They had even managed to cover several major events in recent months-their second Final Four, the U.S. Open golf tournament, another U.S. Open tennis tournament-without ending up on the front page. That had been a relief-their parents had been threatening to never let them out of their sight again after the scandal at the Super Bowl-but also a little bit disappointing. Stevie didn’t want to think himself jaded at the age of fourteen, but a couple of times he had found himself forgetting to tingle when he put on his press credential to cover a big-time event.
But now, standing in the sparkling new Nationals Park, surrounded by fans who were still screaming their heads off with joy, listening to what felt like the hundredth playing of “We Are the Champions,” and looking at the happiness on the faces of the players, Stevie realized he was in the middle of a genuinely tingle-worthy moment. As he was soaking it all in, he heard Kelleher shouting at him again over the noise.
“Just work the clubhouse,” he said. “See what you find. I’ve got to focus on Zimmerman. Anything else in there is yours unless Sally wants it-but I think she’s writing a what-this-means-to-the-city piece.”
Sally was Sally Jenkins, the Herald’s other sports columnist, whom the paper had stolen from the Post for big dollars a year ago. Jenkins was so good Stevie wasn’t sure he was worthy of reading her stuff, much less working with her. He followed Kelleher and the onrushing cameras, notebooks, and tape recorders up the ramp into the Nationals clubhouse.
Not surprisingly, it was a mob scene inside. Stevie wasn’t two steps inside the door before he was sprayed with champagne. He knew from experience that he didn’t want to get hit in the eyes by the stuff, so he put his head down and tried to maneuver away from the mass of people in the middle of the room. The clubhouse was huge, with enough room for fifty lockers even though only twenty-five were absolutely needed. Stevie had noted earlier in the series that most players had two lockers to themselves, with ample space around each locker.
He headed toward some breathing space in the back corner of the room. From there he would be able to see who was still spraying champagne and who was moving away from the melee and making themselves available to talk.
“Pretty wild, isn’t it?” Stevie heard a voice say behind him.
He turned and saw a player standing at a locker. He had a bottle of champagne in his hands but clearly wasn’t involved in the celebration. After seven games Stevie thought he knew all the Nationals players, but he was drawing a blank on both the face and the number, which was 56.
Apparently, the player noticed the blank look on Stevie’s face, because he stuck his hand out and said, “Norbert Doyle. You’ve never heard of me because I’ve never done anything.”
Stevie laughed and shook hands with Norbert Doyle, whose name sounded only a little bit familiar.
“Steve Thomas,” he said. “ Washington Herald.”
Saying the name of the newspaper always made Stevie feel very grown-up. Doyle smiled and nodded. “Of course, I should have known it was you right away. You’re one of the two kid reporters who keep breaking all those big stories. My twins are big fans of yours and your friend…”
“Susan Carol,” Stevie said. “Susan Carol Anderson.”
It would be a stretch to say that Stevie had gotten used to being recognized, but it happened often enough that it no longer surprised him. This was a little bit different, though: an athlete knowing who he was when he didn’t know who the athlete was.
“How old are your twins?” Stevie asked.
“I think the same age as you,” Doyle said. “David and Morra turned fourteen in July. I’m pretty sure David’s got a crush on Susan Carol.”
“Who doesn’t?” Stevie said. “You should see the fan mail she gets…”
“Come on, Steve,” Doyle said, smiling. “I’m sure just as many teenage girls have crushes on you.”
“Not so much,” Stevie said, shaking his head. “But Susan Carol likes me, which makes me pretty lucky.”
“Norbert!” someone yelled from the middle of the room. “Get over here. You’re part of this too, you know!”
Doyle smiled and waved his hand. “Be right there,” he said. Turning to Stevie, he said, “That’s a stretch to say I’m part of this.”
“But… you’re on the team,” Stevie said.
“Well, yes and no,” Doyle said. “They brought me in at the tail end of the regular season. Started three games, relieved in three others. Didn’t get a win. I’m not on the postseason roster, but they let me hang around.”
That was why Stevie knew the name. He remembered seeing Doyle’s name in the postseason media guide he had paged through on the train down from Philadelphia. If he remembered right, Doyle was kind of an interesting story: the Nationals had traded for him at the end of August because two of their pitchers had been hurt and they needed someone to come up from the minors and make a spot start. What made the story interesting was that Doyle was in his late thirties and had never pitched in a major-league game prior to the trade. Then, suddenly, he’d been thrust into the middle of a pennant race.
“You didn’t win a game, but you pitched really well, didn’t you?” Stevie said, hoping he was right.
“I pitched okay,” Doyle said. “I was thrilled to be here. I just wasn’t quite good enough to make the postseason roster.”
“Hey, Norbert, come on over here!” someone was shouting.
“Sounds like a lot of guys think you are part of this,” Stevie said.
Doyle smiled. “They’re good guys,” he said. “I’ll tell you one thing. I’ll never forget a minute of this experience.”
He shook Stevie’s hand again. “Good luck with your story tonight,” he said. “My kids will be thrilled to know I met you.”
With that he was gone, and Stevie stood alone, still in search of a story. Too late, as Doyle was doused in champagne, it occurred to him that he had just let a terrific story walk away.
2: THE WORLD SERIES
STEVIE WAS SOUND ASLEEP on the train back to Philadelphia the next morning when his cell phone rang. He stared blearily at the number for a moment, then realized it was Susan Carol and answered.
“Are you still sulking?” she asked.
“Can you sulk when you’re asleep?”
She laughed. “Lazy bum,” she said. “I’m about to go to school.”
Stevie grunted. He knew she had more reason to be tired than he did. It had been after 1 a.m. before they left the ballpark, and she had caught a 7 a.m. plane back to North Carolina, which meant she’d had to be up at four. He’d been able to sleep until seven before catching a train home.
“I don’t know how you do it,” he said to Susan Carol. “Don’t you have swimming practice today too?”
“Adrenaline,” she answered. “Actually, swimming will feel good.”
Sometimes he wondered if Susan Carol was really a mortal or if she was from another planet. She was tall, gorgeous, smart, tough, and full of energy-sleep or no sleep. It was no wonder Norbert Doyle’s son had a crush on her. What was really amazing was that Susan Carol, with her pick of any boy she wanted, liked him. Even though he had grown steadily from five four when they first met to almost five eight now, she still had about three inches on him and still looked about eighteen to his, well, fourteen. But she told people that he was her boyfriend, and he liked that… a lot.
“So,” she repeated, “are you still sulking?”
“A little bit.”
After Norbert Doyle had disappeared to join the other revelers the night before, Stevie had been left to piece together a sidebar story from predictable quotes: “Greatest moment of my life… Guys really stepped up when they had to… We’re a family… Everyone in here gave a hundred and ten percent.”