Chapter 2: Batter Out
"Hello, everyone! Welcome to the Boston Belles and the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League. My name is David Nolan, and I'll be your manager. You can call me David. As some of you may know, I played with the Red Sox for two seasons before an elbow injury forced me to retire early. This is my first coaching position, so I'm open to any input you may have."
"Asking for input? That man is either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid," Ruby whispers, and Emma nods worriedly as David flashes everyone a friendly smile that doesn't seem particularly managerial. She thinks she hears a few of the girls behind her let out irritatingly dreamy sighs.
"Stupid is more likely," another player chimes in – a round-faced woman named Mary Margaret who's a dead ringer for Walt Disney's Snow White (though she's a bit more cheeky than demure, and packs a powerful and devastatingly accurate swing). "Kind of a dreamboat, but since when is charm a qualification for coaching?"
"He was an ace fielder back when he played," hisses a round-faced blonde woman who Emma thinks is named Ashley. "I think he'll have a lot to teach us."
Mary Margaret shrugs, and David turns to their little group and asks, "Any questions?"
Caught, the players shake their heads, but David seems less irritated than he does confused.
"Now, if that's settled, your uniforms are finished. You'll need to try them on and make sure the names and numbers and sizes are all correct, and then you'll show me what you can do." He opens a large box and starts reading off names as he pulls out the uniforms and Emma exchanges a surprised glance with Mary Margaret.
"These are a little short," she mutters, holding hers up to her body. She'd seen pictures, of course, of last year's players wearing these dresses, but she hadn't actually considered it with reference to her own body.
"I don't think we can play ball in these," Mary Margaret protests, "not without a whole lot of indecent exposure, anyway."
Ariel, the red-head next to them, agrees. "This is nuts. Mr. Nolan," she calls, "how are we supposed to slide onto bases in these?"
Nolan shrugs, clearly out of his league. "I don't know," he responds miserably. "Don't you have some shorts or bloomers you can wear under them?"
"Why can't we just wear shorts or bloomers without a crummy dress on top?" Mary Margaret complains under her breath, scowling.
Ruby, who's already pulled her uniform on over her clothes, laughs as she models it for the rest of the Belles. "I like it," she says, grinning wolfishly at all of them.
"Well, you've got the legs for it," a short brunette, who is – amusingly, Emma thinks – actually named Belle, points out.
"Yeah, enjoy it while you can," Ashley sighs. "Once you have a baby, you're not going to look like that anymore."
"Nah, I'm going to save up my money from baseball and travel the world," Ruby says confidently."But if I do have a baby, hopefully I'll end up like Emma. She's still pretty slim, and she got to keep the bosoms."
"Hey!" Emma exclaims, face burning scarlet. She's not in this to have her body critiqued like she's not even present. "Is this beauty school or baseball practice?"
"Sorry," Ruby quickly apologizes, "you do look good, though."
Twirling a lock of hair around her finger, Belle muses, "That's kind of the point, isn't it?" The whole team turns to stare at her. "The owners are in this to make money, you know. They want good ballplayers, but also pretty girls who'll look good on camera. That's why we're supposed to get makeovers at that beauty school next week."
Emma rolls her eyes at Mary Margaret's confounded expression. "Well, I don't mind wearing a crummy dress to play ball if I get seventy bucks a week for it," she declares, and most of the other players nod.
"Are you ladies ready to play ball?" David calls, rubbing his forehead and likely wondering if it's too late to get himself an easier gig.
Her entire first week on the Belles, Emma routinely pinches herself to ensure she's not dreaming. She can't believe her good fortune: better pay, better hours, and not to mention, she gets to play baseball for a living. If someone had told her when she was younger that at age twenty-eight, she'd be tossing a ball around with her friends and getting good money for it, she'd never have believed it, but here she is.
Playing with the best athletes in the country is tiring, of course, but her fatigue after a hard training session is nothing compared to the sheer exhaustion she felt after every double shift in the factory. Instead of hour after hour of brain-numbing monotony, she actually looks forward to going to "work" every day.
Every day, that is, until charm school.
