Stephanie Verni's Blog, page 19
April 12, 2020
Happy Easter!
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Happy Easter!
xx,
Stephanie
April 11, 2020
An Easter Contemplation About Grandparents
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Two days ago, my aunt posted the above photo of my grandparents on Facebook, wishing my grandmother (we called her Nanny) a happy birthday in Heaven. She’s been gone from us for quite some time, but seeing the photo, while we simultaneously fight this coronavirus pandemic and Easter is upon us, made me contemplate my pretty blessed life thus far.
While no life is perfect, and my own family’s past year and half has been beyond weird and strange and sad and disruptive, I look back with joy on all that we have been blessed with in our lives.
I was very fortunate to have all of my grandparents in my life for a good period of time—enough to get to know them, though we lost my mother’s father when he was merely 63 years old of Leukemia. But the others, I had the opportunity to spend time with and get to know. I believe I do a good job of keeping their memories alive because I think of all of them so often. As well, it seems they must have impacted me in ways I cannot even count, because I find myself writing novels about the love between and grandmother and a granddaughter (and grandfather) so often. Additionally, I see the wonderful relationships both of my children, now 19 and 17, have with both sets of their grandparents, and it warms my heart. My parents and my husband’s parents have been a big part of our children’s lives. They have been involved in the rearing of our children. They have pitched in during countless times when my husband and I had to work. They have watched them when they were little and we wanted to get away for a few days. For that, we are so thankful. Our typical Thanksgiving celebration table consists of the eight of us: my immediate family of four, my parents, and Anthony’s parents.
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My children with their grandparents: above, my husband’s parents; below, my parents.
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This year, sadly, due to our new social distancing norm, our annual traditional Easter dinner and celebration must be put on hold for now. As we are all experiencing the need to stay apart, this pandemic has curbed the time we can spend with others, and hearing tales of friends who have parents in nursing homes or assisted living facilities and being unable to visit hurts my heart. Luckily for us, we are able to visit my parents, who live down the road, and sit on each other’s back porches, keeping our 6-feet apart. We check in with my in-laws regularly via the telephone.
Perhaps the reason why stories of grandparents are folded into my storytelling is because I value the influence and support that grandparents provide to our children. There’s a special bond a grandparent has with a grandchild, and few relationships are as precious, supportive, loving, and lasting. While other fiction writers may write about fantasy, erotica, science fiction, murder mysteries, or other interesting genres, my focus in my contemporary fiction storytelling is on relationships—those that influence us, those that remind us of generosity and kindness, and those that speak to the power of enduring love.
This Easter season, therefore, I would like to celebrate grandparents—their love and their support. Our family would not be the same without them.
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To read Stephanie’s contemporary fiction books, visit the links below:
Beneath the Mimosa Tree
Inn Significant
Little Milestones
The Postcard and Other Short Stories & Poetry
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April 10, 2020
Friday Fiction: Part Two of Cassie & Dean (Reincarnation story)
[image error]This is Part Two of a series. To read Part One, click here.
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Adelaide stirred the cup of hot chocolate with a spoon as she stood in the kitchen of her friend Clay’s house in Fells Point. It was a cool afternoon and the skies were grey. She had been working day and night at the establishment and had a few moments to spare, so she stopped by Clay’s place on her walk home from work. Her mother would be in their own kitchen waiting for her to come home, a pot of hodgepodge vegetable stew on the table for sure. Times were different now. The economy was such that folks had to work in whatever capacity they could just to put food on the table. Some fathers were being shipped off to other states to work. As for Adelaide, she hadn’t seen her own father in months, although he sent money home whenever he could to her mother and her siblings.
Adelaide knew the affairs of the country, as she would sit beside her mother nightly listening to the reports of the news, as she watched her rock relentlessly in her rocking chair. Adelaide’s mother had aged over the last several months, and she looked tired and haggard by the state of the economy and the results of the war. Her grey hair had become wirey, and her cherub face had lost its plumpness.
“Good hot chocolate?” Clay had asked.
“Haven’t tasted it yet,” Adelaide said. “It’s too hot still.”
“Well, have a seat and relax,” Clay said. “You ain’t going anywhere.”
“Aren’t,” Adelaide said.
“Oh, right. I forgot you was teaching me how to talk right.”
