Ginny awoke before the sun. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It read 6:22 in bold, blue numbers. Ginny had never been one to lounge about, her parents didn't abide slugabeds, so she got up and turned on the TV. She checked the weather channel first. Clear and warm in San Diego, highs in the mid 70's. She then flipped over to ESPN where the SportsCenter crew gushed about the NBA matchups coming up this afternoon. "Merry Christmas"; Ginny said to the empty house.
In 23 previous Christmases, Ginny had never spent the day alone. All through the minors she'd always gone home during the offseason. This year she needed to be close to the team doctor while she rehabbed her elbow, or so she told everyone. In truth, she didn't feel comfortable staying at the house now that her mother's new husband had moved in and she didn't want to deal with Will after their falling out back in September. A weird tension permeated her Thanksgiving trip home, confirming in Ginny's mind she'd made the right decision.
She whipped up some eggs then called her mother. Ginny might not have cared for her step father but she loved her mother enough to wish her a happy holiday. After breakfast she decided to go for a run. She had rented this house on the beach from a man Oscar introduced to her. Ginny didn't swim, but she loved running on the sand. She figured if she had to be 3000 miles from home, she might as well take advantage of the beautiful southern California weather. She changed into a sports bra and compression shorts, grabbed her phone and headphones, and went out.
Ginny moved briskly along the nearly deserted beach. She missed the usual activity; the surfers, the kids splashing about, the young women wearing practically nothing trying to get attention, the young men trying desperately to impress them, even the old men who leered at her while she ran. Today it was just Ginny, the music streaming through her headphones, and the sound of the waves. She had almost finished her run when she spotted a wallet lying in the sand. She looked around and saw no one nearby, so she picked it up. Inside she found credit cards, pictures, some cash, and a driver's license. The wallet apparently belonged to someone named John Neely, who had a San Diego address.
Ginny used her phone to go online and look for Mr Neely's number but couldn't find it. He lived several miles away in an unfamiliar part of the city. Returning the wallet could really make someone's Christmas merry. She showered and changed into some casual pants and a Christmas sweater her aunt Paulette had given her years earlier. She checked Uber, but it showed very few drivers working on Christmas day. Rather than wait for one of them to get free, she called a cab.
It took about 15 minutes for the taxi to navigate through the mostly empty streets to Neely's address. Ginny spotted a car in the driveway, so she assumed he was home rather than off visiting relatives. She went to the door and rang the bell. After a short wait, the man opened the door. She guessed he was around 40 years old, balding, about the same height as Ginny, white but with a tan like so many people who lived in San Diego.
"Hello, are you John Neely?"
"Yes." The man looked wary.
"I found your wallet on the beach this morning." She held out the folded leather billfold.
He immediately brightened as he took it. "Oh! Thank you! Please come in." He ushered her in the door as he looked to see if anything was missing. "Even the cash is all there. I can't believe it."
"I'm glad it's intact."
"Let me give you something for bringing it back." He held out a 20 dollar bill.
"I'm happy to do it. I don't need your money."
"Please, you went out of your way, let me do something for you miss...I'm sorry, I didn't even ask your name."
"O M G! You're Ginny Baker." A new voice joined the conversation, a boy of about 13 who came in from another room.
She beamed a radiant smile at him; "That's right. What's your name?"
"I'm Spencer."
"Are you a Padres fan?"
"You bet. We love baseball."
John spoke up; "I didn't even recognize you. I'm so sorry. We're just about to eat. Why don't you join us?"
"I don't want to impose."
"Nonsense. If you won't take a reward, the least we can do is feed you. I insist."
She sniffed; "It does smell good." Ginny wasn't lying, but it smelled very different from her holiday meals at home. She didn't expect chitterlings, but she didn't even smell the fragrant odor of greens. She didn't know what to make of people who didn't eat collards, turnip, or at least mustard greens on an occasion like this.
"It's settled then. Spencer, why don't you show miss Baker your Padres posters while I finish up?"
"Please, call me Ginny."
She followed Spencer to his bedroom. A huge, almost lifesize, action Fathead of Mike Lawson dominated the room. Padres gear covered the walls. He had pennants and framed jerseys and programs hung everywhere. Bobbleheads lined shelves next to the window. Dozens of posters of players, past and present, adorned every empty space. The room amazed Ginny, but she noticed one thing missing. "You don't have any posters of me?"