"The thing about being professional athletes," David explains, hands trembling slightly, "is that you'll have to do a lot of interviews, especially if we win. Mr. Gold wants to be sure your...your...comportment," he finally spits out, after a harried glance at his note cards, "reflects well on the league. Some of you are closer to that standard than others, but you'll all have to attend Mrs. Tremaine's Charm School."
Mary Margaret raises her hand and asks, giggling, "Who's Mrs. Tremaine? Why aren't you teaching it, Charming?"
Ruby rolls her eyes. "She could lay off the flirting a little bit. I'm surprised he still hasn't caught on," she whispers to Emma, who snorts.
Loudly.
It's decidedly not charming - which is, coincidentally, the first thing Mrs. Tremaine, an older woman with a perfectly set perm and too many pearls, says about her.
Not that charm school does rankings, but Emma can say with absolute certainty that she's in the bottom of her class in everything. Can't put on make-up, can't style her hair, can't walk in heels... Even country bumpkin Ruby, who "paints her face like a nightclub dancer" at least knows how to apply lipstick on her actual lips.
"Really, dear, did your mother never teach you anything about being a lady?" Mrs. Tremaine tuts when Emma sits incorrectly for about the fifth time.
"Uh...no, actually. They didn't really have time for this kind of thing at the orphanage,"
"Oh," the instructor replies, caught off-guard, "oh." She makes a fine show of hiding her discomfort – clears her throat, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and forces a simpering smile. "Well, then it's a good thing we're teaching you now, while there's still time to get you a husband."
Emma rolls her eyes. "I had a husband already," she points out, though she neglects to mention the fact that it had been a shotgun affair and they'd both been kicked out of high school. "He died in the war."
Mrs. Tremaine doesn't say a word to her for the remainder of the lesson, but Emma catches her murmuring to one of her assistants, "What a tragic past."
She plops onto a chair as loudly as possible and sits with her legs apart, just out of spite.
"Advantages of a traumatic childhood," she tells a pink-faced Mary Margaret, who looks deeply uncomfortable with the whole discussion.
Staring at her lap, the younger woman whispers, "My mother died when I was young, but I had a nanny who taught me everything. I still visit her sometimes; if you want, I could –"
"No!" Emma exclaims. And now everyone is staring. "It's not...no, I'm fine," she clarifies, lowering her voice. She's twenty-eight years old: her time for being mothered has come and gone. Thank god she ended up with a boy – she can't even imagine trying to teach a daughter how to get by in the world.
"Alright," Mary Margaret replies dubiously. "Johanna is wonderful, though, if you ever need someone."
It's then and there that Emma decides, despite some highly questionable flirting choices, she likes Mary Margaret Blanchard. She spends the rest of their classes trying to follow the younger woman's lead, up until the point that Mary Margaret runs out crying because Mrs. Tremaine asked her if she owned a hairbrush.
Teatime is the worst.
It's disgustingly weak tea, with no milk or sugar because of the war, that they have to sip slowly and only when they're told. It's plates full of biscuits they're not allowed to eat, only sit (legs crossed at the ankles, right over left) and stare at, because that's what "ladies" do.
Emma eats one anyway. It's rock-solid and flavorless, but she assumes it has some nutritional value, and she's unaccustomed to letting perfectly edible food go untouched. When Mrs. Tremaine and her assistants aren't looking, she stuffs a few in her pockets to take home to Henry, who's grown an inch in the last month and isn't particularly picky about his snacks.
She supposes that "ladies" can afford to peck at their food instead of stuffing themselves with everything in sight before someone bigger comes to take it away.
Actually, being a lady probably has its advantages, but for now, she'll take being a ballplayer.
"Ma!" Henry screeches as he sprints up the stairs to their apartment. "Ma! Look what came in the mail!" After slamming the door shut, he dive-bombs Emma where she's sitting on the couch, massaging her right bicep after a tough training session, and shoves an envelope in her face. "Look, Ma! Look! It's from her!"
