Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Due to his Major League success, the Honey Creek Hornets were making nationwide coverage. Just last week, there was a segment about the team on Good Morning America, and we went viral on TikTok, landing on baseballtok and booktok. I didn’t see how those two things crossed paths, but it seemed to have been a great way to get our team’s name out to a wider audience.
Unfortunately for me, with all eyes on us, came interviews.
I despised interviews.
On the other hand, Nathan was convinced that any press was good for the guys. The more we made our presence known, the more individuals would take notice of our players.
Everything was still going fine until one night after an annoying practice. After everyone left, I stayed on the field in the darkening night. The silence slicing through the space was a heavy contrast to the turmoil of noise racing through my head.
Then the other shoe dropped.
The glow of my phone screen illuminated the latest headline that came through of the last interview I did with Nathan. “Miracle Season or Male Influence? The Real Reason Beyond the Honey Creek Hornet’s Success.”
My heart sank to the pit of my stomach as I scrolled through the article, taking in every word.
Coach Kingsley’s coaching skills weren’t strong enough to carry the team alone. They hadn’t won a game in years. Perhaps having a woman coach a man’s sport is more trouble than anything.
Before two-time World Series-winning Nathan Pierce joined the staff, the Honey Creek Hornets were dead on arrival. Without the addition of Coach Pierce, it’s sufficient to say that the team would still be down in the dumps.
If I thought the article was rough, the comments were even harsher.
Keep women out of our coaching positions.
Maybe she took a wrong turn on her way to the cheerleading practice.
It’s not a shock that someone who looks like her doesn’t know how to coach. It looks like she’d cry over a hangnail.
The air around me felt heavy, thick with unspoken doubts that were now being formed within my thoughts. A wave of nausea hit my stomach as I read the article again. And again. And again. Each time I read it, the invisible pressure resting against my shoulders felt as if it was pushing me further down. I felt so little at that moment. So heartbroken. Mainly because a big part of me believed the article.
I wished I could say that was the first article I’d seen, but it wasn’t. Over the past few weeks, more and more alike had been flooding in. Articles questioning my capabilities and suggesting that Nathan should take the head coach position. Stories stating that perhaps baseball wasn’t for me, and I should look into starting a softball team of my own. Think pieces about how women weren’t meant to exist in men’s realms.
I locked my phone, the screen going pitch-black, but the words lingered in my mind. They were embedding themselves into my spirit, into my soul, and I couldn’t stop it, even though I tried. I worked really hard for my team over the years. I went to bat for those boys time and time again, and all the achievements I did make, like getting better equipment and getting a facility built so they could be the best they could be, were all being diminished. What was even worse was them saying it was because I was a woman. I’d be fine if they said I sucked. But saying I sucked because I was a woman? That set up a completely different kind of hurt brewing within me. It felt like I was on trial for my gender as if my every decision was being scrutinized and judged based on my sex.
Unfortunately for me, when I was hurt, I grew angry. And when I was angry, I was no fun to be around.
“Hey, Avery?”
I quickly composed myself at the sound of footsteps approaching. I knew it was Nathan coming to check on me. Normally, after practices, we’d meet in my office to go over our game plan for the following day.
I slid my phone into my pocket and shook off my nerves as I turned to face him. I tried to push out a fake smile, but it fell short. “Hey,” I said.
“I was waiting for you inside.” He narrowed his eyes. “Everything okay?” His voice was laced with concern. Had he read the articles, too? Surely, he saw the one from today. It was on one of the biggest sports websites out there. I had no doubt people had been tagging him in it.
“I’m fine,” I curtly replied, walking past him. “Can we talk about the plan for tomorrow later? I’m not in the mood.”
His footsteps hurried behind me as he caught up to me. He placed a hand on my shoulder, pausing my movement. “Ave, wait, slow down.”