EIGHT
Come on, Yung, hurry it up.” Hunter poked his head inside my office. “Murph and the rest of the guys are all waiting downstairs. If we don’t show by seven fifteen, we forfeit the game!”
“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” I said from the other side of my office door. “Lawyers League softball isn’t exactly how I planned to spend my night.”
“Hey, hey, hey. Careful with the wide load there.” I transferred sneakers, clean socks, and yoga pants from my cedar wardrobe into my gym bag. “Uh-oh. I don’t have a clean T-shirt.”
Hunter shook his head. “Nice try. But everyone has to wear the team jersey.” He jerked his chin toward the duffel. “We have tons. I’ll give you one when we get there. Let’s just go.”
“All right, all right, just give me a second to change. I’ll meet you guys down in the lobby.”
“Make it fast.” Hunter looked at his watch. “I really hate forfeiting to that Davis Polk guy, competitive prick.”
Hi, pot, meet kettle.
Hunter was absurdly competitive about Lawyers League softball.
For someone who’d married into this job, knew no law, and regularly padded his hours, he played strictly by the book when it came to softball.
The official rules of the Central Park Lawyers League required each law firm to field a team of at least eight players, of which at least one must be a woman.
Otherwise, you had to forfeit. That morning, Hunter had panicked after finding out that Melissa McCabe from Trusts and Estates, the only woman on the team, was being sent to Boston to deal with a client emergency and wouldn’t be able to play.
That had inspired his ridiculous e-mail plea.
TO: PARSONS_NY_OFFICE_ALL_ATTYS
FROM: Russell, Hunter F.
SUBJECT: DESPERATELY SEEKING FEMALE…
…TO PLAY IN TONIGHT’S SOFTBALL CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH VS. DAVIS POLK, THAT IS. CENTRAL PARK, EAST MEADOW, 7:00 PM SHARP!!!!!! IF INTERESTED, CONTACT HUNTER RUSSELL, x3146, ASAP!!!! FREE JERSEY!!!!!!!
I’d laughed out loud and said, “Yeah, right, good luck with that,” before hitting DELETE.
Three hours later, Hunter showed up at my office.
“Please. I’m begging here.” Hunter—in his custom-tailored Paul Smith suit—dropped to the floor in the doorway of my office and, hands clasped as if in prayer, shuffled toward me on his knees.
“Seriously, Yung, I can’t find any other female associate to play tonight.
It’s the championship game! If we can’t field a regulation team we automatically forfeit!
Please, Yung. Please.” He shuffled over to my swivel chair and clung to my leg.
“Hunter,” I said, looking down at him calmly.
He blinked up at me from the floor.
“Have some dignity, Hunter. You’re embarrassing us both.”
“Please, Yung!” he wailed.
“I’m not much of an athlete these days.”
He released his grip on my leg but remained on his knees. “Come on. You played women’s soccer in college, right? And tennis?”
I wondered how Hunter knew all this. “Those aren’t the same,” I said. “I don’t know the first thing about baseball.”
“Softball, Ingrid. Softball. And we don’t even use a regulation ball! Lawyers League uses a ball that’s even softer than regulation. It’s really easy to hit.” Hunter flashed me a hopeful smile.
I pretended to tap thoughtfully at my chin. “Okay, hmm, let’s see. How do you think this would look to the partners—I’m supposed to be running this billion-dollar megadeal for Adler’s client, yet I’m leaving the office at six forty-five to go play softball in Central Park?”
Hunter smiled smugly. “Actually,” he said, “Adler usually shows up to watch all our games. And Tim Hollister’s playing tonight.”
I frowned. “I didn’t know any of those guys came to your games.”
“Yeah, they do,” Hunter continued proudly. “We all go out for beers afterward at Paddy Maguire’s, and Adler picks up the tab at the end of the night. It’s great. You should totally come. Murph started up this tradition a while ago.”
“Huh.” Murph had never mentioned anything to me about going drinking with the partners.
I thought about how Marty Adler had cornered me at the elevators about the Diversity Initiative, the impatient, vaguely hostile way he’d said, I don’t have to tell you how much we value an associate’s nonlegal contributions to the firm.
I wondered if Murph organizing private little drinking outings with the senior partners counted as his nonlegal contribution.
“Come on, Yung. Be my hero.”
