Promise Forged, page 1
Copyright
ISBN 978-1-60260-757-6
Copyright © 2010 by Cara C. Putman. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
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One
May 1943
The taxi rolled to a stop, and Kat Miller wanted to pinch herself. Make sure she really sat outside the Chicago landmark. Wrigley Field. Women streamed through the gates in ones and twos, some swaggering but most staggering a bit as if starstruck by their location.
Wowzers.
When a man showed up at a softball game she played in a few months ago, she never dreamed it would lead to an invitation to play for the nascent All-American Girls Professional Softball League. She’d heard rumors of the forming league, but she hadn’t dared to hope that someone would consider her or that her parents would give their blessing.
No, Kat was many things. But dreamer never topped the list. She had a strong head on her shoulders. Knew what to expect from life. This was not it.
“Calm down, Katherine Elizabeth Miller.” She mimicked her mother’s strong tone that talked her out of many a crazy phase. “Get out there and do what’s needed. You received a letter, and you belong here as much as the next girl.”
The driver looked at her through the rearview mirror. “You done talking to yourself? Ready to pay and get out of my cab?”
“More ready than you can imagine.” Kat fished a bill from her pocket and handed it to the man. Grabbing her glove, she slid to the door and opened it. “Have a great day, mister.”
“Yeah. You, too, kid.” The man shook his head with a slight grin creasing his face.
She stepped out, and the cabbie peeled away, already intent on his next fare. Kat stood rooted like concrete to the sidewalk, stomach churning at the thought she was this close to the home of baseball greats. Now that she stood closer, the others walked with shoulders back, heads high, ready to take the field and use her to clean it up. Why had she come all the way from Dayton on the basis of one letter?
Simple words. Yet words that had launched a dream she hadn’t realized she’d harbored. We invite you to the tryouts for the All-American Girls Professional Softball League. The rest of the letter contained a list of details: When to show up. What to bring. What was at stake. The salary range if she landed a contract.
Her breath heaved in and out until she saw black spots. She wanted this. A chance to spend the summer traveling the region. And a team that would pay her to play a game she loved. She had to succeed this week at tryouts. She refused to go home with her head hanging.
Kat took a step toward the stadium.
Ready or not, she’d arrived.
Mom and Dad hadn’t discouraged her, and she’d spied a shadow of pride on the face of her big brother, Mark. Get paid to play softball? Why wouldn’t she try out? She’d loved the sport since the moment Mark had let her tag along to his games. Over time she’d badgered him enough to make him show her the basics. Hitting, bunting, throwing, catching, sliding, she did it all. Did it well enough that eventually Mark’s team put her in when one of the guys didn’t show.
Even Mom supported her, despite many of her mother’s friends seeing the activity as less than feminine and downright questionable. What girl would choose to play in the dirt and bruise and batter her body in the pursuit of a small ball?
Someone jostled past Kat, bringing her back to the present. The uniforms the gals wore were as varied as the women. Some wore short skirts with leggings that made her long pants appear out of place. Others wore shorter pants, reminiscent of men’s teams. Most wore their team jackets, the different hues creating a kaleidoscope of colors. As she walked through a turnstile at one of the gates and into the stands, Kat tried to absorb it all.
A woman with cropped curls, a baseball cap shoved on top, slammed into her. “Whatcha gawking at?”
Kat wrinkled her nose. Was that chew in the woman’s mouth? Maybe it was a good thing her mother hadn’t accompanied her after all. “Excuse me.”
“Excuse yourself. See ya on the field. May the best one win.” The gal grinned, revealing crooked teeth. “That would be me.” She scampered down the stairs, not turning to see if Kat followed.
Father, help me. I want this. Oh, how she wanted this. If she was selected, maybe her friends would realize she really did excel at softball. That it wasn’t merely a strange obsession to be tolerated with a grin. But even more, Lord, I want to be Your light. Show me why You have me here. Surely He had a reason.
As she stared at the more than two hundred assembled women, she prayed He did.
❧
Jack Raymond shook his head. Of all the harebrained schemes, this latest from Chicago Cubs owner Philip Wrigley took the cake.
All-American Girls Professional Softball League. Seemed like a misnomer of the worst kind. He’d always imagined himself covering baseball for a major newspaper, and here he was—in Chicago, granted—but covering. . .girls.
The cherry on top of the sundae proving the world had gone crazy.
How would this launch him from small-town Cherry Hill, Indiana, to the big leagues with a bona fide Chicago paper? He shook his head, disgust roiling his stomach. He could not imagine staying in Cherry Hill any longer than required. He’d love to have moved on yesterday. Somewhere he’d find the story that launched his career to a real paper with real articles about real sports.
This wasn’t it.
Jack pulled his hat lower over his eyes and slouched in the bleacher. The handful of other reporters who’d showed up looked as ready to fall asleep out of sheer boredom as he did.