“Were,” she said with a smile.
Adelaide brought the cup of hot chocolate to her lips and took a little sip. It was still hot, but not hot enough to burn her tongue. The wind howled outside, and although it wasn’t bitter cold, it was cold enough to send a chill right up your spine. There was a knock at the door.
“Are you expecting someone?” Adelaide asked Clay.
“Might be,” Clay said, as he walked to the door and opened it.
The shadowy figure in a brown, tweed suit walked through the door, removing his hat.
The man was medium height with a medium build, with brown hair parted to one side, though it blew a bit when he walked through the door. He used his fingers to move the hair from his face, and he greeted Clay with a pat on the arm.
“How are you holding up?” he asked him, not noticing Adelaide sitting at the table.
“Good. You?” Clay asked.
“Damn tired,” the man said, as he moved himself into the room. It was then that he caught a glimpse of Adelaide. She nodded at him. The man looked back at Clay for clarification.
“This is Adelaide. She lives up the street and works at the saloon up the street. Stopped by on her way home from work. I’m friends with her brother, George. Adelaide, this is Rudolph.”
The man looked at Adelaide and she back at him. “Good to meet you, Adelaide. I didn’t know I’d be in the presence of a lady.”
“Nice to meet you, Rudolph. May I offer you a cup of hot chocolate?” Adelaide asked.
Rudolph laughed. “Such politeness. I’m afraid that’s not typically the kind of drink I take,” he said. “Whiskey on the rocks is more up my alley.”
Clay opened the pine cupboard where he hoarded the liquor he’d accumulated for years. Adelaide knew he was a drinker, but she was surprised to see the number of bottles he kept behind those pine doors. Clay reached for a glass and poured his friend a bit of Whiskey. Rudolph placed his hat on the table and sat next to Adelaide.
“It’s kind of a miracle that you have a job in these times,” Rudolph said to Adelaide.
“I serve people food and drink and the money goes directly to my mother, who is managing the affairs of our house while my father works in a factory up north. We need the money.”
“We all need money, Baby Doll. It’s important. There just isn’t a lot of it,” Rudolph said.
Adelaide was struck by the familiarity with how Rudolph used the words “Baby Doll.” It rolled off his tongue with ease. She could tell immediately that he was comfortable in his own skin but could sense there was an edge to him.
“Rudolph’s been figuring out a way to make money, though, haven’t you, Rudolph, since you been out?” Clay said.
Adelaide turned to look at Rudolph and was puzzled. She was unsure what “out” meant, but she had a good mind and thought she knew, which made her wonder if he was okay with Clay speaking about him in this manner.
“Money matters,” Rudolph said, “and you gotta find a way to get some if you’re going to survive in this environment. It ain’t easy.”
Clay took a swig of his drink. “Well, I’m tired of livin’ this way, so count me in,” he said.
Rudolph looked at him and nodded. “Good.” Then he looked at Adelaide. “You want in, too?” he asked her as he looked her up and down and studied her eyes carefully, almost looking through them.
“Want in on what?” she asked, but she thought she already knew. Clay and she had never talked about Clay’s dealings, although people in this part of Baltimore had alluded to what he was involved in. Adelaide had decided it wasn’t her place to judge Clay. He had been her friend for years, and she wasn’t about to question his ethics. But seeing the stash of liquor in the cabinet certainly was evidence that what he was dealing in was not lawful.
“You seem like a smart girl,” Rudolph said. “You may want to think about how best you can help your family, and what we’re offering might be your best bet.”
Adelaide looked from Rudolph to Clay, and Clay nodded.
“What exactly do you want me to do? Smuggle liquor?”
The men looked at each other and smirked. Rudolph spoke: “Smuggle is such a harsh word, and one we don’t like to say aloud. We prefer to say transfer liquor. You know, just move it from one place to another.”
“You make it sound innocent,” Adelaide said.
“Well, our state makes it such. We’re rulebreakers here, so why not make a little dough where you can?”
Adelaide looked from one man to the other, and a spike of curiosity made her feel a bit daring. Every day she worked the same and job and brought home to her mother the same amount of lousy pay. Every day she watched her mother become more and more distant, sad, and concerned. Every day she wondered if this was as good as it is ever going to get. And every day she wondered how much money it would take to bring her father home.
