famous?” Joe asked, linking his hand with Nellie’s.
“We’ve got a big name in now. Mace Duvall, used to play shortstop for the Braves.”
Joe whistled. “Hey, I saw him play in the World Series on TV a couple of times. Guy swings a hell of a bat.”
“You think that’s big, you should see his ego.”
“It ain’t ego if you can back it up,” Joe said thoughtfully. “I read an article on his training routine one time. That’s one guy who works his butt off. And that was in the off-season. I’d hate to see what he does when he’s playing.”
Becka hesitated a beat. “He doesn’t anymore. He got hurt. That’s why he’s here instructing.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Joe drove for a moment. “Boy, what a drag.”
“What happened?” Nellie asked.
“Car accident.”
“That’s so sad.”
The tug of sympathy Becka felt caught her by surprise. It was sad, she realized, both for the sport, which had lost one of its superstars, and Duvall himself, who had so nearly lost everything. However much he might annoy her, a huge part of his life had been snatched from him, she thought slowly. What did a person do after that? What else could possibly come close?
HE LIKED MORNINGS best. Perhaps it came from growing up on the farm, getting up before dawn to feed the stock. Perhaps it came from his early playing years, when the morning was the only time he had to himself. Maybe it was purely constitutional. In any case, he had always woken up chirping with the birds.
Mace leaned an arm on the cracked red vinyl seat of the diner booth, looking across the Formica tabletop to where Sammy Albonado sat hunched over his coffee cup. It was hard to be sure, but he thought that Sammy’s eyes had actually opened a fraction now that the caffeine was hitting.
Some people were morning people and some people weren’t.
The waitress sauntered up to refill their mugs. “You’re a goddess, Bernice,” Sammy said without looking up.
“Don’t mention it.” She set down the pot and pulled out her order pad. “What’ll it be, boys?” she asked, pen poised.
“Three eggs over easy, fried ham, and a bagel,” Sammy ordered.
Bernice didn’t write, she just stared at him.
Sammy shifted in his seat. Seconds passed by. “What?” he burst out pugnaciously.
“Your wife called. Reminded me your last cholesterol test was 290.”
“She what?” he yelped. “Oh, come on, it was a little high, but give me a break. The woman gives me porridge for breakfast. Porridge.” Sammy gave a pained look, whether over the idea of the cereal or over actually opening his eyes, Mace couldn’t tell. “Now she’s cutting me off at my favorite diner? I should never have brought her here.”
“So you’re telling me that after the doctor’s warnings and all the worrying your poor wife is doing, you’d rather order the heart attack special than eat what’s good for you?” Bernice folded her arms over her chest and gave him a disapproving stare.
Tinny honky-tonk music played on the mini-jukebox a few tables down. Gradually, Sammy’s belligerent look faded into sheepishness. “No.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll just have orange juice, toast, and uh,” he flinched at Bernice’s stare. “Oatmeal.”
Bernice kept a straight face. “There’s hope for you yet, Sammy Albonado.” She patted him sympathetically and turned to Mace. “How about for you?”
“Three eggs, scrambled with cheese, bacon, toast and orange juice,” Mace rattled off, enjoying Sammy’s anguished look. “Don’t worry, Sammy, I’ll let you smell it.”
“You’re lucky I don’t run you out of town, Duvall,” Sammy muttered, glowering as Bernice walked away with his order. “Woman’s worse than the drill sergeant I had in the army. I oughtta start going to Denny’s. That’d show her.” He added creamer and three packets of sugar to his coffee cup and stirred until the spoon clanked against the porcelain.
“So whatdja think about the game last night?” he asked. “We hammered that Brooklyn team.”
Mace watched him drink and tried not to wince. “I think you’ve got some talent here. They’re rough, though.” He took a swallow of his black coffee, strong and unsweetened, just as he liked it. “They need a lot of work.” And he was the last guy in a position to give it to them. It was a damn-fool idea, one that he’d decided the night before to give up. All he had to do now was figure out how to break the news to Sammy, who was nodding wisely at him.
“Settling ’em down is what A ball is for. Half the time, they’re just here to grow up enough that they can focus on the game.” Sammy stirred his coffee again. “I figure you can be a good influence on them. Steady ’em down, especially Morelli.”
He wasn’t a stable pony, Mace thought, glancing out the window. He felt a surge of annoyance toward Stan, and then at himself for agreeing to be in this spot. He was damned if he’d take a job just because someone in the organization pulled strings for him. The thing to do was quit and go back to Florida, leave the spot for someone who wanted it. He’d do some fishing, surf a little, maybe play a little golf.
And go back to going quietly mad in his sprawling beach house by the sea.
He tuned back in to Sammy, who was still talking.
“I don’t know, Sammy, I’ve been thinking about this and I just don’t know. These kids need to be taught by—”
“By a champ, and here’s what I’ve got planned,” Sammy said. “We work on batting practice and go to fielding.”
“Sammy, that’s great, but I’m not the guy—”
“I know you’re not here for the fielding drills this time, but I figure it doesn’t hurt to overlap assignments.”
Mace looked Sammy in the eye; Sammy looked back. Mace gave up. When he’d been a player, Sammy had been famous for his single-minded focus on the game. Obviously, he’d gotten it in his head that Mace was the right man for the job and wasn’t about to take a hint. Mace prided himself on dealing straight with people, but he also knew when it was time to throw in the towel. Maybe it would be easier to just write a resignation letter and do it that way.
“All the game reports and player files are in the top drawer of my cabinet.” Sammy stopped to sip his coffee. “Ask Becka for a look at their training records if you want.”
“Where’d you find that one, anyway?” Mace asked idly, as the memory of green eyes and luminous skin vaulted into his mind. He’d been out with plenty of beautiful women in his time, but something about Becka Landon lingered in his imagination.
Maybe he was being too hasty about this quitting thing.
“Where’d I find who, Becka?” Sammy asked as Bernice set their breakfasts on the table. “The Boston College trainer recommended her. Our guy came down with carpal tunnel so we had to find a sub at the start of the season. She’s top-notch.”
Mace gave him a skeptical look before digging into his eggs. “How is she with the players?”
Sammy stared at Mace’s plate with starving orphan eyes. “I’ll give you five bucks if you slip me a slice of bacon,” he offered. When Mace just looked at him, Sammy sighed and began slathering jelly on a piece of dry toast. “They call her Attila behind her back, and Florence Nightingale to her face, if that gives you a clue. She’s a demon in the weight room. These boys are in better condition this year than any team I’ve ever had before.” He bit into the toast.
“They’re probably pushing themselves to impress her.”