One snorted and roused from his nap long enough to shift in his seat.
Yep, this was the assignment to make him consider a career change. Maybe he should convince the draft board that, even though his knee had been destroyed in a college baseball game, he could soldier with the best of them.
Jack clamped his jaw. He hated acknowledging he couldn’t do something. Even more, he hated being told he couldn’t do something. Ha, he hated weakness of any kind.
Maybe that’s why he despised the idea of covering weak women playing a sport designed for men. He only had to ignore the thousands of semiprofessional women’s teams playing across the country. At least that’s what his publisher told him, and since Ed Plunkett signed his checks, Jack had no choice. To an extent. He’d write the stories. But it didn’t mean he had to turn into one of those hacks who said whatever the publisher wanted.
Wrigley and a few other men walked to the center of the playing field. Saved from his thoughts, Jack pulled his notebook from his jacket pocket. Maybe Wrigley had something newsworthy to say. Wrigley clapped his hands and beckoned the girls his way. It looked like a brood of hens flocking toward the thin man with his dapper fedora clamped tight on the top of his head. The women milled around. Many pushed close to the cluster of men, but a few hung around the edges, appearing uncertain. Jack leaned forward to scan the group.
“Ladies, welcome to Wrigley Field. You are competing for a limited number of slots in the All-American Girls Professional Softball League. Show us the best you have. The evaluations begin now and will be rigorous. Each team has fifteen slots, so less than one third of you will find a spot on a team. And lest you think I overstate myself, the cuts begin tonight.”
Jack heard a sharp intake of breath, and several of the women shuffled where they stood. Shoulders tightened, backs stiffened, and feet shifted. The tension hung thick over the diamond.
“Never forget you’re here to show us women can play like men, while never letting us forget that you’re women.”
A lanky reporter next to Jack groaned. “Did he just say that?”
“Yep.” Jack stuck out his hand. “Jack Raymond.”
“Paul Barton, South Bend. Nice to meet ya.” The guy shook his head. “I doubt these ladies can play.”
“I don’t know. I watched a kid play a couple of years ago in Ohio. I thought the team was crazy to have her out there—the only girl on a roster packed with guys. But you should have seen her.” Jack shrugged. “She flew all over that diamond. I haven’t seen many like her.” That girl had almost made a believer of him, but he didn’t expect that kind of magic here. Wouldn’t it be something if she’d made the trip? The odds were too slim. These girls would play a little ball and head home without an impact. The league would implode within the year, and Wrigley would move on to his next crazy idea.
Another man leaned in. “You haven’t watched the right women play. Some of them are amazing.” He must have noticed Jack’s skepticism. “Watch and see. I think you’ll be surprised today. Rick Daley, down from Racine.”
“Rick.” Jack shook his hand then turned back to the diamond. The women listened in varying stages of attentiveness as the speeches continued.
“After practice tonight, you’ll start charm school.”
A murmur rose
Most of the gals looked like they only wanted to prove they could play. Charm was the last thing on their minds.
How could one pound around bases while running on tiptoes? The image made him chuckle. A girl switching between running and holding back so she could dance to home. Not what one normally equated with the game.
Jack looked down and stopped when one gal caught his eye as the sun bounced off her red curls. Based on the freckles dotting her face, she’d spent a fair amount of time outside. Must not play indoors on concrete rather than a grass field. She looked like a young kid, not old enough to have graduated from high school. A ball played easily through and around her fingers as she stood there. She looked at ease, then he noticed a slight tremor running up her back.
The kid had some kind of spunk even if her body betrayed her nervousness.
Her willowy form didn’t have the size of some of the gals. The first time someone charged the plate she defended, she’d get knocked across town. Bet she played in the outfield somewhere.
She scanned the stands, connected with his gaze, and winked. A wide grin crossed her face as if she couldn’t imagine standing anywhere else. He shook his head. A perfect demonstration of what was wrong with women in a sport. How could you maintain feminine decorum while sliding, throwing, and running around bases? Guess Wrigley thought charm school was the answer. A ripple flowed through him as he watched her.
Maybe joy bubbled from her for no other reason than that she stood there. Maybe the invitation to tryouts satisfied her.
No. She wouldn’t be here without a deep desire. Only someone filled with pep or a dream would make the effort to come to Chicago for tryouts. Only a few of the gals down there held contracts. The rest would practice, wait, and pray. There weren’t many slots, so most would go home disappointed after their time in the Windy City.
He hoped to join them. Even returning to Cherry Hill, the small town where he’d been banished after an article riled a powerful reader, would be an improvement over covering a women’s league. The town was fired up about having its own team. He didn’t understand the city fathers’ enthusiasm for the scheme, but they’d raised the necessary funds to join the other five inaugural cities. And his editor had sent him to cover try-outs and get the local community even more excited with stories about the players that would form the heart of the Cherry Hill Blossoms.