She plopped down in the chair, a smirk running across her face, and smiles.
“Fill me in,” she said.
April 8, 2020
Reflections on 2131 after ESPN Aired the Game Last Night
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Last night as I was grading papers and preparing a lecture for online delivery, my husband called me into the family room.
“ESPN is airing the full 2131 game,” he said. He was referring to Cal Ripken’s historic night at Camden Yards with the Baltimore Orioles when he surpassed Lou Gehrig’s consecutive games streak record, a record we will most likely never see broken again.
The quality of the video wasn’t good, and my husband and I watched Mike Mussina on the mound.
A wave of nostalgia came over me.
I was on the field that night, as an employee of the ballclub, executing my duties.
That was a long time ago now. But my memory of it has not faded.
A husband, two kids (one in college and one about to go to college), two homes, and a whole new career as a university professor later, and I remember that moment of being in the dugout with Cal and his parents like it was yesterday.
Prior to having the game responsibility of escorting Cal Ripken’s mom and dad for the evening and checking on various elements we had put together as a member of the event planning team, I had labored for about six weeks to produce the Cal Ripken Commemorative publication, the book that was sold during 2130 and 2131, both games played at home at Camden Yards. As the Director of Publishing, it was an intense six weeks of writing, in essence, a book—replete with chapters and a timeline of Cal’s history with the ballclub. I was the editor of that publication, and the responsibility of putting something meaningful together from the Orioles as a keepsake was at the forefront of my mind. My assistant, Monica, and I put the whole thing together, with the help of an outside designer and many writers.
We were able to pull off a nice publication, I wrote a chapter, as did many of my writers who wrote consistently for Orioles Magazine, the publication for which I was also the editor. I even coaxed my husband into writing a chapter.
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Last night, former Baltimore Sun writer Ken Rosenthal, now MLB on Fox reporter, tweeted about the piece he wrote for The Sun regarding that special night at Camden Yards, calling it the highlight of his career. Likewise, I have often said that producing the Cal Ripken Commemorative publication was the pinnacle of my career in baseball.
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I still show that book to my students in public relations writing and magazine writing; it is something I will treasure forever, just as I treasured those moments at Camden Yards as a member of the Orioles front office. I remember seeing Joe DiMaggio, a teammate of Lou Gehrig’s on the New York Yankees, on the field as I was standing there, and nearly fell over as he stood right in front of me, smiling and laughing with other dignitaries. Musician Bruce Hornsby and I had a chat, and I had my photograph taken with him. The 22-min standing ovation was something I’d never in my life witnessed. I still get chills thinking about it.
So many memories, you guys.
There really was nothing better than working alongside your best friends in baseball for one of the most significant moments in baseball history.
It was nice to be brought back to that time last night—if only for a moment.
And now, as my husband is back working with the Orioles, I look forward to many more memories of life in baseball.
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Stephanie Verni is Professor of Communication at Stevenson University. She is the author of 5 works of fiction and the co-author of one academic textbook on Event Planning. Her character-driven books are set in beautiful Maryland locations and examine the realities of the human heart. Connect with her on Instagram at stephanie.verni or on Twitter at @stephverni. Or, visit her Amazon page at Stephanie Verni, Author.
April 6, 2020
Podcast 13 – Ideas to Help Foster Creativity During This Crisis
It’s difficult to feel happy during a crisis when there is so much heartbreak happening on the front lines of this coronavirus pandemic. I know I’m feeling a little depressed by the situation and can only watch bits of news each day in order to carry on with the things I have to accomplish for my students and university as I teach from home. We are all doing the best we can, and being home hasn’t been all awful, but I do feel as if my creativity has been zapped a little. Do you feel the same way?
Today’s Podcast 13 offers ideas for those of us writers who need a kick in the tail…and I hope to heed my own advice. Take a listen to this week’s short podcast. There are only a few ideas listed as I’m trying to keep these short and sweet, but PLEASE, help other writers and me out with your suggestions. We need them!
xx,
Stephanie
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https://stephsscribe.files.wordpress.com/2020/04/podcast-13.mp3
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Stephanie Verni is Professor of Communication at Stevenson University. She is the author of 5 works of fiction and the co-author of one academic textbook on Event Planning. Her character-driven books are set in beautiful Maryland locations and examine the realities of the human heart. Connect with her on Instagram at stephanie.verni or on Twitter at @stephverni. Or, visit her Amazon page at Stephanie Verni, Author.