She saw Spencer's eyes dart to the space behind his door then back to her. He stammered; "Uh, no, not yet."
"Well, Spencer, I'm impressed. You have quite a collection. Now, show me where I can wash up before we eat." They started out, but when they reached the door Ginny pushed it partly closed to see the back. As she suspected, Spencer had attached a picture of her to the back of the door. Unlike the other posters in the room, this one did not feature game action. Spencer had blown up the picture she took for ESPN's Body Issue and taped it to the back of the door. It appeared he had brightened it as well, making the artful shadows of the original far less prominent. Spencer's eyes pointed straight down as she turned to face him. "That's disappointing. I can't believe your father sent me in here with that hanging there."
"He doesn't know I have it." Spencer mumbled the words. He looked ready to curl into a ball and disappear.
"Well, I'm not going to tell him but I think you should. I think he'll have something to say about it."
Spencer mumbled something unintelligible as he continued to stare at the floor.
"Ok, I'm going to wash up. Tell your father I'll be out in a minute." She went into the restroom as Spencer headed the other way.
Ginny thought to herself as she looked in the mirror and took a deep breath. "I shouldn't be angry. As a hormonal teenage boy he's not even fully aware of how and why that picture affects him the way it does." She washed her hands, and after giving herself and Spencer enough time to get composed she headed to the dining area.
She arrived just as John brought out the last of the food. "It all looks really good." She took her seat and waited for her host to get things started.
"Dig in." The three of them began the time honored ritual of passing food around the table until everyone had a helping of everything then they began to eat.
"What do you do for a living, John?" Ginny opened the conversation.
"I'm a regional inspection specialist for the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. I inspect nuclear power plants."
"How did you get started in that?"
"I served on nuclear submarines in the navy. Based on that background, the NRC recruited me when I mustered out."
"I bet you have stories that would scare the daylights out of people."
"Yeah, but I'm not supposed to share them. I bet Spencer would be more interested in hearing about your career. How's your arm?"
"The injury wasn't serious. No surgery required. I could have come back for the playoffs. Since we fell out of contention while I was on the DL, they shut me down and told me not to rush the rehab. It should be 100% by spring training." Spencer appeared elated at this news. John's expression was hard to read, but he didn't seem overwhelmingly pleased.
Something else had John curious; "What were you doing on the beach on Christmas morning?"
"I went for a run. Normally I hit the gym in the morning then run in the afternoon. Today I skipped the workout, since the staff would be off for the holiday, and decided to get my roadwork in early."
This piqued Spencer's curiosity; "How far did you run?"
"Eight miles. It's just a fitness run. I'm not training for a marathon."
"You run eight miles every day?"
"Yeah. During the season I do it on a treadmill, due to the time factor, and I only do five on days I'm starting." Ginny turned to John; "How many Padres games a year do you get to?"
"About 20 or 25. We try to go once a week or so, depending on scheduling."
Ginny decided to keep it light with a seemingly innocuous question; "Did you make it for any of my starts?"
"Well, no..." John started to speak but Spencer interrupted.
"Dad didn't want to see you pitch. He says girls shouldn't play sports with men."
The statement took Ginny aback, but she'd heard the sentiment so many times she couldn't be surprised by it anymore. She gave sideeye to John before stunning them both with her answer; "Is that so? Well, I agree with him. Girls shouldn't play sports with men."
Neither John nor Spencer knew what to make of her response. Spencer finally broke the awkward silence; "But, you are a girl who plays sports with men."
Ginny shook her head; "I am a woman, not a girl, just like my teammates are men, not boys." Spencer giggled. The distinction held no meaning for him. John appeared slightly chagrined. She turned to him; "Now, if you wanted to argue women shouldn't play baseball with men, obviously I would disagree. Sports is supposed to be the ultimate meritocracy. Why should I be banned for something having no bearing on my performance?"
"You shouldn't take it personally. It's not directed at you. I just think male professional athletes are too big and strong for women to compete with and I don't want to see women get hurt trying. Let the women have their own competition, with other women."
"If we were talking about a contact sport, I'd be with you. We need the WNBA. As far as injuries go, ballplayers get hurt all the time. It's got nothing to do with their gender. Women are more susceptible to some kinds of injuries, and less to others, but we're not any more likely than men to get hurt playing baseball. The Padres had over 2000 days of DL time this year. I had 15 of them. "
John fought back; "It's not just contact sports. Look at tennis and golf. They separate the men from the women because the women can't compete. Look at the Olympics. Allyson Felix and Katie Ledecky are great, but they wouldn't even qualify if they were up against men. Men are just more athletic than women. There's no way around it."
