I'm officially claiming the "Texas summer" deadline on the Summer Ficathon, which actually gives me until Thanksgiving to finish this fic.
I'm kidding. Here is the first part, and I'll also post the second part tonight.
This is an Early Years story, set in 1986.
Standard disclaimers apply; only original characters and ideas are mine, the rest is just for fun!
*****
Two Weeks in June
by amberlea
“You want me to go where?!” I cannot believe what I'm hearing.
“You heard me,” my editor replies calmly. “You'll be traveling on the team bus, so I expect some good background stories to go with your articles on the games.”
“Steve should go. He's the sports editor,” I protest.
“Steve broke his leg, as you well know, and there's no way he's mobile enough for this kind of story. And I'd stay out of Steve's way if I were you. He's none too happy that this opportunity is being wasted on someone who could care less.”
“Steve's just mad that I know more about sports than he does,” I retort, mostly under my breath.
“And I'm sure your vast knowledge will make your articles all the better. The bus leaves at seven a.m. tomorrow.” Gary picks up his red pen as if he's going back to work. I can tell there's more to this assignment, and I have all day to wait him out.
A small voice deep inside my head suggests that maybe I shouldn't antagonize my editor. Instead I cross my arms and narrow my eyes. I'm not a freshman anymore, and Gary doesn't scare me.
After an eternal minute Gary sets down his pen. I knew I would win. He leans back slightly in his chair and looks up at me.
“Yes, Lane?” As if his patronizing tone is going to change my attitude. I frown in response.
“What's the real story, Gary? No way The Metropolitan has the budget to put me up in a hotel for the duration of a baseball tournament, especially during the summer when we only publish twice a week.”
Gary's voice picks up a note of actual annoyance. Now I'm getting somewhere. “First of all, don't pretend you really believe this is just a baseball tournament. And since you do know that, you must be able to surmise that this entire town, with its many citizens who attended this fine institution of higher learning, is very interested in the best baseball team to take Met Field in years. Given these facts, it should not be a surprise to you that various groups with ties to the university have ensured that sufficient funds were freed up to provide you with not only a hotel room but also a rental car.”
He grabs a manila envelope off one of the many towering piles on his desk and tosses it at me. “Your travel documents and confirmations, as well as the team itinerary and the CWS schedule. Player bios are in there, too.”
I'll look at this stuff later. I think I can push him a little more. “There's no story here, Gary. Either they win or they lose. Find a player with a touchy feely heartwarming story; exploit it. Lather, rinse, repeat next season.”
“Were you born a cynic, Lane?” Gary asks. He's done arguing with me. “You're going. Call in what you've got every day by eleven p.m.”
Hold the phone. “Why would I need to do that when we only publish twice a week?”
“Just do it, Lane,” Gary growls. “Go!”
Well, that's all I'm going to get out of him. Guess it's time to go pack. I'm not sure, but I think the newsroom itself sighs as I leave.
*****
“Ugh, shuddup,” I groan. My hand flails around, groping for the snooze button. The dumb alarm clock runs in terror and jumps to the floor. Toto blares on, undaunted. Six in the morning is too early for this.
I allow myself the rest of “Africa” before I breathe in deeply and throw off the covers. Even though it's only a sports assignment, a headline waits for no woman. Maybe I'll get lucky and an earthquake will hit Nebraska.
Okay, I don't really mean that.
But there's always a chance something interesting will happen, even in the deadly dull Midwest. So first things first: shower, coffee, then meet the bus.
*****
I arrive at the parking lot of the baseball stadium at exactly 6:50; plenty of time to stow my suitcase under the tour bus and stake out a seat. I'm not surprised to see most of the baseball team already here, hanging out in the parking lot. They don't even look like they just rolled out of bed. I'd go so far as to wager that they showered. We are headed to the biggest stage most of them will ever see, by far. Heck, it's the biggest stage I've ever covered, but as I just finished my freshman year at Met U, that only means that I'm on the right track. I suspected the road to a Pulitzer by age 30 might include some disagreeable assignments, a category which definitely includes sports assignments. But I am definitely on the road.
I've chosen a window seat in the front one-fourth of the bus. My brown soft-sided leather briefcase with a shoulder strap is taking up residence in the seat next to me in hopes of deterring would-be friendly seatmates.
A baseball-capped head pops up the steps at the front of the bus. His nose is buried so far in his clipboard that I'm a little bit impressed he didn't trip up the steps. He looks up long enough to glance at the bus seats.
“You Lane?” he calls out.
“Depends on who's asking.”
“Bobby. Equipment manager. Did you stow your stuff?” I have no idea what's on that clipboard, but it must be fascinating. Either that or his nose is actually adhered to it somehow.
“Check!”
Apparently that's good enough for Bobby, who promptly exits the bus.
Almost as soon as Bobby's gone, the coach enters the bus. He spots me immediately, as the rest of the bus is still empty, and starts down the center aisle. He reaches my row in a couple of steps, and I feel the urge to stand up to greet him. But this is a bus, and even though it's a tour bus and not a school bus, there's still not much room to maneuver. So I sit up straighter and turn my body toward the aisle.
“Miss Lane, Bobby told me you'd arrived. I'm Coach Williams.”
I shake the hand he offers. “It's a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“It's nice to meet you too, Miss Lane. I'm glad you could join us. This is an exciting event for our school and our city.”