April 3, 2020
Friday Fiction: A Short About Reincarnation & Love (and in need of feedback)
March 31, 2020
Podcast 12: Creating An Author Platform and Press Kit
Hello, Readers!
Today’s podcast covers how to create an author platform and a press kit and the reasons why you need both.
I’ll be discussing aspects to include on your blogs, how to keep them up-to-date, and the ways in which you should be using all aspects of your platform to brand yourself.
I’m sharing these pieces, as well, so that you can see here what I’m talking about (you can also click on my PRESS KIT here to see what I’ve included online on my blog).
Feel free to ask me any questions whatsoever as you listen. I am happy to answer anything that’s unclear or provide further guidance. Remember, I’m trying to keep these podcasts on the shorter side, so I may not cover everything you’re interested in learning about author platforms, so don’t hesitate to ask me.
Thanks for checking out today’s podcast.
Sending much love to you all during this crazy time.
March 30, 2020
What I’ve Learned So Far as a Professor During the Coronavirus Pandemic
I’m guessing this particular post is going to be an ongoing work in progress with additions made to it regularly.
You see, we are all learning, students and faculty.
The decision to move online took only a matter of days once we knew the severity of the coronavirus outbreak and what its potential could be for our community at Stevenson University. Within a three-day span, we learned we were closing and we instituted online practices for faculty. Our university moved swiftly, and there was a ton of support offered from many: from our president and administrators; from our technology folks; from our department chairs and deans; and from each other. As one of three Faculty Fellows on campus, our group offered an informative session to help those who have not taught online transition to remote learning.
Last Monday, a week ago today, we officially moved to online learning after returning from a week of spring break (which was more like a week of prepping to go online). Faculty have had to revamp their courses, alter due dates, reconstruct syllabi, learn teaching technology, experiment with learning tools, and restructure assignments to better fit online learning. Additionally, we are offering virtual office hours and advising for next Fall’s schedules.
If it sounds as if these past two weeks were a whirlwind, you are right. It’s been a whirlwind for so many of us in the world, let alone, this our nation. Our lives have been changed, but knock on wood, we remain healthy to do our work from home.
Therefore, as a professor at a university, I thought I would share the most important things I have learned thus far during this time, if only to keep a record and share with you how it’s all going. Please remember, however, that this list remains a work in progress.
Here’s what I’ve got so far:
I’ve learned that we are resilient, and we are better at adapting to new things than we thought;
I’ve learned that we are more technologically savvy than we give ourselves credit for;
I’ve learned that we can still have meaningful discussions with students remotely;
I’ve learned that there is more support around you than you ever thought was possible;
I’ve learned that the people I can count on are still the people I can count on;
I’ve learned that my family has wonderful patience, even more so than I thought they had;
I’ve learned that the saying “when the going gets tough, the tough gets going” really applies to life;
I’ve learned that help is there if you just ask for it;
I’ve learned that students look to us for guidance, support, and advice more than we may have imagined;
I have learned that giving grace is not optional under these circumstances, but necessary;
I’ve learned that being understanding comes into the fold more often than not;
I’ve learned so much about online learning that teaching my first summer online master’s course will be so much earlier because of all I’ve tapped into during these last two weeks;
I’ve learned even more so that working with good people is the foundation of rewarding employment;
and …
I’ve learned that the definition of a “life-long learner” is something I take great pride in as the learning curve continues and will continue.
Whew. That’s a lot so far, and as I mentioned, there is more learning to come.
So let’s all hang tight and see what unfolds as we move forward into the next weeks of the unknown as we navigate these most unusual circumstances and pray for an end to this virus and the havoc it has caused.
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Stephanie Verni is Professor of Communication at Stevenson University. She is the author of 5 works of fiction and the co-author of one academic textbook on Event Planning. Her character-driven books are set in beautiful Maryland locations and examine the realities of the human heart. She also enjoys writing about baseball, having worked in the sport for more than a decade. Connect with her on Instagram at stephanie.verni or on Twitter at @stephverni. Or, visit her Amazon page at Stephanie Verni, Author.
