There’s No Spying In Baseball

At first, it had been the ritual’s agony that haunted her.  But looking back on it all after more than fifty annual payouts for “trusting her intuition,” she could no longer recall a Designated face from more than five years ago, much less the Discards.  And that included the Discards from the early days that had a habit of visiting her while she slept, some for decades at a stint.  The agony had run its course. 

How upsetting.

Back when the yearly Designation took place at Forbes Field, the agony arose from tangling with the morality of it.  World War II suffocated that insistent virtue right out of her.  Uncle Sam surrendered more sons & husbands to friendly fire in one day than she discarded in a decade.  Then after Forbes came the first year at the new stadium.  Well, that was an Opening Day unlike any other.  Not from her annual morbid Designation though.  That didn’t change, and according to Langley, it never would.  By the time 1970 rolled around, she became swallowed up in the logistics of how some benign yet vulgar ritual, undetectable for decades now, could just up and move to the other side of town without the most curious and well-funded eyes of the CIA’s enemies finding out about it.  But that riddle too lost its sheen by ’72.  Of course, it didn’t hurt that the Pittsburgh Pirates were defending World Series Champions, and she’d even managed to bump into Roberto Clemente himself that game.  Thankfully, it didn’t happen in the umpire’s locker room during the 7thinning stretch.  That would’ve been serendipitously tragic.  She would’ve designated Clemente regardless, no matter who the other Discard might’ve been.

Today, though. 

Today was different.  Clemente had been fish food for over a quarter century, the phrase ‘World Series Champion’ was practically contraband to the new ownership, and her granddaughter Katie had just turned 14.  She wasn’t quite old enough yet, not even close really, but it wasn’t her that Father Time had cornered into this transition of power. 

Katie’s mother had agreed to drop her off near the Gate D Pylon, since the arrangement had historically included exactly two tickets to Opening Day.  Grandma straightened her Coke vendor name tag, tied her black and gold bandanas to her belt, adjusted her Coca-Cola hat (it was the fifteen-year anniversary of the Mean Joe Greene commercial!), checked to make sure the needle was sheathed and opened her arms as wide as they would go for her only grandchild.

The journey to their seats had been an assault on the senses.  Pigeons balanced themselves on the wires supporting the safety nets.  The sounds of gold-digging vendors, but who was she to judge?  They wore their uniforms for survival, she wore hers for subterfuge. The scent of over-grilled hotdogs.  The taste - or lack thereof - of her annual Iron City beer.  (Katie opted for a sundae in a mini-helmet.  She refused the first one because they tried to serve it to her in a Cubs cap.  Good kid.  Good instincts.  She was going to need them.) They arrived to their section right behind home plate just as Katie asked for some napkins to finish the job that licking her fingers could not quite accomplish.

Every year that the woman had been doing this, she had gone to the games alone, despite receiving her customary two tickets at Will Call, per the arrangement with Langley.  Every year she tried enjoying the game before the inevitable 7th inning stretch.  Every year she failed.  It was one of the few emotional journeys that had not come and gone since the first time she “trusted her intuition.”  Every year she was consumed with equal parts anxiety and guilt, understandably so.  This year, however, would be garnished with an appetizer even more foul tasting than the flat Iron.  Really, though, what was the point of easing Katie into her new assignment with some gradual sugar-coated chat that crescendos into a capital crime tutorial?  Katie had no choice in the matter, same as it had been for her grandmother.  And once she maneuvered the ethics of it, then she could anticipate another 20 or 30 years of debating whether the arbitrary decision model or the act itself weighed more heavily.  She wasn’t deconstructing and digesting all of that in six and a half innings; the kid was currently losing her battle to keep hot fudge off her chamois. 

The two candidates were told to expect someone matching the description of Katie’s grandmother. The two finalists were instructed every year to expect her during the 7th inning stretch in the umpire’s locker room. Sometimes they were sitting, sometimes they were standing, sometimes one of each. In the late sixties the woman would discard whichever one was sitting, as if that was some kind of honor worthy system. In the 70s she mostly went by manners. First one to behave rudely became the Discard.  Tone can be the difference between life and death.

It wasn’t until the 80s that she experienced two major breakthroughs. The first was changing the weapon. (Silenced berettas had been her preference, but then the frisky ushers stationed at all the entrances had put an end to that.) The second was just ordering the Designate to eliminate the Discard, keeping her hands clean. That only lasted a few years, mostly on account of the rather delicate hostage situation she instigated in ‘89. In fact, that likely expedited the sobering reflection that resulted in deputizing her granddaughter today, a few years earlier than she would have liked.

Katie’s eyes were as wide as they were submissive, like when she heard Mr. Rogers’ voice for the first time.  Her entire childhood, as abbreviated as it was about to become, had been spent fearing the velvet ropes and Do Not Enter signs that governed her choices and exploration.  And here Grandma bypassed a gauntlet of them with nothing more than a confident stride and a lazy disguise.  Katie clutched her souvenir mini-helmet with one hand and latched onto Grandma’s Coca-Cola vest with the other.  She hadn’t done that since the two of them went to a showing of Night of the Living Dead at the Evans City Drive-In on 4th of July weekend.  Good instincts.  Good kid.

