Williamson, Perez, Michaels … why do so many non-white players seem to have such bad luck in this organization?

    True, I said, but didn’t we just see Carter palling around with Castilla?

    Jessie snorted again in that unique way of hers that somehow came across as adorable. I don’t believe for a minute they’re pals. They’re doing some kind of business—and I’d really like to know what kind.

    Both Tommy and Dad reacted to Jessie’s diatribe with slight grimaces and rolls of the eyes, while the councilmen reacted not at all, once again wrapped up in their own debate. I fell to wondering if Carter’s pose of friendship with Castilla was a ruse to deflect any suspicions of bigotry. Or maybe he respected Hispanics who had acquired as much power as he had.

    I was shaken out of my reverie by the crack of a bat. Wilson Boyd had sent a sharply hit ground ball up the middle. But the Keys shortstop dove to his left, scooped up the ball, and threw a streak to first in time to nip Boyd.

    The roar of excitement from forty-five thousand Busters fans, hoping for a rally-starter at last, immediately dulled as Boyd tossed his batting helmet in frustration and turned toward the dugout. But the crowd remained on its feet, cheering as Manny strode to the plate. A now or never mood embraced the stadium. Adding to the electric atmosphere, everyone in the ballpark seemed to remember the occasion six weeks prior when Olgesby had thrown a fastball close to Manny’s head in retaliation for a home run, setting off a brawl. Olgesby lost no time demonstrating that the incident remained fresh for him. The first pitch whizzed past Manny’s chin, causing him to fall on his ass.

    The crowd howled for revenge, while my companions and I held our collective breath. Players in both dugouts got off their benches and waited at the top of the stairs, ready to surge onto the field. The home plate umpire pointed first to Olgesby, who shrugged and sent back his usual innocent smirk. Then the ump pointed to both benches, warning them.

    An uneasy peace prevailed as Olgesby delivered his next pitch. Throughout the season, he had won most of his battles with the free-swinging Manny by enticing him to chase pitches barely out of his comfort zone. His next offering was meant to break just off the outside corner of the plate, but as soon as it was released, I knew it would stay up and catch more of the plate than Olgesby intended. Hold that bat steady, baby, Jessie muttered, leaning forward and tightening her grip on her chair’s armrests.

    The sound of contact was solid. The ball sailed in a slowly rising arc toward a colorful SUV ad plastered on the bullpen wall in right-center field. The crowd roared, as if the sound could help to elevate the ball. The center fielder raced back, raising his glove to track the ball. When he got to the barrier, he hoisted himself up, extended his glove as far as he could, and squeezed. He fell off the wall and stared at his empty glove. A Busters relief pitcher in the bullpen held the ball aloft as the crowd exploded.

    Could Hollywood have scripted this any better? Manny took his time trotting around the bases, soaking in the moment. Ron Olgesby picked up the rosin bag and threw it down in disgust. The crowd celebrated wildly.

    Yes! screamed Jessie, punching her fist in the air. Again her engagement ring caught the light and dazzled me for a moment. Our parents jumped up to hug her, Mom leading the charge, while Dad hung back until she had finished pouring out her jubilation. I hesitated, too, but for a different reason.

    I couldn’t take my eyes off Manny. His post-homer poses were riveting. I analyzed his confident stride back to the dugout, his choice of teammates for high fives, his interactions with the manager and hitting coach, his exuberant sloppiness in downing a cup of water, his modest refusal to come out and take extra bows as the crowd chanted his name. I’m sure Jessie had no clue that before I went over and hugged her, I had checked out her fiancé, noticing all those details and more.

    As I congratulated my sister, I looked back at Tommy, who as usual had only a muted reaction to anything that didn’t concern him directly. It hurt me to notice it; he had not always been this way. I made a few unfavorable comparisons between him and Manny. It almost felt like cheating on him, though I must say, it did make me feel better.

    As the game moved into the late innings, with the Busters clinging to a one-run lead and their fans cautiously optimistic, we ordered a second round of drinks. Even Jessie, who was working, broke down and had a gin and tonic. Both starting pitchers were lifted for pinch hitters.

    In the top of the eighth inning, the Keys mounted a threat against the Busters reliever, putting runners on first and second with two out. The Keys’ next batter singled sharply to right field, and it seemed the game would be tied. However, Manny got to the ball quickly and relayed it to Wilson Boyd, who fired it to home plate. The runner was called out on a close play, which brought the Keys manager out to argue. While he was getting himself thrown out of the game, the Busters were running off the field, high-fiving on all sides. Boyd waited for Manny to arrive from the outfield so that he could smother his rival in a bear hug.

    After another scoreless Busters at-bat, their young closer, Jose Pasqual, entered the game to try for the save in the top of the ninth. Like all hard throwers, Pasqual sometimes struggled with his control. But he had good composure for a kid, and he usually recovered his focus when it mattered most. Although frequently in trouble, he had not blown a save since July. Still, we all started gulping our drinks nervously in the owner’s box.

    Given his history of high-wire acts, we groaned when young Jose walked the leadoff batter. Recovering, he blew two quick strikes past the next batter. Then he came inside—too close—and the pitch grazed the guy above the knee. The hit batsman glared at the pitcher and trotted to first base. The

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