March 29, 2020
Books We Treasure – A Recommendation
I’ve been posting book recommendations on my Instagram story, but today, I wanted to share this one in a longer format.
What books do you treasure from family members?
If you haven’t read Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen, now’s a good time to escape into that story and meet Lizzie and Mr. Darcy, two of literature’s finest characters.
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Stephanie Verni is Professor of Communication at Stevenson University. She is the author of 5 works of fiction and the co-author of one academic textbook on Event Planning. Her character-driven books are set in beautiful Maryland locations and examine the realities of the human heart. Connect with her on Instagram at stephanie.verni or on Twitter at @stephverni. Or, visit her Amazon page at Stephanie Verni, Author.
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March 27, 2020
The Slump: A Short Story in the Absence of Baseball for Fiction Friday
[image error]What I’m sharing today, in the absence of Opening Day for Major League Baseball, is a short story I wrote about a ballplayer in a slump. Working in baseball, we saw a lot of slumps, from top-tier players to rookies. I’m not sure when or why this short story popped into my head, but I’m glad it did.
I enjoy writing about baseball. It’s the one baseball story that’s included in The Postcard and Other Short Stories & Poetry, and I thought I’d share it during these days of being at home and social distancing due to the coronavirus outbreak. The second book I published, Baseball Girl, is a novel about a woman who works in baseball as she becomes entangled in two relationships: one with a ballplayer and the other with a sports writer, as she mourns the death of her father. Baseball Girl won an honorable mention for sports fiction in the annual Readers Favorite Contest in 2015.
I hope you enjoy the story, and stay well, all.
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the slump
The game ended at ten thirty-five on Friday night. It had been a long one, with numerous pitching changes. The opposing team hit a grand slam in the top of the ninth off of the star relief pitcher after he was brought into the game. The manager still had confidence in Moore, the reliever, but the sports journalist had very little left in him. Moore had been struggling on the mound as he’s blown the last four saves. The truth of the matter was that Jameson Moore was in a slump, and Devon McFadden had to write about it for the newspaper.
Grueling business, actually, when it came down to it. Writing on a beat covering a baseball team required sports reporters to cover and write about 162 games a year and travel with the ballclub on every trip they made. McFadden had lived out of a suitcase when he began this career, as he traveled all over the country to cover the games for The Herald, sacrificing a relationship with Estella in the process. She realized after a couple of seasons that she didn’t want to be alone most of the year, but at least she had the guts to be honest with him. Others would have made an excuse, but she—she was brutally honest.
“If I’m going to be in a relationship with someone, I actually want to be able to see the person more than I don’t see him,” she had said.
And that was that.
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Last year, he had been promoted to a columnist, but it was too late to salvage the relationship with Estella. She had moved on to a young, financier and McFadden remained in the city writing about the team from his own perspective, where he could be both observant and critical.
McFadden wasn’t devoid of emotions, and he tried to keep them in perspective in his new role at the paper. He knew what baseball was all about. He had played at a high level in college. There was even a point when he thought he might have a chance at the minors. But an arm injury prevented that from happening and he devoted himself to writing about sports. His career started with an internship at a small, local paper in his hometown, and then he made the jump to the top paper in the city. Before long, the beat reporter covering the team relocated to cover a team on the West Coast, and McFadden slid into his spot. After five years as a beat writer, and now serving as a sports columnist for the paper, he felt himself grow weary of it all.
*
On Saturday during batting practice, the prospective Hall of Famer, Andres Martinez, walked over to McFadden on the field. It was sunny and warm, the clouds high in the sky, making it a perfect afternoon for baseball.
“Why you givin’ Moore such a hard time in the paper? Dude—he’s doing his best. You’ve got to go easy on him.”
McFadden looked up at Moore, as he had several inches on him and was built like a brick house, and said, “It’s my job, man. I’ve got to cover what I see happening.”
“But he’s not slumpin’—he’s just having a little rough patch.”
“Where I come from, after doing what he’s done repeatedly for a few weeks and getting a few ‘Ls’ in the column, we call it a slump.”
Martinez scratched his head. He liked McFadden—he’d always been fair—but he was unhappy with the way Moore’s playing had been scrutinized. That was his buddy he was writing about negatively.
