So, I started this story for the Summer Ficathon...last year. Don't worry, it's still not finished.
To everyone who has sent friendly reminders to finish, thank you! I promise I'm not going to abandon this one.
If you didn't catch the first two parts, or if you need a refresher, here are the links:
Two Weeks in June, 1/? Two Weeks in June, 2/? And now, Part 3!
From Part 2:
“Besides,” Coach continues, “you've been on a road trip with us. You're practically one of the team now, and I look out for my team. Like it or not, you're stuck with me.” He grins. “I don't want the bad press if you get lost on your first day in Omaha.”
Concern and caring are not very familiar concepts for me, so while I appreciate his sentiments, I'm a little unnerved. I fall back on an old standard. “Don't worry, Coach. Any negative reporting from me would certainly find small town America to blame.” I smile, to let him know I'm joking. Mostly.
Coach Williams isn't fooled. “I bet you'll change your mind about this town before we leave Omaha.”
“Really?” I'm intrigued. Why would I change my mind when I know I'm right?
Coach Williams just laughs. I think I'm a little insulted.
“Lois, don't tell Steve, but I think this College World Series is going to be that much more interesting with you here!”Part 3:
I've been working on my first article in my head for most of the day. It's a good thing, too, since it's almost 9:00pm, and we're just returning to the hotel. This one's pretty easy; I'll highlight a few of the player's stories and share their feelings about making it to the College World Series. It'll be a good introduction to the team for readers who haven't kept up with the whole season.
“Thanks for keeping me company,” I tell Scott as I park my rental car and we head inside.
“No problem,” Scott holds open the hotel door for me.
“I didn't know this team was entirely composed of Boy Scouts,” I mumble.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you call me a Boy Scout?” Scott looks amused.
Fine, then. “No, actually, I called the whole team a bunch of Boy Scouts.”
Scott laughs.
“A team of laughing Boy Scouts!” I'm slightly irritated, and I'm not sure why.
“You're so serious, Ace. One of the things Coach always says is that it won't matter how good you are at something if you don't really love it.”
“Are you implying that I don't love journalism?”
“Not at all,” Scott replies. Make that a whole team of earnest, laughing Boy Scouts. “I'm just suggesting that your dedication to journalism could be as much fun as it is hard work, if you want it to be.”
“And that's why you open doors for women and escort them around town when they are on their own?”
“Nope,” he says cheerfully. “That's just a matter of respect, which Coach always demands from us.”
“You can't make someone respect you,” I argue.
“You're right,” Scott agrees. Another annoying habit of members of this team – agreeing with me. “Coach has earned our respect. He just demands that we show respect to each other and ourselves.”
This was just supposed to be an assignment, not a journey of self-discovery or an exercise in making friends. Fortunately, we've made it to the elevator. “Well, I have an article to write, and you have a team meeting to attend.”
Scott stops and faces me. “Don't be mad, Lois.” I keep my gaze directed at his shoes. I don't want to talk to him anymore. “Good luck with your article. I'd like to read a copy in the morning, if you don't mind.”
I really don't have anything to say to him.
“Okay,” he sighs. “Good night. I'm in room 322 with Matt if you need anything.”
He turns to continue down the hall to the conference rooms.
Suddenly, I'm not so sure this trip is going to turn out like I expected.
*****
10:35 p.m. I dig out the calling card from the manila envelope my editor Gary provided. I dial what must be four-hundred and twelve numbers, and I'm finally connected to the newsroom at Met U. The phone only rings twice before it's picked up.
“Newsroom.”
“Gary?” I never expected him to answer the phone.
“Who else?” Gary has mastered a disarming air of indifference. I'd never admit it to him, but I'm glad he was editor for my first year at MetU. He has his quirks, but he's a good editor and plays fair.
“I just never expected you'd do the menial work of taking down my stories yourself.”
“Yeah, well, consider yourself special. Sadly for you, though, this is a one-time proposition. We had a fax machine installed today, so starting tomorrow you'll have to fax your stories.”
