Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis, the first commissioner of baseball, the Czar, leaned back in his chair and looked at her. He was the man the baseball owners had brought in after the 1919 World Series to kick the crooks and gamblers out of the game, the man with power enough to make the rules and enforce them.
“Baseball is too strenuous for women,” Landis said, holding her in his cold, unblinking gaze. “You are not constitutionally suited to it.”
Rue spread her arms as if to say, Look at me. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not the point. You’re setting a bad example.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
He looked nettled. “That’s not the point either,” he said. “I can’t tolerate having you out there on the field.”
Rue felt her temper flare. “Why?” she asked, hating her passionless voice. “Because I strike them out? Because I win?”
He didn’t reply.
She took a deep breath. She’d always sworn she wouldn’t beg for anything, but still she forced the words out. “I need this,” she said.
Judge Landis gave the slightest shrug inside his expensive suit. “I’m sorry.”
They sat in silence for a few moments in the dimly lit room with its smell of cigars and whiskey and treated leather. Then she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “What about Saturday?”
“Saturday,” the Czar said, shaking his head. “I’ve given a substantial amount of thought to Saturday, and I’ve decided to let the game go on as scheduled. The fans — and Captain Mansfield — would be too disappointed if I canceled your—” He cleared his throat. “Your confrontation with the Babe.”
His thin lips turned downward. “But I will make the announcement immediately afterwards.” He shook his head. “Articles about you in The Sporting News, Baseball magazine,even The New York Times. You’re making a mockery of the game.”
“Jidge doesn’t think so,” she said.
Landis’s bushy eyebrows shot upward like outraged caterpillars. “Oh,” he said, “now we’re taking lessons in dignity from Babe Ruth?”
After that she knew it was hopeless. He was just an old man. He had no idea what it felt like to be standing out there on the field during a game. The Babe did, and Jimmy Connelly, and she did too. Every player did. But not the Czar.
She got to her feet, the room’s still air roaring in her ears. He rose too, came around his desk, and walked her across the room.
“Enjoy your last hurrah,” he said, closing the door behind her.
You’ve got no choice.
“See?” Chase said. “Told you so.”
They’d met this time at a delicatessen in Borough Park, a world away from Coney Island and anyone she knew. The windows were streaked with steam, and a bowl of pickled tomatoes sent up sour fumes from the tabletop between them. They were the only people in the place speaking English.
“You knew that Landis was going to throw me out?” Rue asked.
“Sure.” Chase looked bored. “Only a matter of time.”
He showed his teeth. “Notice something about baseball?” he said. “It’s all about white men.”
Rue took a deep breath. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”
His eyes brightened and he leaned forward. “Just throw one pitch,” he said. “That’s all we’re asking.”
Jimmy Connelly signaled fastball.
Rue nodded. She stood on the rubber, the ball shielded in her glove. Usually, all her focus would be on the plate, the batter, the catcher’s mitt. But this time she let her attention stray from the Babe, deadly serious now, and back over to Judge Landis in the first row.
Her eyes met his. He didn’t blink or change expression.
Then, amid all the blurred frenzy of the crowd, she glimpsed more purposeful movement, a dark figure moving towards him.
In a moment, much sooner than she’d anticipated, Chase stood behind the Czar’s left shoulder. He was wearing a black leather jacket and a cloth cap pulled low over his brow.
Rue saw his hand come out of his coat pocket, saw the glint of sunlight off steel, and knew at last exactly what was about to happen.
Though really, she’d known from the start.
Judge Landis didn’t notice, nor did Captain Mansfield beside him, or any of the fans around them. Just as Chase had predicted, every eye, every camera, was focused on the field, on the battle between pitcher and batter.
Rue went into her windup.
Enjoy your last hurrah, she thought.
“Can you do it?” he asked.
Rue nodded.
“You sure? Be a bad idea to miss.”
“I can hit him,” she said.
“In the head?”
She didn’t answer.
Chase frowned, then made a face and shrugged. “Okay, yeah, that’s a lot to ask. But we’ve got a ton riding on the Cubs this year, and they have a straight shot through the Series if the Babe’s not right.” He paused. “Would be a great exacta, but that’s okay. You just plunk Ruth good, put him on the ground, and we’ll take care of the rest.”
“What do you mean — the rest?”
For a moment his face darkened, but he got hold of himself. “Don’t worry about that,” he said.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Then she said, “If I say yes, I’ll be able to keep pitching?”
“Garr-annn-teeed.” He looked calm now, relaxed, as if he’d just put a penny into a gumball machine and knew the gum would soon come rolling out of the chute. “The next commish will know who’s really in charge.”
He paused, thinking about it. “Might even be, no one will want the job.”
“All right,” Rue said. “I’m in.”
Chase smiled.
“Garr-annn-teeed,” he said again.
The most famous man in America standing at home plate.
The crowd bellowing with anticipation.
The cold-eyed old Czar on his feet like everyone else, as still as death in his black coat and black hat.
The man in the aisle beside him, teeth shining white, something half-hidden in his hand.
The girl on the mound, awaiting an oncoming storm only she knew about.
The long, breathless moment preceding the pitch.
Rue rocked back, raised her hands above her head, broke them apart, hurled herself forward with the controlled violence that always ended with a fastball whistling across the plate. Only not this time. This time, in the middle of her motion, she stumbled.
Or seemed to stumble.
Her arm whipped forward and she released the ball, just as the toe of her spikes caught on a chewed-up patch of ground and she fell flat on her face.
Lying there, unmoving, she heard the dull, solid thump. There was a moment’s pause, as if the world itself was holding its breath, and then the silence was broken by a woman’s high-pitched shriek. This was followed by the upwelling, frightened sound of the crowd.
Rue got slowly to her feet. She took her time looking over, because she didn’t really need to. She knew what she was going to see.
But she had a role to play, so when she did look, she found herself running towards the stands. The commissioner of baseball was standing there, his face ashen as he stared down at something lying at his feet.
Chase, glazed eyes half open, an enormous purple knot sprouting from his left temple.
Rue scrambled over the railing and dropped to her knees beside the stricken man. Her face was full of shock and concern as she put her mouth close to his ear.
“To answer your question, I can hit anything I want to,” she whispered, “where I want to.”
He blinked, and his lips moved, but no sound came out.