Sure enough, it says R. Mills in the upper left corner, followed by a Maine address. Emma takes a second to marvel at Regina's beautiful cursive – her own is chicken scratch – and wonder if she'd been the top student in her charm school class. Probably. She seems the type to be the top in everything she does.
"She wrote you a letter? Huh." Raising one eyebrow, Emma lifts the envelope up to the light, but she can't see through it – there's something small and thick blocking her view. "Isn't it usually the other way around? The fans write letters to the players?"
"I don't know!" Henry exclaims. "Give it back! I want to read it."
She expects him to tear the envelope open in all his eagerness, but instead he grabs a knife from the kitchen and slowly, carefully cuts the flap open, handling the paper as if it's made of glass. He gasps when he sees what's inside.
"Ma! It's a Henry Mills baseball card!"
"Great!" she says with as much enthusiasm as she can muster, given how exhausted she is. She's not particularly surprised – given the context of their conversation, she'd been unable to imagine many other reasons Regina Mills would have wanted to write to her son – but it still puts a lump in her throat that a perfect stranger had cared enough to make his day.
"And look, Ma! It's signed!" He thrusts the card at her and sure enough, the name Henry Mills is scrawled across it: not nearly as neat as his daughter's penmanship, but still legible.
A small piece of floral-edged stationery that apparently escaped Henry's notice flutters to the floor, and Emma eyes it curiously. "Hey, kid, I think she wrote you a letter," she remarks.
Henry picks up the paper with only the tips of his fingers and opens it slowly, grin widening the longer he continues to read.
"What's the Evil Queen have to say for herself?" Emma asks. "Mind if I read it?"
"What? No, it's private!" Henry exclaims, clutching the note to his chest.
Private letters with the Evil Queen? Emma's not quite sure how she feels about that. Not that she thinks there'd be anything bad in the letters, but... well, he's only got her to keep him safe now.
"Why don't you go put that card somewhere special and finish up your homework while I get started on dinner?" she asks nonchalantly, choosing to let it go for now. "I was thinking mashed potatoes and spinach tonight so we can save the meat for something special on Sunday."
"Yes on mashed potatoes, no on spinach," he proclaims before turning toward his room.
"Not so fast! At least three bites of spinach or you can't go to the movies with Grace tomorrow."
"Ma! I have to see The Three Caballeros!" he whines. "If I don't see it by Monday, everyone at school will tell me how it ends!"
"Then eat three bites of spinach. And get an A on your spelling test."
"Fine," Henry grumbles, shuffling off to his room like he's been severely put upon. Emma listens outside the door for a minute until she hears the scratch of his pencil and decides he doesn't need any further cajoling to study.
He's a good kid, she thinks as she sets a pot of water on the stove to boil. She's been a decent parent, despite having little guidance and no example to follow. At the very least, he won't end up dropping out of high school and becoming a father while he's still practically a child himself.
And she knows that, of course, but every time Henry gets another A or says something smart at the dinner table, it helps to chip away at the anxiety she'll probably never fully shake.
It's not until later, when Henry's sleeping (or, more likely, reading in his bed), that she notices Regina's letter on the coffee table. She hesitates for just a second before lifting it up, but Henry is concerned enough about his privacy that he'd have brought it to his room if he really didn't want her to read it, so she thinks she's safe.
Dear Henry, it begins, in the same beautiful, loopy script she'd seen on the envelope,
I just hoped to let you know what a pleasure it was to meet you the other day. It's not often that I get a chance to talk to fans about my father, who has always been my inspiration. He taught me how to play ball when I was just a little girl (even younger than you!), and I think about him every single practice and game. Needless to say, this card is very special to me, but I know that you will take special care of it.
Baseball was my father's lifelong passion, and he always said the year he played professionally was one of the best years of his life. Whatever your passion is, I hope that when you look at this card, you will remember that following your dreams can take a lot of hard work and courage, but it is essential to never stop believing in yourself.
Best Regards,
Regina Mills
P.S. I look forward to seeing you when we play the Belles. Please tell your mother I wish her the best of luck
P.P.S. She'll need it.