“That's nice, Gary. The minute I leave town, you go and modernize the place. What's next, are you going to replace the IBM typewriters with Macintosh computers? Whatever will we do with all of our Wite-Out?!” I'm thrilled that we've finally gotten a fax machine. I find time at least every other week to rant about how much more efficient the newspaper could be if we adopted a few technological advances.
“Shut up, Lane. I assume your hotel has a fax machine available?”
“In fact, they do. Should I just put the fax charges on my room account?”
“Yeah, that'll be fine. Can't be any more expensive than the long distance charges to call in your stories.” Gary always grumbles when talking about money. I'm curious if that's a trait of all chief editors.
“And room service is covered too, right?”
“Lane,” Gary growls.
“Geez, Gary, you're too easy. Now, are you going to take down my story or what?”
“Yeah, Lane, go ahead.” He's stepped down from growling to grumbling. “Next time my sports editor breaks his leg right before the College World Series, I'm going to fire him.”
I laugh as I begin to dictate.
*****
“That it?” Gary asks.
“For today.” I've been playing nice, but I haven't forgotten the peculiarities of this assignment. “So spill. What's the deal with this nightly deadline?”
“Well, Lane, that's the deadline for the Daily Planet.”
I pause. “So? What does that have to do with me?”
“You're going to make me spell it out, aren't you?”
I am. I had my suspicions, but I was not going to jinx it. It's not unheard of for the Daily Planet to syndicate articles from the Daily Metropolitan, but that always happens after they've been written, rather than being prearranged. “You haven't told me what that has to do with me.”
“Perry White called and told me he'd like to run our coverage of the College World Series. He said it's great for our city when our teams do well, and he said he'd like to include stories from the perspective of a student reporter.”
Things are starting to add up. Gary wouldn't request Metropolis University Alumni Foundation cash to set me up with a room and rental car, but Perry White probably just called in a favor from an old friend. I'd even bet this has something to do with Gary's sudden embrace of technology. But Mr. White was certainly expecting a sports reporter, not a barely-sophomore beat reporter. It's not his fault he doesn't know the Daily Planet will need me in about three years.
I have to ask. “So what did Mr. White say when you told him Steve couldn't go?”
“Uh, not much. He told me he we've had a high quality paper this year, and he had confidence that whomever I sent would come up with good articles.”
“So I better not mess this up, right?”
“Lane, if I suspected you were capable of messing this up, you wouldn't be there.”
“Aw, thanks, Gary.” I play it sappy, but I do value Gary's confidence in me.
“Yeah, whatever. I know you want to work for the Planet when you graduate, so it's a given that you won't underestimate this opportunity. Don't try to write to impress, though, just write solid stories. Your work will speak for itself. Don't get in your own head.”
The ability to provide encouragement, advice, and sarcasm at appropriate moments is what makes Gary a good editor. “Thanks, Gary.”
“No problem, Lane. So tomorrow you've got the press conference and the meet the players event?”
“Yeah. The Mets are practicing in the morning, too.”
“Okay. Take in some of practice, then head over to the stadium area. See if you can get some interviews with some of the locals, get the flavor of the event.”
“Got it.” The thought occurs to me that he gave me the perfect setup for a rural America joke, but I let it pass. If I keep thinking of them, there's a greater chance one of them will pop out of my mouth at an inopportune moment.
“Great. I have to get this edited and sent to Mr. White. Talk to you later, Lane.”
“Bye, Gary.”
*****
The first thing I learn in the morning is that the weather in Omaha suffers from multiple personality disorder. After the pleasant breezes yesterday, I was greeted by the unholy combination of 80 degree temperatures and 90 percent humidity at eight in the morning. Checking the weather forecast was immediately added to my daily to do list.
The second thing I learn is that Omaha is an absurdly small city. More accurately, I learn that fact empirically. The drive from the hotel to the Mets' practice field, which is a local high school ball field, takes less than ten minutes. In Metropolis, I can't get from one end of campus to the other in ten minutes.
I stand outside the fence watching the Mets practice for a while. A good ball team never takes the basics for granted, and these guys look like they could be hosting a clinic. Every catch, every throw, every infield play is executed to textbook perfection. The team is focused, and they're having fun. The “ping” of ball hitting metal bat provides a steady beat to the practice.