He could imagine the headlines now: Sally Smuthers Thrilled to Leave the Cows at Home and Play Ball All Summer.
Ugh.
Human-interest nonsense.
There certainly wouldn’t be enough action happening for sports pieces. Unless they covered a column inch or two.
Watching the girls mill, Jack snorted. He’d watch and report. If they couldn’t play, he wouldn’t sugarcoat.
He pulled a pack of gum—Wrigley’s of course, though its inferior Orbit brand—from his pocket and shoved a piece in his mouth. He chomped hard while watching the coaches run the girls through drills. A few looked like they knew what they were doing. They slid into base with no thought for the bruises that would form. Leaped for balls. Chased ground balls. Threw each other out. Pitchers wound up and threw underhanded pitches with a speed that made his arm ache.
After a couple of hours he couldn’t watch another drill. Especially when a few of the players appeared more tentative and unsure of themselves as the day wore on.
“Leave it all on the diamond or go home. This isn’t powder-puff baseball.”
Paul slapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve got it. Some of these gals won’t make it to tomorrow playing like that.”
Jack grinned. “It’s tough to powder your nose while running to home, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Rick patted his cheek. “I’ve never needed the powder. Maybe some blush though.”
They laughed, and Jack enjoyed the moment. Then he looked down. Caught the redhead staring at him, heat flowing from her gaze. The girl looked as mad as an editor with empty space on the front page.
She stomped closer. “Who gave you the right?”
“What?”
“Who gave you the right to make fun of us?”
“Miller, get back over here.” A manager bellowed his command, bringing her steps to a halt. Jack jotted down her last name along with a note to track down her first. She might make a good subject for his first piece. Profile her movements through training camp.
She stared at him a moment longer then pivoted. “Yes, sir.” She marched back to the drill, throwing a look over her shoulder at him, the breeze playing with her curls.
Rick shook his head and chuckled. “She got your number.”
Paul nodded. “Let’s see if she can play.”
Jack settled back and watched. The girl moved through the drill as if fueled by her frustration. A fluidness to her movements reminded him of that kid from Ohio. What were the odds?
Nah.
But as he watched, he had to admit she played just like that kid. In fact, the way the ball played through her fingers like it was an extension of her made him certain it was the same girl. She was a dynamo on the field, and she wasn’t the only one. Some of the women played well. Quite well. So they might know a thing or two about the game.
Didn’t mean people would pay to watch.
Without that, the league would flop before it launched.
Two
The day’s drills might have ended, but the lectures hadn’t.
Sweat caked Kat’s body after a day of hard practice. Some of the gals had collapsed on the ground, wrung out by the work. Kat tried to keep on her feet but longed for a soaking bath and large meal. Lots of fruit and meat. She hadn’t been this hungry in a long time.
“If you are selected to join a team, you will dress, act, and carry yourself in a manner that befits the feminine ideal.” Mr. Wrigley stood back in his spot near the pitcher’s mound.
“Blimey. What’s that mean?”
Kat glanced at the gal next to her. The girl’s nose twitched as if she smelled something unbecoming.
“I don’t know.” The uncomfortable image of sliding into a plate in a skirt edged through Kat’s mind. “I’m sure they have a plan. We’ll find out when we’re selected.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be selected.”
“Sure you do. I wouldn’t have made the trip from Dayton if I wasn’t willing to do what it takes to play. Within reason, of course.”
“That’s just it.” The gal shrugged. “We don’t know if their ‘within reason’ matches ours. I’m Dolly Carey.”
“Kat Miller.” She scanned the women in front of her. “As long as they don’t ask me to do anything immoral or indecent, I’m open to considering it.”
“I suppose.”
“Each evening after you clean up, you will head to the Helena Rubinstein Salon for lessons.” Wrigley rubbed his hands together and bounced on his heels.
A salon?
“Your courses will include walking, sitting, speaking, clothing choices, applying makeup, and other skills essential to representing the best of the feminine ideal.” Wrigley smiled at the girls.
“He ain’t looked too closely at me, has he?” Dolly rolled her eyes. “I don’t fit anyone’s feminine ideal.”
Kat looked the girl over. Short and stout, Dolly had a pretty smile and eyes that danced with glee. “Oh, I think you do.”
“Tell that to my mother. She swears there’s not a lick of femininity in me or I’d be at home, hunting for a husband, rather than standing here determined to play ball.”
“My mom’s glad I’m here rather than chasing a boy. I’m seventeen, an age she thinks is way too young.” Kat laughed. She could imagine the look on the face of her big brother, Mark, if she marched home wearing a guy’s ring. At least things hadn’t gotten that serious with Bobby, a guy from her school. Besides, he didn’t understand baseball. Any man who wanted to be interested in her had to like the things she did. “My family thinks I have to finish high school first.” She rolled her eyes. “Like I’d do anything else.”