Emma smirks and carefully re-folds the letter before tiptoeing to Henry's door and poking her head in – he's out cold. She sees the Henry Mills card propped up on the bookshelf with the photo of Ted Williams and Regina's ball, and she places the letter next to it. It's softer than she'd expected from the famed "Evil Queen," almost sentimental.
Well, maybe it was Henry who brought it out, she reflects. It wouldn't be the first time he's had that effect on someone.
And on that note, she gently kisses the kid on the forehead before turning out the light. "Goodnight, Henry," she whispers. "Sweet dreams."
Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd;
Just buy me somepeanutsandCracker Jack,
I don't care if I never get back.
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don't win, it's a shame.
For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,
At the old ball game.
The bus erupts in cheers at the end of Henry's rousing rendition of the Tin Pan Alley classic, and Emma leans back in her seat, grinning. She'd worried her teammates would resent having to cart her son around on road trips, but Henry's suddenly more popular than he's ever been in his life, and no one can stop fawning over Ashley's two kids, a baby and a toddler. Alexandra, who's just starting to walk, is chasing Henry up and down the aisle and generally entertaining the crowd.
She supposes it's nice to have the kids around, reminding everyone that at the end of the day, it's just a game. Lord only knows they need something to take the edge off their nerves, and Ruby's suggestion of liquor had been soundly rejected by their manager.
"We're going up against the Evil Queen," she'd mumbled, shuddering and going slightly green. "Does anyone have any prayers, superstitions, anything?"
Now that the song is over, she's rubbing the wolf pendant around her neck like that'll somehow bring her luck.
"I don't think we need luck," Mary Margaret argues. "She's a pitcher, not an actual sorceress. I say we can beat the Chickadees."
"I agree!" another player exclaims, a tall redhead named Zelena with great skills but little concept of strategy. "I don't think the Evil Queen is all she's cracked up to be. We can take her down."
Beside Emma, Henry twitches like he's going to say something, but she shushes him just in time. "Hey kid, it's okay if she's your favorite, but she's our opponent. They're just trying to get sharp for the game."
Henry rolls his eyes and whispers back, "Well, it's not nice to talk about taking her down."
"Kid, that's how sports work. You've gotta root for your own team if you want to win."
He considers for a moment before smirking at whatever little private joke he'd just thought up. "Ma, is it okay if I root for both teams?" he asks.
"Do whatever you want, but don't get mad if the Belles don't share your opinion of your beloved Regina. Her Majesty didn't write us letters, you know."
"She wished you luck!"
Emma sighs. He's still a little young to completely get the concept of sarcasm, so she just says, "Yeah, kid. That was pretty swell of her."
"Hennnn-wyyyyyy," Alexandra whines. "Sing a song!"
"Well, kid, you've got your orders," Emma laughs, and Henry obligingly bounces the little girl on his knee while launching into "Joltin' Joe DiMaggio." Chuckling, the players sing along, and everyone seems to forget, for a time, that they're headed to their first professional ballgame, where certain defeat awaits them.
But the carefree illusion is shattered the second the bus pulls up to the stadium and the first thing Emma sees out the window is Regina Mills, munching on an apple and looking ready for battle. "Here goes nothing," Ruby mutters, and Emma is inclined to agree.
The game is a blow-out; they'd expected as much from the get-go, and anyone who'd stepped off the bus harboring even a modicum of hope quickly loses it at the sight of Regina Mills's warm-up pitches and Albert Spencer's demeaning sneer from the opposing bench. They're done for.
"I can't believe I have to shake hands with that man," Nolan mutters, wearing the closest thing to a scowl Emma has ever seen on his face.
"Sir?" Ashley asks worriedly, but he's already got his pleasant smile back on and his clipboard out, and they're ready for business.
"Go Regina!" Henry hollers from the stands, wearing the Chickadees colors even though he's sitting in the Belles's section. "Pitch a perfect game today!"
To everyone's shock – especially Emma's – Regina actually breaks from her solitary stretch routine for just long enough to blow him a kiss. It's a daytime game, but the glow from Henry's grin would be enough to light up the whole stadium, maybe even the whole state of Maine.