“Try to go easy on him. He’s strugglin’, man. He just wants to get his groove back.”
“We all want him to get his groove back. Management and the fans especially.”
Martinez walked away and into the batter’s box to take his swings. His bat looked good. He had a million-dollar swing, but more than that, Martinez had a multi-million dollar attitude. He was the leader in the clubhouse—all the guys looked up to him. He was a faithful supporter of his teammates, and a devoted friend to Moore. The two of them were inseparable. They had been since they’d both joined the team seven years ago.
McFadden walked closer to the batter’s box and leaned on the cage, watching Martinez take swing after swing, each one looking better than the last. He should write about that, McFadden thought. He should write about this seasoned player, his leadership role, and the way he works hard every day to be an All-Star and future Hall of Famer. McFadden pulled out his reporter’s notebook and started to jot down some notes.
“Why don’t you write about something positive tonight—like how these balls are flying out of this park,” Martinez shouted to him.
McFadden’s eyes narrowed. “Show me what you can do in tonight’s game, and I’ll think about,” he teased back.
Martinez’s eyes grew wide, and he nodded his head. “I’ll show you,” he said.
*
At game time, McFadden took his spot in the press box. His elevated status of columnist warranted a front row seat situated just a few chairs away from the public relations director for the ballclub. Night after night and day after day he sat there, his laptop plugged in, writing about a variety of things that were going on—from the play on the field, to the management changes and minor league call-ups, to timely topics such as analytics and defensive shifts. Sometimes it all felt new. Sometimes it all felt tired.
When he felt like this—worn out by baseball’s lengthy home and road schedule by August—he had to remember why he was here in the first place. It was because of this ballpark, with its classic, retro feel of ballparks of yore; it was because of this game, with heroes McFadden loved such as Gehrig and Ruth, Clemente and Robinson; and it was because of the aura of a night filled with scents of popcorn, Cracker Jack, and the more modern cinnamon pretzels and barbecue. He had to remind himself often that although this occupation had the potential to take its toll on people—he’d seen it happen to many people he knew over the years—it was a job done for the sheer love of it. The sturdy breeze blew into the press box from the outfield, and he fell in love with it all again, as he’d done time and time again when he wasn’t sure he could write about yet another game, another disappointment.
McFadden had his eye on Martinez that night. He was waiting for him to put his money where his mouth was during tonight’s match-up. He was poised and ready to construct something glowing about him. He knew the fans could use an article that gave them hope—that gave them something to cheer for as the season began to wind down.
Martinez’s first at-bat resulted in a triple—his tenth of the season. McFadden remembered what he had said during batting practice earlier: “I’m chasing Willie Mays’s triples, McFadden. A few more, and I’ll hit that 140 career-high set by Mays.”
“Maybe you’ll get there sooner than later,” McFadden said back to him, encouragingly.
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This triple bagger tonight brought him to 135, closer to tying Mays’s career triples total. Martinez was obsessed with Mays—he’d been his grandfather’s favorite and he had met Mays as a kid. Both he and his grandfather could recite Mays’s stats. And although Martinez had a long way to go to break some of the other more impressive triples records, he set his sights on Mays’s 140 number to make his grandfather proud. It was yet another quality that made Martinez both likeable and a force to reckon with on the team. He was a goal setter.
The opposing team’s bats were hot that night, unfortunately, and there was little Martinez could do to get some runs on the board when he was the only guy hitting that afternoon. The rest of the team looked lethargic. It was going to be another long game, and McFadden began to fear it would be another painful night of disappointment as he repositioned himself to get more comfortable in the press box.
And then, something changed, as can often happen in sports. Martinez’s bat continued to stay hot, and some of the other players started a rally. The team bounced back in the seventh and eighth innings and scored six runs to take a one-run lead.
That meant Moore would come into the game.
That meant all eyes would be on Moore—the once stellar closer who was clearly smack in the middle of his first-ever slump.
McFadden felt his palms start to sweat, as they often did lately when this reliever was brought into the game in the top of the ninth, when his pitches were wild and his concentration seemed off.
Moore stood on the mound and warmed up. His throws looked a little more controlled, a little more confident. He adjusted his cap after every pitch to the catcher, looked down at his feet, and set himself up for the next warm up throw.