Coach Williams has a friendly, earnest demeanor. It's somewhat contagious. “I'm glad I get to go along to share that with our readers.” I might even mean that.
To my surprise, Coach Williams laughs aloud. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. It's just that had I not had a conversation with your editor, I'd almost believe you meant that.” He doesn't look angry, which would probably be justified, rather merely amused.
This could be a long trip if the coach thinks I'm uninterested in this tournament. “Coach, I'm a born and bred Metropolitan. I'm well aware of the importance of this tournament to Met U and the city as a whole. I never give less than one hundred percent.”
Coach Williams looks me straight in the eye. “This team deserves nothing less. I know you'll deliver.”
I nod in agreement.
Coach smiles. “The team was pretty disappointed to hear that Steve wasn't going to be able to make the trip.”
“So was Steve,” I quip.
“I'll bet he was. Anyway, I was going to warn you that the team likes to tease,” he grins, “but I'd guess I might be better off warning the team that you're no pushover.”
From Steve's articles that I reread last night, I got the impression that this team is devoted to their coach. If he is always this straightforward and engaging, then I can see why.
“So when will you be available for an interview?” I ask with a smile.
“Talk to the team first. If you finish with them before we make it to Omaha, you know where to find me.” Coach Williams smiles as he turns and leaves the bus.
I turn back to the window. As much as I gave my editor Gary a hard time, I do know how big this tournament is. This is the first Metropolis University baseball team to make it to the College World Series, the national championship series of college baseball, ever. We've gotten close several times over the past decade, but we could never seal the deal.
And the unlikely setting of every college baseball team's dream is the megalopolis of Omaha, Nebraska. I'm certain “Omaha” is the Native American word for “sleepy town in the middle of nowhere.”
I'm likewise certain that joke would be lost on the residents of “sleepy town in the middle of nowhere.”
If I have to cover sports, at least it's baseball. Even though I grew up around boxing, I've always found baseball interesting for the strategy involved.
As my thoughts wander, I watch the team huddle. Coach Williams is speaking. The sound of his voice carries into the bus, but the words are indistinct. He sounds excited, and the players look it. Well, this may not be the hard-hitting news that I'm going to write once I'm working for the Daily Planet, but all things considered, it's not bad for a summer gig.
The noise level suddenly rises as the whole team lets out a yell and heads toward the bus door. Bobby the equipment manager is the first one through the door, and he takes up a position in the first seat. As the players pass him, they call out their numbers for him to check off his ubiquitous clipboard.
The entire process moves surprisingly fast, and Coach Williams boards last. He looks to Bobby, who nods, and Coach Williams stops to say a few words to the bus driver. The driver smiles and shakes the coach's hand. Then the driver starts the bus, and we're on our way.
The excitement on the bus is practically tangible. A few of the players cheer as we pull out of the parking lot.
Though the bus is almost full, no one sat down beside me. Most of the players nodded or smiled at me as they passed. I'm glad I decided to dress the reporter role rather than the traveling college student role. I considered and rejected my comfy black leggings and baggy turquoise sweatshirt, opting instead for nice jeans, a burgundy top, and a cream-colored tailored blazer.
I pull my notebook and a pen out of my briefcase. A quick scribble in the corner of a page ensures that it's a working pen.
I glance out the window. Traffic is pretty light at seven in the morning on a Saturday, possibly the only time that can be said about Metropolis. It's not long before we reach an entrance to the interstate. Once we reach a steady speed, I stand up. My plan is to start at the back of the bus and work my way to the front.
I study faces as I move toward the back of the bus. I actually made it to a couple of games this season. This team had been rumored to be pretty impressive, and I make it a personal goal to know at least a little bit about what's going on all around campus. You never know where you'll find a story. So now I'm associating faces with names and numbers and stats. I always begin a story by doing my research, and the player bios Gary gave me helped.
Upon closer inspection, it would seem that Coach Williams enforces a travel dress code. I see mostly khakis or jeans and lots of polo shirts, but altogether the team looks generally put-together. My respect for the coach increases again. Most of the players are talking or reading, but some of them look up as I walk by. I smile and keep moving.
The boys in the back have deduced that I'm headed in their direction. I'm a little bit surprised when I realize they are shuffling their seating arrangement to make room for me, but I don't let my surprise show on my face.
“May I?”
“Have a seat,” is the response from the player who is now wedged in the space between the back bench seat and the side of the bus, at a right angle to the seat. I recognize him as Scott Meyers, number 19. Right-handed pitcher, sometime infielder, senior.
“Thanks. I'm Lois Lane, reporter for The Daily Metropolitan. I've been assigned to cover the College World Series while Steve convalesces,” I say with a smile.
“Oh, we know who you are,” Scott assures me with what can only be described as a twinkling grin. “Steve often told stories of the annoying freshman who was forever arguing sports with him in the newsroom.”
“Well, that's not exactly accurate,” I counter, “I only argue with him when he's wrong.” Every occupant of the back seat explodes with laughter. I'm starting to think I might get along with these ballplayers. I'm also pleased to have employed a method of basic interviewing skills: make your subject comfortable. Not always my preferred strategy, but I'm going with it.
“So, boys, tell me about the significance of making it to Omaha.” Reporter mode on.
*****
TBC