Maybe, as David optimistically points out later, the game isn't a complete blow-out. After all, Ashley puts in a solid showing on the mound, and their fielding is adequate enough to keep the Chickadees to four runs. Mary Margaret, in particular, has several instrumental plays at first base, but the fact remains that Regina Mills grants Henry's exact wish.
She pitches a perfect game.
"You girls played well, but that pitcher is dynamite," Nolan consoles them after the game, but he looks as flabbergasted as his players. "I've gone up against some pitchers in the Majors who could throw faster, but she's smart."
"So what?" Mary Margaret challenges. "Are you saying we can never beat the Chickadees? Because more than half of our games are against them – they're the only other New England team."
"What? No." Now Nolan looks completely lost. "I certainly never said we should give up hope! We'll just have to do something differently. I haven't figured out what, though."
It's Emma who has the most success against the Evil Queen: she actually gets a piece of the ball about three times, though it always ends up just a hair over the foul line. She imagines it must be something about the woman's piercing gaze – the way she seems to stare straight into Emma's soul and right through her all at once – that disarms her so much she can barely swing a bat. It's hard to reconcile this persona, this cold-blooded competitor, with the woman who writes heartfelt notes about her father and blows kisses to excited little boys in the stands.
And Emma has to wonder why she's so determined to figure it out.
Almost as if she can sense Emma's thoughts, Regina smirks before throwing the third pitch.
"Strike three!" the umpire shouts as Emma's bat swishes through the air, just before the taunting thwack of the ball hitting the catcher's glove. "Batter out!"
It's the last out of the game. The home crowd erupts in cheers, chanting their love for the Evil Queen, which Regina largely ignores. "You did good, Ma," Henry consoles her. "No one can beat Regina, though. She's the best."
She briefly questions whether Henry could benefit from a class at Mrs. Tremaine's Charm School before a two-hour ride with a bunch of crestfallen ballplayers. Maybe all of the peanuts he ate will put him to sleep.
"Regina!" she calls on her way out of the stadium, chasing after the woman's retreating form until she stops just before the bus. "I just wanted to say thanks," she says breathlessly when she finally catches up. It's more running than she'd done in nine whole innings. "Sending Henry that card – it meant a lot to him. More than you know. You really didn't have to do that."
"I know," Regina replies, dark eyes inscrutable, and Emma's even more on-edge. "I wanted to, It meant a lot to me, too."
"Right. Well, anyway, thank you. Again."
"You're very welcome." With a friendly nod, Regina turns back to the bus where the rest of the Chickadees are waiting, but she pauses just before stepping up, like a thought has just occurred to her. "You're starting your swing too early," she tells Emma. "My fastball's not Bob Feller's. Patience. Wait for the pitch to come to you."
Emma blinks, confused. "Thanks?" she responds hesitantly. "Are you... why would you give tips to your opponents?"
"Not all of my opponents," Regina says with a shrug. "You've got potential, and as much as I enjoy padding my statistics, I enjoy a good match even more."
It seems logical enough, but why is her heart doing back-flips? "Uh... okay. Thank you, I guess. Doesn't seem very Evil Queen-like, though," she jokes and immediately wants to smack herself.
Eyes sparkling, Regina demands, "What's a good villain without a worthy opponent?" and enters the bus without another word. Emma stands, watching Regina through the window as she makes her way to her seat. The corners of her lips are upturned, like she's having her own little private joke, and Emma feels something flutter deep down in her gut, lovely and unnerving all at once.
"Ma!" Henry calls from across the parking lot, poking his head through the bus window. "Hurry up! You're last on the bus!"
Emma hurries over to join her team, hoping the jog will clear her head, and joins Henry in the seats he's saved for them. "Were you talking to Regina?" he asks eagerly. "Isn't she nice?"
"I... I don't know," Emma replies, feeling a little faint. "She's definitely something."
Something that remains on Emma's mind for the remainder of the trip back to Boston.
Something that's dancing before her eyes until the moment she closes them, in her bed that feels too hot and too cold at the same time.
It's not a restful slumber.
