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When Mike Lawson is 42 years old, Ginny gets her no-hitter.
She does it on a surgically repaired arm with the stadium lights dazzling behind her, eyes narrowed and body locked in, standing tall on the mound. She’s beautiful, Mike thinks to himself, which, to be fair, he’s thought many times before. Her pitching is beautiful.
The last out the guy goes down 1-2-3, her final pitch a knuckleball that practically dances over the plate. It’s a sight to see, even though he isn’t behind the plate, and the rookie batter who swings at it-- well, he gets to be a part of history too.
Mike unmutes the television for the post-game show. The Padres didn’t play and a screencap of Livan’s Twitter flashes across the screen: “#wow”. Blip’s twins are teenagers now but there’s a photo Evelyn posted of them in matching signed Baker jerseys from last year’s All-Star game, with the whole family’s congrats. And other players around the league, and a couple politicians, and fuck, that ball’s heading straight to Cooperstown, along with her rookie card and jersey and god knows how much other memorabilia emblazoned with her name and number. First girl to pitch a no-hitter in the MLB.
A part of him wants to call up the networks and sing her praises.
Another part of him thinks he’ll crack open a beer and rewind the TV to watch the last few innings. That second part wins out.
-
They kissed, a couple times. Fucked, a couple times. He took her out on some dates, but once winter passed it ended. She had baseball to go back to and he didn't.
It could have gone somewhere, been something. But Mike wanted a World Series ring once, too.
-
Three days later Mike picks up his phone. She answers after a few rings, not right away, and he’d bet that’s on purpose.
“Found a new trick pitch, huh,” he says, foregoing the hello.
“Did you know,” Ginny starts off. Her voice is-- surprisingly, maybe-- warm. “Dickey called me up to say congrats.”
“Yeah,” Mike says. “You’re in the club now.” He pauses. “Was surprised your catcher got it.”
He doesn’t know the guy who’s catching her personally. Different team, different farm system, and the kid is too young to have overlapped with him.
Ginny says, “He’s alright.”
She did okay with Livan, Mike remembers. Good enough that everyone was happy. Once she got onto another team it took longer for her to settle in. Mike thinks, sometimes selfishly, that it could be because he wasn’t there, that he’d been the best for her. He’s been retired for too long, though, to let that thought be any more than an indulgence.
“It was a hell of a pitch,” Mike ends up saying.
She doesn’t say thanks but she does say, “I appreciate that,” and he figures he’s said enough of what needs to be said for it all to count.
-
Ginny’s team makes the wild card and then loses, out of the playoffs as quick as they were in. The Padres didn’t even sniff contention this year. Mike takes some amount of vicious glee in the Dodgers blowing a series lead and failing to capture the pennant, but after that he hangs around and watches whatever game is on.
Omar comes over for LA’s elimination game and they shittalk all other California teams and eat a bunch of takeout that’s bad for them. Drinking beer turns into drinking liquor, and Omar says, “You watch Ginny’s no-no, Mike, of course you did.”
“Some good pitches in there.”
“Maybe she’ll sign a baseball for me next season.” Omar’s grinning, and he toasts Mike with his glass of-- scotch, Mike thinks, something expensive someone important gave him when he retired.
“Maybe she’ll strike you out on that new knuckleball she’s got going,” Mike says.
“Woulda happened anyway.” Omar’s still grinning. “You think you could hit it?”
“I retired,” Mike says. “No one gets to watch me be bamboozled on national television by a trick pitch anymore until they trot me out for some Old Timers’ event.”
Talking about Ginny with Omar brings back a long-ago conversation, one that didn’t matter that much in the end, Ginny likes grape soda and hates cilantro and hums pop songs off-key when she stretches. The last one is still true, according to some joke interview given by her new teammates. They’re all more important than he wants them to be.
-
He calls her up.
“So we're back to being phone buddies?” she asks-- not acerbic, but sharp.
“If you're ready for my blinding wit,” Mike says.
Ginny hums.
“Nah,” Mike says. “I was just thinking, you know. Omar came over so we could watch the Dodgers kick it, and I--”
“You invited him over just to watch another California team lose?”
“Obviously.” He doesn't know how that's even a question. “We did it for the Giants last year. Don't you remember coming over once?”
“Sure, whatever.” But Mike thinks she's smiling now. “You were thinking?”
“You can stop sounding surprised any second now.” Mike swallows. “You still hate cilantro?”
“Yeah.”
“Like grape soda?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the godawful singing while you stretch?”
“Yeah-- hey, it's not godawful, it's fine.”
Mike says, “I got no ear and I could tell you it's godawful.”
“What's your point, Lawson.”
“I was wondering,” Mike says. “I was wondering, that's all. If it hadn't changed."
-
The Padres invited him to spring training last year and he hemmed and hawed before saying no. Didn't feel ready, really, to go back and see all the young guys and not be able to squat on his still-fucked knees for too long. Oscar called, asking him to reconsider, and Mike says maybe next year. They've called again.
It's not Ginny’s team anymore but she knows about it.
“You were wondering,” she says, and both of them wait.
It probably should have gone somewhere, thinks Mike. The two of them. He thinks in bad baseball metaphors: they don’t have to stay apart, sixty feet and six inches between them. He went up to the mound with his glove raised for her all the time.
“That first time,” Ginny says, and Mike stops thinking so he can listen. “When I messed up my arm--"
“Not a good memory,” he says. She ignores him.
“I wanted-- I mean, I wanted it for me most of all. I did that, you know? However my career ends, they're not taking that away. But I wanted to get it for you, too. If only so you wouldn't come visit me after surgery just to tell me that if Dock Ellis got a no-no on LSD, I didn't have any excuses.”
Mike laughs. “I was right in the end,” he says.
“Shut up.” Ginny says. “Do I still hate cilantro, jesus. You went on how many dates with me and that's your opening line?”
Another pause, waiting again. There's space between them but existing doesn't make an impasse.
“I missed you too,” she says. “Since I know you won't say it first.”
Mike says, “I wanted to call up all my TV contacts so I could say how proud of you I was but I got drunk and watched the last inning like five times. You still got a hell of a screwball.”
“Like you'd be able to hit it.”
“Out of the park, baby.”
She laughs, a note in it off-key, and he stays on the phone.
-
This time Ginny calls him.
“Pitchers and catchers report--”
“I know the drill, Baker. Been doing this longer than you.”
“Hey, I don't know about all-star coaches.” He bets she's shrugging. “But if you had some time beforehand, I'm around. Still working on a cutter, as a matter of fact.”
“So you want to show me your cutter.”
“And see if you can hit my knuckleball.”
Mike says, “Out of the park,” and then he says, “You tell me when and where.”
“Good,” she says, simple as that, and she stays on the phone.