Coach Williams might actually have eyes in the back of his head, like that old saying. He doesn't miss a thing.
After about an hour of observation, I turn my focus to the bystanders scattered here and there on the bleachers. I've been keeping an eye on them, trying to figure out who among them might have traveled from Metropolis and who is a local. I decide I don't have enough evidence to make that determination, so I'll do the next best thing. I'll interview them.
My first target is a couple of college-age boys who have been watching practice with keen interest. “Hi,” I announce. “I'm Lois Lane, reporter for the Daily Metropolitan. Can I ask you guys a few questions?”
“Sure,” the tall skinny one answers. He has thick, blond, curly hair. He and his friend are so engrossed in watching the Mets practice that they barely afford me a glance. Serious baseball fans, I guess.
Curly and his friend are seated three rows up and little way in from the end of the bleachers, so I sit on the end of the second row, half turned toward the field and half turned toward them.
“So are you guys from Omaha, or did you travel to watch the Mets?” Let's see what we're dealing with.
“A little of both, I guess,” answers the friend, who is not quite as tall as Curly. He's wearing a baseball cap, but I don't recognize the logo. Still, neither of them are looking at me.
Curly gives a little start, as if he's just realized that I've asked a question. “Oh, sorry. Yeah, we're from Omaha, but we go to Met U. We're both working here this summer, but we were pretty excited when the Mets made the CWS.”
“Oh, so you guys are Mets! What year are you?” Bingo. Students to interview, and local ones at that. An intersection of both worlds.
Curly has managed to spare me a fraction of his attention. “I just finished my junior year, and Josh here just finished his sophomore year.”
“And what made you choose Met U?”
Curly actually looks at me, a half-smile on his face. “Haven't been here long, have you? I needed to get out of this town for a while, go somewhere bigger.”
“You can't beat Metropolis,” I agree. “What about you, Josh?”
“Hmm?” I didn't think he was really paying attention to this conversation. “Oh, I'm a math major.”
Josh is either really into baseball or just the absent-minded type. Typical of math majors. I think I can surmise an answer out of that, though. “You went to Metropolis for the math program?”
“Yeah,” he agrees. I think he heard and comprehended that question. I'm going with it.
“Did you guys know each other before you went to Met U?” If they didn't, I'm having a hard time speculating how they met on campus, given their obvious mastery of social skils.
“We went to high school together. We were on the baseball team together,” Curly responds. That explains their impressive ability to ignore me in favor of team practice. I suspect that also explains the logo on Josh's hat.
“What do you think about the Mets making the College World Series? What do you think their chances are?” Curly's face almost lights up at that. Even Josh bothers to look at me.
“The field's good this year. Met U's talented, but some of those other teams are really good, too. Have you seen LSU or Miami play?” I'm not sure if this question is directed at me.
Before I can respond, Josh joins in. “Both of those teams have killer stats. Kansas has put up some spectacular numbers this year, too.”
“Yeah, but their conference is terrible.”
“That's true,” Josh agrees. “But they've played some big non-conference schools and won.”
“You're right. Who are they playing first?”
Josh is silent. They both look expectantly at me. “Um, Indiana State on Saturday.” I didn't realize I had memorized the first round match-ups, but I have looked at the schedule several times and I guess it stuck.
“I think Kansas will win that,” Josh says confidently. “It should be a good game.”
“And the Mets have Maine on Friday,” Curly states. “That'll be good, too.”
“Yeah,” Josh agrees cautiously. “They're going to have to be careful with that Maine team. They hit some scorchers.”
“Hey, do you remember that time Miami hit one so hard we thought it was going all the way to the zoo?”
“Oh man, that was the hardest hit ball I have ever seen. Do you remember that time that foul ball...” Josh begins laughing so hard he can't finish his thought.
“Right in Mac's drink?!” Curly is now likewise laughing hysterically.
Lois Lane 1, Uninterested Interview Subjects 0.
*****
TBC