I looked at Hunter, still groveling on the floor beside my desk. Something about the way he’d said “hero” appealed to me—especially if Marty Adler was going to be there to see it. You want nonlegal contributions? I’ll show you nonlegal contributions.
“All right, all right. I’m in. Jesus. I can’t stand to see a grown man beg.”
Hunter sprang out of the car as soon as we got to the Central Park playing fields. He bolted up the path, bag full of jerseys, three bats, and mitt in tow. Murph and I followed behind.
The Davis Polk team had already arrived. Their team captain was waiting by the bleachers, arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked into his armpits. “Nice of you guys to show,” he called over to us.
“Asshole,” Murph said under his breath. The rest of our team had also just arrived and were standing around stretching and doing warm-ups.
Tim Hollister was indeed among them, and he smiled and waved when he saw me.
I waved back. Tim had shed his glasses for the game; tonight he was looking a little less Clark Kent and more Superman.
The other player I recognized right away was Link Forster—Mr. January from the firm outing.
The team was rounded out by three first-year guys from Litigation whose names I didn’t know, who all had that arrogant, freshly shaven, self-congratulatory look about them, belonging singularly to young graduates dazzled to find themselves twenty-five years old, living in Manhattan, and suddenly making six figures a year.
I was surprised by the number of people who’d showed up to cheer us on.
The crowd from Parsons Valentine was mostly nonlegal staff—even Margo said she’d attended one or two of the games—but I also recognized quite a few associates, and not just first-years, either.
I spotted Tyler among a group of assorted Corporate associates.
He was waving both arms over his head so I’d see him.
Bless you, Tyler. I’d convinced him to come tonight for moral support.
It was probably the first and only time Tyler Robinson would ever attend a firm softball game. I was touched.
I waved enthusiastically back at him, widening my eyes and giving him a sheepish what did I get myself into shrug. He smirked back at me. No idea how you got talked into this, darling.
I scanned the rest of the crowd; no Marty Adler.
Now Murph was walking over to me with the bag full of jerseys. “All right, so you’re supposed to put this on,” he said, reaching in and tossing one to me.
I held up the white heavyweight cotton jersey with three-quarter-length navy blue sleeves.
The firm logo was discreetly embossed in the upper left corner, like an alligator or a polo pony, and across the chest it read, in blue script slanting slightly upward, THE PROSECUTORS.
It wasn’t the most creative name, but it was better than their original choice: the Well-Hung Jury.
Fortunately, the firm’s Management Committee had intervened.
Legal humor was so lame. Back in law school, when I’d go out to dinner with a bunch of classmates, somebody would invariably say something like “Guess I’ll have the chocolate torte,” and everyone would crack up. It was painful.
I held the jersey up to my chest. On me, it was a dress. I checked the tag. “Murph, this is a size L. Isn’t there anything smaller?”
“Oh.” He looked taken aback. “Even smaller than that? Uh, yeah, let me look.” He pawed through the bag and finally came up with another jersey. “No smalls, but here’s the last medium,” he said, tossing it at me.
I pulled the jersey on over my camisole, and still I was swimming in it.
I went to a lot of firm outings and client retreats, and for some reason, no law firm, investment bank, or corporation ever ordered its company T-shirts in enough size smalls.
Hunter and the Davis Polk captain were busily conferring over by the stands, their heads bent over two clipboards. Then Hunter turned and pointed in my direction. The Davis Polk captain looked my way, nodded briefly at Hunter, and crossed something out on his clipboard.
After a few minutes Hunter jogged back over to us.
“Okay, so here’s the deal,” he said. Tim Hollister, Link Forster, and the three first-year Litigation guys came over, and together we all huddled around Hunter’s clipboard.
Link lifted his chin at me and said, “Hey, thanks for filling in for Melissa.” Man, he was adorable.
The three first-years looked me up and down but said nothing.
“Okay, guys, this is the lineup,” said Hunter. “Forster, you’re up first.” Everyone nodded quickly, unsurprised, and I looked over at Link’s athletic frame and realized he must be considered something of a powerhouse, at least for Lawyers League.
Hunter proceeded to rattle off six more names. Finally, he said, “Uh, so that means—Yung, you’re up last.”
I was suspicious.
“Does Melissa normally go last?” I asked.
Hunter glanced up from his clipboard. “Uh, no. Why?”