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“Coach pitch?” I ask with a laugh, picking up the picture of Jake standing on a small piece of plastic standing in for a pitcher’s mound, tossing a ball underhand to a small child with braided pigtails.
“Penelope hasn’t stopped laughing about that either,” Jake drops onto the couch along one wall of his office as I continue to look around. “She got a kick out of it the first night when an umpire had to remind me that I was pitching to five year olds.”
“What did you do?”
“Struck out my own kid.” When Morgan Donaldson, executive producer ofOn the Field,knocks on the door to Jake’s office, she finds us in a fit of laughter as Jakeregales me with stories of Little League baseball from the other side of the fence. “Leigh is a good little hitter, but can’t throw the ball to save her life.”
“They’re ready,” Morgan calls from the door, and Jake and I follow her to the studio. I’ve been here a few times, and I’ve done even more remote interviews for the show, but for Penelope’sShattered Glasssegment, the set has transformed from talk show to living room. Penelope and Sutton are seated across from each other in plush armchairs, a coffee table between them with bottles of water and steaming mugs of coffee. Sutton looks past the cameras that are trained on her, and I position myself where she can see me, a small smile tugging at her lips before she fiddles with her lapel mic and Penelope begins her interview.
All of the questions that Penelope asks Sutton are ones that I already know the answers to. Questions about her college softball career, how she got her start coaching college baseball, and ultimately how she ended up in Seattle. But there are other things I know about Sutton too, things that you learn about a person when they crash land in your life and turn your world completely upside down.
Sutton and I met when she moved to Seattle and ended up as roommates with the Olympians’ mental skills coach, my old friend Amanda. Thanks to that time with Amanda, who was determined that her two friends were friends with each other, I got to know all about Sutton Davis. I learned that she was a star softball player and spent some time coaching baseball at the college level. I learned that she worked her way through college as a barista, hence the reason she makes a better latte than I do. She gets cranky if she stays up too late or wakes up too early.
Penelope doesn’t ask about those things. No, she asks Sutton about the challenges of the job, about the experience ofworking with big league hitters, and if she has any advice for young women looking to get involved in baseball.
“Take the risk,” she answers with a shrug of her shoulders. “I sent my resume to every team in the hopes that it would land in front of the right pair of eyes. I answered an ad for someone looking for a roommate and…”
She pauses. Loaded silence hangs around the studio and her eyes flick to mine for just a moment, a brief flash of…something…before she continues.
“And I ended up meeting my two best friends in the process. Take the risk. It just might surprise you.”
After the interview, Jake drives us back to the hotel where Sutton and I part ways in silence. I think about her answer to that last question as I unbutton my dress shirt and slip on a sweatshirt with my jeans. I think about it as I leave my room and linger in the hall for just a moment, hoping that she’ll walk out at the same time I do.
Hertwobest friends.
Best friends, even just friends, isn’t how I’d describe those early days of knowing Sutton Davis. I was determined not to like her, not to get attached, thinking that she wouldn’t make it in Seattle, or the league, for more than a year. Not because she’s a woman, not because she was brand new to professional baseball, but because her job is one of the hardest in the league and hitting coaches don’t last long in most places.
But she’s defied the odds.
And wildly defied my expectations that first day, proving me wrong at every turn. I’ve never been happier to have been proven wrong.
When I step off the elevator in the hotel lobby, I find Sutton already waiting for me. She’s changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, with sneakers for walking the city. The day is young and I have plans.
In order to get to our first destination, we have to walk through Central Park. Sutton is wide-eyed as we walk through the park, passing the lake and Belvedere Castle.
“I had no idea all of this was here,” she says, stopping to admire the Victorian era castle in the middle of the park. I love Central Park. Most of the time, when I have a day off in New York, I come to the park and spend my day eating street food that would send the team nutritionists into a tailspin, people watching, and reading whatever book I happen to be in the middle of at the time.
I’ve been here more times that I can recall, but seeing it through Sutton’s eyes is like seeing it for the first time all over again. But we have a schedule to keep, so I gently move her along toward the other side of the park, where our first official stop awaits.
“I have to warn you,” there’s an ominous tone in Sutton’s voice as she stands next to me, observing our surroundings as I wait for my credit card to be recognized by the card reader. “I’m a plaque reader. This isn’t going to be a quick ‘get in get out’ kind of trip.”
“Consider me warned,” I can’t help but grin as she practically bounces on her feet. “I’m prepared to spend all day here with you.”
Years ago, we had a game in Detroit postponed because of rain. It was called early enough in the day that we had, what amounted to, an extra day off and Roger basically called the day a wash, telling us to be safe and not do anything stupid. Sutton, knowing the area, convinced Mandy and a few players to take a field trip to a nearby science museum. When she told them that she’s a plaque reader, a few decided to stay back,realizing that if they went to the museum with her, they’d be stuck there for hours. I remember thinking, even back then, how badly I wanted to experience a museum with her, and now I can.
We enter the Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda and I immediately lose Sutton to the allosaurus and barosaurus that stand in the rotunda, poised for battle. After studying the two displays, Sutton leads the way into the first hall. I follow behind her, pausing when she does, and I make an honest effort to read the plaques but I’m too distracted. I’m distracted by the little wrinkle between her eyebrows when she squints to read the smallest print on the plaques. The way she bites her lip and tilts her head to the side as she looks at the exhibits.
From one hall to the next, I observe more about Sutton than I do the museum. Every now and then she’ll stop and point something out to me, tell me about a book that she read on a subject relating to whatever hall we’re in.
Asian Mammals.
Birds of the World.
Central America.
Africa.
We walk slowly through each hall, and with every new room I watch Sutton’s eyes light up as she takes in something new with every exhibit. Hours have passed by the time we make it through the whole museum. I planned for us to have lunch in Little Italy after finding a place that specializes in gluten free Italian food. After a quick cab ride, we find ourselves in a secluded booth in the dimly lit restaurant, garlic permeating the air.