When the umpires were set and Moore was to make his first pitch, he threw it beautifully. The home plate umpire called it loudly—STRIKE!
The second pitch Moore threw was on the inside edge of the plate. STRIKE! called by the home plate umpire.
The third pitch, well, McFadden could see what happened when it came off Moore’s fingers. It was a fastball, but it was thrown down the middle, perfectly aligned for the batter to hit it on the sweet spot for a double.
McFadden watched Moore shake his head. He watched the confidence get sucked out of him right then and there as it happened. Moore tried to settle himself as the crowd became suddenly quiet. Nervous. There was a visit to the mound by the pitching coach.
The on-deck batter stepped into the batter’s box. He stared down Moore with a look of sheer power. He was a huge guy and was leading his team in RBIs.
Moore set and then threw.
The sound the bat made indicated it was a good hit. A damn good one.
It soared over the head of the centerfielder and into the crowd behind him. The homer scored two runs.
Now, Moore’s team was down by a run, and Martinez may not bat in the bottom of the ninth.
The crowd grew sullen and the energy inside the ballpark dissipated. Fans began to exit the ballpark, either expecting their team would lose or simply not wanting to watch the tragedy continue to unfold.
McFadden, himself, moved to the back of the press box to stand as he watched the final half inning. He knew the focus of his piece for tomorrow’s column couldn’t be about Martinez and his stellar talents and the chase for Willie Mays’s triples career total, but rather it had to be about Moore’s collapse—about the star reliever who had lost his confidence and was experiencing an excruciatingly painful, undeniable slump.
*
It was Sunday at the ballpark, and despite the sunshine and crisp blue skies, the tone surrounding the club felt dismal. It’s neither fun to play for a losing ballclub, nor is it any fun to write about a losing ballclub.
McFadden walked into the clubhouse early, as players were suiting up for the early afternoon game and preparing for batting practice. The music was already thumping in the ballpark, and the vibrations could be felt in the clubhouse. The morning newspaper had been delivered.
“Get him out of here!” Moore shouted, directing his instruction to the clubhouse manager and pointing to McFadden as the guys were dressing and doing their media interviews.
The room became silent. Still. Everyone looked at McFadden.
“I don’t want him in here, and I don’t want to talk to him!” Moore shouted again.
Martinez, watching his friend become unglued, walked over to McFadden and put his arm around him, and guided him away from his upset friend.
“Stop talking to him!” Moore shouted at Martinez.
“I got this,” Martinez said, turning around and addressing Moore, gently escorting McFadden in the direction of the door.
“You had to go and write about him again, didn’t you,” Martinez said quietly as a statement rather than a question.
“It’s my job. His job is to get saves and wins. Mine is to write what’s happening. You can’t fault me for it.”
“Maybe just lay low for a while. Let him get his mojo back.”
McFadden looked at Martinez, who was a nice guy. He understood that Martinez just wanted to protect his friend, his friend who seemed to be experiencing a bit of a mental block—and breakdown.
“Today, I’ll lay low,” McFadden said. “I like the guy. It’s nothing personal,” he said.
“But to him, it’s only personal. You gotta understand that,” Martinez said.
“It’s a game, Martinez. You’ve got to take the good and the bad with it. You can’t ask us writers to coddle players. It’s not the media’s job.”
“Well, let him take the bad by himself today. He don’t need you asking him questions about what happened out there yesterday. We all know what happened out there yesterday. I want to win some games, too, and I want to catch Willie Mays.”
McFadden patted Martinez on the back.
“Then go and do it,” McFadden said. “I’ve got a piece ready to publish when you get that 140th triple.”
“You go polish that piece,” Martinez said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
—the end—
copyright 2018/The Postcard and Other Short Stories & Poetry/by Stephanie Verni
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Stephanie Verni is Professor of Communication at Stevenson University. She is the author of 5 works of fiction and the co-author of one academic textbook on Event Planning. Her character-driven books are set in beautiful Maryland locations and examine the realities of the human heart. She also enjoys writing about baseball, having worked in the sport for more than a decade. Connect with her on Instagram at stephanie.verni or on Twitter at @stephverni. Or, visit her Amazon page at Stephanie Verni, Author.
