Laverna walked to the pitcher’s mound for the coin toss, joining the umpire and the coach from the Talc Miners. She could hear the Flood Girls arguing about the significance of the numbers. Some claimed the digit corresponded with the batting lineup, some declared they were chosen at random. Della was happy to point out that she had one more number than everybody else. But Laverna knew. The boy had ranked the women in order of their importance.
Laverna lost the coin toss, and the Talc Miners chose to bat last. Laverna returned to her team, just as the PA system startled them with a squeal of feedback, the volume sending Della into dry heaves once more. The bleachers had filled to capacity. Laverna, as usual, had not paid attention to the umpire’s instructions, and the national anthem burst forth from the speakers. She pushed her confused girls onto the field. The recording had reached the second verse before the Flood Girls finally stumbled into place, and presented themselves to the crowd, hands over hearts.
After the anthem, the girls started to walk back to the dugout, but the announcer’s voice blared out again, and in the echo Laverna barely distinguished the name of her team. She rushed out onto the field, but her commands weren’t needed. Thankfully, Rachel still adored the limelight, and when her name was called, she stepped forward and waved at the crowd, despite her mangled face. She tossed her blond hair, and her old men stomped and whistled, and she blew a kiss in their direction. Laverna rolled her eyes but knew Jake would be proud. Rachel had earned the number two on her back.
Number three was Diane, who was obviously still stoned. When her name was called, she tripped on her cleats but still managed to stumble forward. Number three because of the sewing machine, surmised Laverna, as Ginger was announced as number four. Jake respected Ginger’s age and her status, probably assumed he would get free corn dogs at the Sinclair. Five was Martha, waving her giant hand, chosen fifth just because she had birthed a bad girl. Red Mabel had grown into a bad woman, number six, and she spit on the ground as she stepped forward. Seven and eight were Ronda and Tabby. The taller Sinclair was bashful when number nine was called, and then called again, for the shorter Sinclair. The announcer seemed confused by the two number nines, but Jake had never been one to care about regulations. Della was number ten. Jake shared Laverna’s distrust of redheads.
The Ellis Talc Miners absolutely annihilated them, seven to four. The girls played terribly, bobbling the ball, missing throws, swinging at pitches they had no business swinging at. At the top of the fifth inning, Martha threw up in her catcher’s mask. After the game, the Ellis Talc Miners shook their heads, disappointed at their former competition.
* * *
Next in the tournament bracket were the Mother Truckers, a team from the TriCities. The early-afternoon sun broiled the fields. Bucky scouted their competition in the morning, and was terrified. He forced the Chief to drive him to a gas station. Bucky returned to the field with a case of Gatorade, three bags of ice, two copies of the same Cosmopolitan magazine, a bottle of aspirin, and for some reason, an air freshener shaped like a pine tree. Laverna removed it from the package and tied it above Red Mabel.
She was bone-tired, and maudlin. “This is it,” Laverna said, her hand on Della’s shoulder. “No matter what, I’m proud of you.”
“Bullshit,” said Ronda. Jaws dropped, not because Ronda had back-talked the coach, but because Ronda had talked at all.
“Fine,” said Laverna. “We lose this, and we’re done. First team out of the tournament.”
“Awesome,” muttered Martha, still not recovered.
“Jesus Christ,” said Red Mabel. She side-armed a beer at Martha, who nearly broke her fingers catching it. “Hair of the dog.” Red Mabel crossed her arms and stood in front of Martha, forced her to down the whole can. Now Martha belched in between dry heaves, but at least she was smiling as she opened her second beer.
The Flood Girls stretched on the grass, rubbing sore muscles in the roasting sun. Ginger did not leave the dugout, and looked up at Laverna helplessly.
“I’m on fire,” she said. Laverna fanned Ginger with one of the magazines, but it provided no relief. Her pitcher could barely catch a breath. Laverna shouted over the country music that thundered from the PA system, until Athena heard her.
“Hormonal supplements,” Ginger admitted weakly, as Athena took her pulse.
“I turned into a werewolf,” said Athena, and dug in her enormous purse. “Menopause hit me and I thought I had been cursed by gypsies.” She removed a battered cellophane bag, the bottom sagging with an inch of green powder.
Laverna snatched it away from her. “No more marijuana!”
“Herbs,” said Athena. “Maybe you should take some, too.”