Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Olivia POV
That same week . . .
I sat on the edge of coach Eberhardt's desk and stared across the office at the whiteboard. There was a fundamental problem with the first draft of this roster. And for some reason, no one was addressing the elephant in the room. “Why are we so thin at catcher?”
Eberhardt sighed. “It's complicated.”
“I'm not missing something?” I stared at the list of names along the side of the whiteboard. Names I knew backward and forward. Essential stats. And for the first time, glimpses of personalities and individuals.
“No, our starter was supposed to be a senior this year. He decided to go on some exchange program and gave up his scholarship.”
“That’s kinda unusual.”
Schorr snorted from underneath the ballcap pulled low over his face. “You ain’t kidding.” Those black orthopedic shoes on his desk, I’d thought the man was napping.
“Last year, we were just looking for someone to develop, since we figured we had another year. Hague was solid behind the plate and at the plate. Hardly missed a game. We were hedging bets to expand our pitching roster, and at the last minute, had to change tactics. We lost out on the ambidextrous Ryo Hibara and brought in Peter Latske.”
“Man, I saw Hibara’s exhibition. It sucks he went to Chicago Centennial.”
Schorr grunted and sat up. Lifted his hat and scratched at the thinning hair on his head. “Never saw nothing like that kid. Was like watching Curt but with two arms that could pitch instead of the one.”
“Yeah, maybe. Except Ryo has that pretty-boy hotness factor. And my brother’s fastball could hit one-oh-two, a solid ten miles an hour faster.”
“We don’t need a damned male model. A pitcher, Milline. I need a few God damned starting pitchers.”
You said that out loud. I mentally groaned.
I cleared my throat. “Latske's got solid stats—when he's healthy. Which has been a pretty big if for the past two seasons.”
Eberhardt nodded. “Yeah, we knew that was a risk.”
“He also barely squeaked in on the academics requirement, didn’t qualify for additional scholarship help. Who’s on the development list?”
“Stop chewing your nails, Missy.” Schorr shot me a glare. Hazel eyes peered over his bifocals. I pulled my index finger from between my lips. Dammit. I’m not a kid. So stop acting like one. I sat on my hands.
“We considered—” Eberhardt began, but Schorr cut him off.
“No, you’re the scout, Milline. Shouldn’t you be telling us who you’ve been scouting that fits the team’s needs?”
“Is this like a pop quiz? You have me file printouts for two weeks, make a couple of spreadsheets, which also have to be printed—in large font and taped together. And now you’re quizzing me?” That reminded me, I needed to ask about Lan and his access to Schorr’s email account.
“Ya damned right I am.” He stood from his chair, drew himself up and crossed his arms against his chest. “Scout, I need a backup catcher. Who ya got for me?” He leaned over and spit in his trash can.
He’s lecturing me about biting my nails and he’s chewing tobacco? I tried not to make a face. “Sure. So, possible backup catchers, you’ve got Tommy Knox, whose nickname ‘Knox-out’ came from knocking a guy out at the plate while playing catcher his sophomore year.”
“True.” Narrowed eyes stared holes through my head. I swallowed against a dry patch in my throat.
“He prefers outfield, but he’s not likely to make it as a starter. His high school catching career ended after a heated argument with his pitcher. Could’ve matured, I guess?” Not based on his locker room performance on day one. “But you’ve also got a utility player. Coop hasn’t played catcher so far in his career, but he’s played everywhere else.”
“And I don't reckon we have any other opening to slot him into.” Schorr’s gravelly voice offered. “Assuming he keeps his nose clean this semester. Doesn't cause any more trouble.”
“Wait, no opening—seriously?” I glanced at Eberhardt. The old guy was out of his mind, right?
“He's a freshman, Liv. It's not like even the best walk into starting positions year one,” he replied.
“Yeah, kid like him. All the fundamentals are there. No program would’ve wanted to pass him up, but he still has ‘ta bounce back.” Schorr shook his head. “Just not firing on all cylinders.”
I thought he looked fine. A bit stiff, but it's still offseason. “Hm. He’s an option, but not my official scout recommendation.”
“No? Let me tell you, scout. I like short, to the point, decisive reports. I don’t need a story with a drumroll or an invitation to some kinda Catcher reveal party.” Schorr grumbled and spit into his cup.
I shuddered and looked away.
“Final answer, hotshot. And so far you’re not getting a passing grade.”
I slid from my spot on the desk and faced him. “Antonio Jimenez.”
“Damned good right fielder.” Eberhardt’s commentary was less than helpful.
“Sure, but, he used to catch for his older brother when they’d practice together. Big brother converted to a position player once he was in the Academy, but he pitched in high school for years. High likelihood that little brother Antonio can be a flexible support for whoever’s on the mound.”
Eberhardt flipped his hat around backwards. It was an odd look on a guy in, what, his fifties? “How’d you know about his brother?”
“He told me.”
Schorr tipped his cap back and gave me a weird grin. “Well, Jeffrey?”
Eberhardt shrugged. “I hate when you use my full name, Henry . But yeah, yeah. So you’re gonna use this as proof you should have your way then?”
“Coop’s not a catcher.” Schorr threw him a wry look.
“He’s not exactly going to go out of his way to win a pitcher's trust.” Especially not Tanner. “But your second baseman had far too many fielding errors last year. Coop's got better batting stats, even if he’s not firing on all cylinders.” And had the personality of a warthog, emphasis on the warts. And was a complete jerk.
Eberhardt shook his head. “Coop hates?—”
“He hates second base. But. He hates sitting on the bench, more.”
Schorr grimaced. Eberhardt tossed his cap onto his desk.