"As long as you define 'athletic' in the traditional, patriarchal sense..."
John rolled his eyes; "Here we go. Feminist rant incoming."
His ridicule did not deter Ginny; "Look, the word 'athletic' was created to describe something universally male. That's why faster and stronger became the metric used to determine who was a better athlete. One nice thing about language, however, it is fluid. Definitions can change to help promote change on the cultural level. If we stop using 'faster, stronger' and start using 'balance, endurance, coordination, accuracy' as metrics, it's not longer as clear cut as you make it out.
"Otherwise you've created circular logic. Of course men are 'better athletes' under the traditional sense...it's defined based upon male physiology. So one of the premises is represented in the conclusion."
"The sports you mentioned have strength and speed as defining characteristics. Baseball doesn't. Yes, there are some advantages to being faster and stronger, but neither is necessary to compete. Michael Jordan was one of the greatest athletes in the world. He couldn't hit his weight in A ball. Bo Jackson was a phenomenal athlete in the traditional sense. He was a mediocre major leaguer. On the other hand, one of his contemporaries was John Kruk. Kruk had a body like a sack of beets, but he was a substantially better player than Jackson. When it comes to pitching, traditional athleticism is even less of an advantage. Nobody cares how much Justin Verlander can bench press or what Madison Bumgarner's 40 time is."
"More to the point, I competed just fine in the majors this summer just like I did for five years in the minors."
John finally got a chance to respond; "It's a gimmick. You never stayed in a league long enough for them to figure it out. You can't keep getting major leaguers out throwing fastballs in the 80's."
"How long does it take to figure out? My July numbers this summer were better than my June numbers, and my August numbers were better than July. I made one start in September and threw eight no-hit innings. I study batters just like they study me. So far the battle is going in my favor. If you look at my minor league stats, you would see the same thing. I always pitched better as the season went on and I learned the hitters tendencies. As for my fastball, Greg Maddux had no more velocity than I have. He's the greatest pitcher of the last 30 years."
John decided to be conciliatory; "You make some good points. I wasn't going to bring up any of this. I didn't want to ruin your Christmas."
She gave a hard, cynical, laugh, very unlike the joyful noise of her normal laughter. "I've heard it a million times before. Normally it's not worth engaging because it comes with a load of misogyny and bile. You'd have to do a lot worse to affect my holiday."
Spencer had been sitting quietly, fascinated by Ginny's words, but now he spoke up; "What's 'misogyny'?"
Ginny let John answer his son; "It's contempt or prejudice towards women and girls."
"I don't understand."
Ginny stepped in; "People shout nasty things at me because they don't think a woman should be doing what I do."
Spencer had been to ballparks; "People shout nasty things at ballplayers all the time."
"This is different. Since getting called up I've gotten death threats and rape threats every day. They have to screen my mail. I can't even go on social media using my real name."
John intervened; "Is it really that bad?"
"The day after my MRI, before we knew the seriousness of my injury, I went in to the locker room and found someone had sent me flowers. It was nice until I read the card. It said 'I'm glad you got hurt. I hope you can never use your arm again.' My manager, Al, has been in baseball 50 years. He said he'd never seen anything like it."
"That's disgusting."
"And that's the cleaned up version. I left out all the sexual and racial epithets. See, now I've ruined your Christmas." Her phone buzzed with call. She let it go to voicemail. "I need to go. Thanks for feeding me. I may have to go for another run." She grinned as she activated the Uber app.
"Let me drive you home. It's the least I can do after you returned my wallet and I insulted you."
"Fair enough."
The three of them got in his old Honda Civic and took the short ride to her rented house. Ginny invited them to come in for a moment. "Spencer, I have something for you." The team had sent her a stack of posters to autograph for season ticket holders. They featured a picture of her on the mound, mid wind up. She got one and gave it to him. "This will look great on your wall, or on the back of your door." She winked at him and he looked down, embarrassed again. "John, despite our disagreement you made my Christmas better. I hope next year you'll come see me pitch."
"You've given me a lot to think about. Maybe I am a little...patriarchal."
She saw them out. As they drove off, Spencer's window rolled down and he shouted to her.
"Merry Christmas, Ginny!"