Page 3 of Breakout Year
He knew those looks. He’d seen them enough from his coaches and teachers growing up—that horrified realization that he was about to say or do something not terribly bright.
His mom liked to tell the story of when he was six and he’d climbed up to the highest diving board at the Jewish Community Center pool near their house. How the board had wobbled at his small weight. How his chin had wobbled—nerves, excitement. She’d offered to help him down. He’d shaken his head and called, No turning back now, then leaped.
Well, no turning back now. “Talks with the Crooks broke down because they didn’t want me on the team anymore.”
At that, the press started murmuring to one another. Next to him, Isabel actually put her head in her hands. He should have said something bland like, It became evident I wasn’t necessarily a good organizational fit. The same stuff, but nicer. Oh well.
Why was he in the hot seat, anyway? Call Cleveland and ask why they sent me packing if you’re so curious. After this press conference they might, if only to confirm that the Crooks had made the right decision.
Another reporter spoke. “You were with the organization for six years.” It wasn’t a question, but the implication of one was close enough.
Eitan gave his brightest grin. He hoped his teeth reflected all the way to the Midwest. “Eight, if you count the minors.” He quickly calculated what percentage that was of his life. Jeez. He wasn’t going to get choked up about it, not publicly. Trades happened. It’s just business. Though the ache in his chest didn’t exactly agree.
Isabel cleared her throat. “We’re so excited to have Eitan with the Cosmos. I’d like to focus all our remaining time on his role with our team.”
The reporter ignored her. “That must have been hard with you being from Cleveland.”
“Technically, I’m from Mayfield Heights,” Eitan said. As if being from a Russian Jewish enclave thirty whole minutes outside the city made any kind of difference. “Look, all I have to say about Cleveland is that I’m happy to be in New York. I mean, it’s a little like getting dumped and someone hotter immediately sliding into your DMs?—”
The reporters laughed, and Eitan, once talking, couldn’t seem to stop himself.
“—but yeah, I guess, what do you want me to say? I thought I was gonna be a Crook for life, and I’m not. So I’m gonna play a little third base for you and maybe compete for a championship. When I hit free agency in the fall, we’ll see how it goes. Now that I say all that out loud, it doesn’t sound too bad, you know?”
Another hand, another reporter, one whose name Eitan did in fact know. Camilla Fiore, who anchored the Cosmos postgame show, clips of which were sometimes passed around clubhouses as cautionary tales. She had blond hair that was black at the roots, a necklace pendant shaped like a horn, a New York accent thick enough to spread across toast. The other reporters inched back—deference or possibly fear. “Did your criticism of the Crooks last month factor into their decision to trade you?” she asked.
“I assume you’re referring to the incident with New Hope Christian Fellowship?” Eitan took a swig of his water. He had no idea how he looked on camera—nervous, pissy, dehydrated. Which he was, or possibly just wrung out.
He crumpled his emptied water bottle. A jag of plastic poked him in the palm. No turning back now. “I don’t think it was really a criticism,” he started, and Isabel looked almost relieved. Until he continued. “It’s not criticism to point out that having Pride Night on a Thursday and a Faith and Family Night on a Monday—with a church that’s not known for its tolerance—aren’t exactly consistent organizational values.”
At that, the owner’s knuckles bleached white. The GM’s grin was closer to a grimace. Isabel made a noise akin to a kettle venting its steam. Eitan should probably buy her something. Maybe she had a dog—he was great at dog gifts—or he could get her one of those edible bouquets where all the fruit was shaped like flowers.
Camilla, on the other hand, looked like she’d just won the lottery. “So you’re not denying that incident was a factor.”
It wasn’t like that. Mostly, because it was worse—that the Crooks hadn’t told Eitan anything at all. Just shaken his hand, wished him luck, and pushed him onto a plane.
Vaguely, Eitan knew there were correct things to say in these situations: gratitude, for one, the stuff he actually meant. “I don’t regret any part of my time in Cleveland.” Except leaving it. “I had a lot of great teammates, made a lot of good memories. But I’m really looking forward to getting to know the guys here. The Cosmos do seem like a better organizational fit.” There, nice and neat, even if he could practically hear Isabel’s jaw working behind him. “For any number of reasons.”
“Like the Cosmos’ support of the queer community?” Camilla clarified.
Queer pronounced in a thick New York accent didn’t sound derisive…but it didn’t sound complimentary, either. “Well, that’s a big part of it,” Eitan said, then added, “It’d be kinda hypocritical of me just to let that go.”
A statement followed by pin-drop silence from the reporters. From the owner and GM.
Eitan stationed his tongue against the back of his teeth. Isabel was right. He’d been entirely unprepared for any of this. He knew what the next question was going to be, but that didn’t make him sweat any less when Camilla finally spoke.
“To confirm,” she said, “are you showing support for the queer community or coming out yourself?”
He knew why she was asking. To the New York sports press, him having a blister would be news. Coming out, if only by implication, would mean a media firestorm.
He could—should—clarify what he’d meant: That he supported progressive causes in Cleveland. That it sucked playing with guys with bad politics, when those kinds of bad politics were the reason his parents had left the Soviet bloc.
That this wasn’t the first time the conversation had come up. Back in Cleveland, guys had asked him why he cared so much about what they’d all called the Pride Night thing. Was it because he was…? Most hadn’t even had the courage to finish the sentence.
He’d always been tempted to snap, So what if I was gay? It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter who he dated, even if everything in baseball meant that it would.
Fuck it. His world had gotten spun upside down a day ago. Let people draw the incorrect conclusion. Incorrect? a whispering part of his brain objected. A thought he’d had more than once. Maybe more than more than once, an increasingly loud question in the past few weeks since the Pride Night thing. One he’d examine somewhere else, away from the bright hot lights of the press, sometime when he wasn’t newly washed up on New York’s rocky shores.
Still, he wasn’t going to sit there and outright lie. What if there was a kid watching, someone who stared in the mirror and wondered if baseball had a place for them?