“And you both know that, so I’ve outlived my usefulness and should go.” I opened the door to let myself out. “Oh, since I’m caught up on filing, I’ll do my reporter thing, as you call it, and grab some pics of weight training. Maybe something shirtless for the female fans.”
Coach Schorr snorted. “Female fans, sure. That'll be the day.”
“Maybe I can convince your boys to do a pinup calendar.” Oh, that was an amazing idea. I pulled up my ForeverNotepad to capture the win.
“Go!”
I ducked out the door, then remembered. Oh! Shit! I peeked my head back into the bullpen. “Did I pass the quiz?”
“Barely. Too much story, too much bias.” Schorr groused at me with a sour expression. “Gimme Jimenez first next time and if I've got follow up questions about other players, I’ll ask.”
“But I got the answer right, right? The one you would’ve picked.” I bit my lip and tried to push away the ‘biased’ remark echoing in the back of my brain. Curt said I was biased, too. But! I'm supposed to have an opinion.
“I said you passed, now get the hell outta my office, Milline.”
I huffed and shut the door behind me. Probably let out a small squeal. I passed!
The following week . . .
A tight-lipped Mrs. P held up my Founders’ Day article pitch. A big red “NO” written across the top. I sighed. Really?
I met her gaze. “But, I thought an article chronicling the lives of the original Vachon family who founded?—”
“Too historical.” She shook her head and held out the paper. “Audience won't connect with it.”
“I wanted to focus on what their lives were like back then,” I said and pointed at my submission. “I think it's important context for some of the school's values and provides a look back at how times have changed.”
“Lends itself to being disrespectful.”
“That wasn't my intention.”
“Kinda was.” That toad Rivers Reyes chimed in from his work table. He finger-combed his black hair over his forehead. His tattered grey metalhead t-shirt was probably meant to be “so edgy”, but he missed on the Jughead Jones look and only managed to appear oily and unkept. “Like what? There were people who lived in a time before there was internet?” He rolled his eyes at me. It took everything I had not to flip him off.
Mrs. P raised an eyebrow at me. “That’s enough, Rivers. Liv, try again,” she said and held out my paper.
I snatched it from her hands. She moved back to her desk and sat down. I didn't want to try again. I wanted to focus on baseball. “What about an article on Coach Schorr?”
“For Founders’ Day? He's not that old.”
“I meant for the sports journal.”
“Liv, we talked about this. We don't have to report on baseball year-round. I don't even want to report on baseball all year.”
“Think of the poor baseball players who need their shirts in the cold winters.” Rivers laughed with an oh-so-charming snerk. “You’re so heartless, Liv.”
Don’t worry, we took up a collection to make sure you always have a shirt. It came with a bag for your head, too. I bit back my retort and focused on Mrs. P.
“I know it’s not necessary, per se. But Coach Schorr is a legacy. We could have a real run at a national championship title this year with him back at the helm.”
“I'm not greenlighting another baseball-related article until you bring me a real pitch for your Founders’ Day piece. No pun intended.”
Rivers snorted. “Good one, Mrs. P.”
I somehow managed to lock down my overwhelming desire to groan and kick Rivers in the shin. “Fine. But I still believe the founding family is a story that will interest people.”
“I agree. But find the angle. Needs to be tighter. You're giving me broad, general research paper material. I want a narrow, punch in the gut kinda story.”
I sighed. “I'll try again.”
“Bring me a winner, Liv. I know you can do this.”
I'm sure she meant it as a boost or whatever, but it just made me want to curl in a ball and drown out the world. But I didn't have time to wallow. I wasn't giving up!
I hoofed it from the Journalism workroom to the other end of the building, exiting on the side nearest the main quad. Next period was economics, a course we all had to take during undergrad. It was the largest class I had the misfortune of attending, with a couple of hundred students in each section. Even my world history class, which had seemed like a sea of people when I first walked in, was only half the size of ECON 1101.
And our professor was so incredibly dry. I fought to keep my eyes open. And I wasn’t the only one. At least a half dozen of my peers were sacked out on top of their desks.
The worst of it was that unlike a lot of other classes that gave us a series of assignments, this blasted ECON class gave us two projects and two major exams. The rumor was that a third of the freshman class every year had to retake the course. I really couldn’t imagine a worse torture. Except maybe having to spend five more minutes with Rivers Reyes. I hoped he choked on the bits and bytes of his cyber beat.
Why was that something to report on year-round and Baseball wasn’t? I’m sure Cathy could give me some rationale, but I wasn’t really in the mood. I needed an angle on the founding family.
The problem was, it’s not like I could get a quote or an angle through interviewing someone. The university being founded in the early 1930’s meant that pretty much anyone alive during the “birth” of this place wasn’t alive now. Only maybe grandkids. Or great grandkids.
I wonder if any of them still lived nearby?
“Your projects will be due next Friday.” The bland, almost robotic voice of Professor Wiggins with the impressive combover spoke from his podium. He pointed. “Yes, in the back row.”
“Isn’t our midterm like the following Monday?”
“Yes,” he replied.
A chorus of groans erupted from the class.
“You have until the end of the week to withdraw without impacting your GPA. On behalf of all the faculty of Texas State Tech: welcome to college life.” And with that, he picked up a stack of folders and walked out of the class.
“Guess it's over.” I clicked the cover over my tablet. “I'd say time flies, but not inside these walls.”
Some girl I didn't know turned in her seat and looked at me with wide eyes. “But if I drop ECON, I won’t have a full load and I'll lose my scholarship.”
I winced. “Sorry to hear . . . that really sucks.”
She wrung her hands. “Yeah, thanks.” She grabbed her stuff and walked away.
I sighed and shoved my tablet into my backpack. Welcome to college life all right. Except I was going to have no life for the next two weeks.