The woman took one last look around the umpire’s locker room.  Same smell of fresh bats and Ben-Gay.  Same crooked plaque.  Nothing but a sterile examination room to her that she couldn’t wait to forget.  For her granddaughter?  An emotional Rubicon and cork scented prison, forever calcified.

“Good evening gentlemen.”  She pulled Katie a little closer.  “Before we begin, I want you both to meet Katie.  She’s my granddaughter.  And she’s my replacement.  Honey, you stay right there and listen real good.”

The woman sat down at the trainer’s table, across from the two men.  “Go ahead, moustache.”

“The combination is 34 left, 27 right, 8 left.” 

No change.  Again.  Never did learn what exactly they think those numbers unlock.

“And what about you, sideburns?”  She pointed at the other one. 

“Suitcase weighed just over 20 lbs before the handoff.”

Sounds like a million bucks in hundreds.  Again.  That was the conclusion she came to every year regarding that allegedly priceless scrap of intel.  She wondered what fib Katie would tell herself? 

How upsetting.

“OK fellas.  You can both relax.  Congratulations, you made it!  Welcome to the CIA.  There’s only one more thing we need to take care of, and then you can start sipping martinis and slapping chesty women.”  She stood and returned to Katie’s side.  “For security purposes before we move on, I need to blindfold both of you.  Then I’m going to check you for listening devices and make sure you’re not smuggling anything, and then you’ll be on your way to the final rendezvous.”

The woman pulled Katie’s black and gold bandana off of her head while removing her own from her belt, tossing them both on the table.  The men obliged. 

“Mouths wide open please,” she blurted once they were done blinding themselves.  “Now say ahhh!”

She looked down at Katie, pressed one finger to her lips, slowly nodded her head and pointed to her ears.  Then she walked right up to sideburns, pulled out the syringe she’d been bringing to Opening Day since they installed metal detectors and plunged her little sword of Damocles underneath his tongue.  She observed the shock of his body’s disbelief while the nerve agent trumped any follow up commands.  His body went limp so suddenly that Grandma struggled to keep him upright in his seat, her arthritic grip far from useful.  Father Time couldn’t help himself, even after she conceded to an argument he had never lost and never would.

The woman blurted something unintelligible while trying to control the potato sack of a corpse, causing moustache to reach for his blindfold for a peek. 

“Grandma!”  Katie spouted while pointing.  Good kid.  Good instincts. 

Just as Grandma created distance between herself and moustache, the man sprung out of his seat, his uncovered eyes scanning his surroundings, ostensibly for a weapon.

“Let’s all take a breath there, peek-a-boo.  Nobody else needs to get hurt.”  Grandma glanced at her Katie.  She was frozen, her face aghast.  The woman recognized that look of emotional annihilation.  Apparently, it’s hereditary.  “Listen, it’s over.  I already told you to relax, didn’t I?  Mission’s complete.  You’ve been Designated for the Agency.  He was Discarded.  Doesn’t need to escalate beyond that.”

The man was now hyperventilating.

“Who the hell are you?” he managed to squeeze out between breaths.

“Told you already, moustache.  I’m Katie’s grandmother.”  The woman slowly returned the syringe to her pocket, the man’s eyes straying from the needle only once to check the fresh corpse for any signs of life.  “He was a finalist, same as you.  CIA only needs one, and they prefer the better of the two.  They leave it to me to decide which one’s the keeper.  All the training and high scores in the world can’t hold a candle to women’s intuition. At least according to Langley.  Congratulations on your Designation.”

Grandma pulled the bandana off the Discard while extending her hand toward the other, beckoning the Designate to return the bandana he was clutching. 

“Now, I’m sure you have an awful lot of questions.  The Designates always do.  Bad news is I’m not going to answer a single one.  One, because that ain’t my job, and two, we don’t have time.  Good news is that you’ll be able to ask all the questions you want once you’re safely out of the stadium."  The woman swiped the bandana from his trembling hand and extended her other hand toward the umpire’s exit.  “You head through that door now and you’re going to see a man wearing a Pirates cap and holding an umbrella.  He’s your new North Star.  Now if you’ll excuse us, my Katie and I have a very uncomfortable conversation to get through before her mother picks her up 15 outs from now.  Twelve if we don’t manage to give up the tying run.”

The crowd, oblivious to the changing of the guard in the umpire’s locker room, serenaded the grounds crew tidying up the field. “Strike one, two, three, you’re out at the old ballgame!”

Right on time.  Again.  The cleanup crew, moustache, and his handler would have another routine Opening Day.  No delays and no surprises.  Again. 

Katie, on the other hand, still didn’t look so good.  Watching your own grandmother cram a corpse into a shipping container meant for baseball bats likely had something to do with it.  The woman made it appear as effortless as possible all while flippantly reciting the uncomfortable conversation she’d been dreading since Father Time made his opening arguments in 1989. 

It was so much easier than she thought it would be. 

How upsetting.

Was her detachment a professional courtesy, or were Grandma’s instincts that had been on the CIA payroll for over half a century making sure Father Time didn’t go anywhere near her precious little granddaughter?

It was so rejuvenating to lament the answer and finally feel something a little different on Opening Day.

“Don’t worry Katie, we’ll just tell Mom you ate a little too much ice cream.  Now let me show you how this syringe works before we go back to our seats.” 

Good kid.  Good instincts.