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to the life-saving equipment in their van, but even in their
precise professionalism, they stole a fraction of a second to
glance at us.
They had to be thinking that it was not every night that
you get summoned to a scene by Mac MacDonnell and
Smokey O. And what the hell were we doing together and
doing at the ballpark so late at night?
I wish I knew.
The paramedics invited us along as they took Miss Jewel
to the emergency center on Main Street. We sat crammed
together on a bench in the back, riding in tense silence,
as the van rushed through the deserted Newark streets,
its emergency flashers reflected crazily in rows of dark
windows in silent houses and the University of Delaware s
quiet halls.
At the emergency center Mac told the desk attendant
as much as we knew, and then we sat in the waiting room,
staring at a television showing a late-night movie without
taking any of it in.
We broke our silence only once, when Mac asked me,
How did you get to a phone so fast?
I used the one in Lefevre s office. I took your bat and
smashed her window and broke in.
Oh. Good thinking.
After a while, a physician came to us with an expression
that was indecipherable and a stride that was tired but not
sorrowful.
We stood.
Thanks to the two of you, her prognosis is good, the
physician said.
Mac and I looked at each other with unspeakable
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gratitude.
I better call Lefevre, Mac said.
Tell her I m sorry about her window, I said.
Good morning, the broadcast began on the Today show.
Two players from the Delaware Blue Diamonds saved the
life of their clubhouse manager last night in a dramatic
rescue using CPR. We ll be joining Mac MacDonnell and
Smokey O Neill live at a news conference at Du Pont
Stadium in about an hour.
Everything had happened very fast. By the time Lefevre
arrived to collect us, the director of the emergency room
had been notified, and he came in, despite the ungodly
hour. He turned out to be a little on the publicity-hungry
side, and Lefevre figured that she had better take control
before he did.
She drew us aside. I m going to have to call the
newspaper and tell them what happened, she said. She
looked at Mac. And there s going to have to be a press
conference, first thing in the morning.
Mac nodded. I ll do it, she said.
I was startled. Mac had hardly granted an interview
since the Olympics, and here she was agreeing to a press
conference that had all the makings of a media gang bang.
I decided not to try to figure it out. This whole night had
me feeling like Alice on the wrong side of the looking glass.
Lefevre telephoned the Wilmington News Journal s
sports desk just before the deadline for the Sports Final
edition. The editors did what they could, remaking the
front page to include a box briefly reporting what Mac and
I had done and announcing the press conference.
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It made for a chaotic newspaper. You had all the stuff
about Mac and me and Sports Illustrated, plus the game
against Boston, plus Miss Jewel. I don t know how the
readers sorted it out. I barely could.
Lefevre really was magnificent that night. You d never
know that she had been awakened to handle a crisis after
one of the most emotional games she had ever coached.
She got the front office arranging the press conference, she
called Miss Jewel s family herself, and she dealt with the
emergency room staff, all without offending anyone.
When she was sure everything was squared away, she
guided Mac and me to her car and drove to an all-night
diner. I thought I didn t want anything, but I was famished,
and so was Mac.
No one talked for a while. Lefevre sipped coffee while
Mac and I ate. Then Lefevre casually asked us what had
happened. We barely answered at first, but soon the words
came rushing out of us and we told her every detail of every
terrifying moment.
She wasn t breathing, Mac said. She didn t have a
pulse. I ve never been so frightened in my life.
You were frightened? I said. You seemed calm to me.
Dead calm, like you were getting ready for batting practice,
or something.
Hell, no. I was scared to death. But I didn t want to
panic you. Shit, I didn t want to panic me.
Well, it worked. I figured I had to be as cool as you. I
just took a second until I thought about the quickest way to
get to a phone.
You could have used a key, Lefevre said drily. As I
understand this story, Miss Jewel s keys were lying there
beside her.
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Lefevre was right. I could have used the key, but I never
thought about it at the time. I just grabbed the bat and ran.
Ooops, I said, and we laughed, laughing harder and
harder until the tears came to our eyes and we cried, crying
for Miss Jewel and for relief and for the tragedy that could
have been.
The late-night waitresses stood away from us in a cluster
under the garish fluorescent light and made comments out
of the sides of their mouths, looking at us as though we
were all candidates for the drunk tank. But we didn t care.
Eventually we wound down. Lefevre paid the bill and
drove us back to the stadium, where our cars were. Dawn
overtook us as we stood in the parking lot, not wanting to
go. It was peaceful here, and the birds were singing their
hymns to the morning, and the ballpark was as cool as a
cathedral with the awful power to outwit death itself.
I shivered, overcome by fatigue and emotion. Lefevre
noticed. She cupped my chin in her hand and raised it until
I had no choice but to look at her.
Are you all right? she asked.
Yes.
You re sure?
Yes.
Then perhaps you d like to tell me what you were
doing at the ballpark at midnight?
I stiffened as though someone had stuck a gun against
my back. I had no idea what to say. Dreadful seconds ticked
away while I tried to decide whether I was more afraid of
Lefevre or Mac.
It was becoming quite clear that Lefevre wasn t about
to release me when Mac spoke. She doesn t know. I m the
only one who knows, and whatever it was, it didn t happen.
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Lefevre let me go. She switched her attention to Mac,
who was regarding both of us with a teasing smile. No
wonder she had a secret she was keeping, and she d just
left me dangling at Lefevre s mercy until she felt like bailing
me out.
You ll be asked at the press conference, Lefevre said.
I ll handle it. Trust me.
Lefevre looked at the player who had brought her an
Olympic gold medal, who had brought her three W.B.L.
Crowns, who had brought her a must-win game the night
before. I always have, Lefevre said. I ll see both of you
back here in about an hour.
I went home, showered and changed my clothes. I
was getting my second wind, the andrenaline pumping as
I thought about the press conference. It was going to be
a madhouse. It would have been bad enough just because
of the events Miss Jewel, the competition with Boston,
the Sports Illustrated story but with Mac there, the
sportswriters were really going to salivate.
The press conference room was packed. The front
office had brought in huge urns of coffee, a plastic cooler
of ice water, dozens of doughnuts and a punch bowl full of
raspberry yogurt. Like animals at a zoo, the press corps was
a little less surly on a full stomach.
Every seat was taken, and more sportswriters were
slouching against the walls. There were people that I had
never seen before, and I guessed that the editors had sent in
some of their news reporters, too.
The bright bank of lights from the television cameras
gave the room all the friendliness of a police interrogation
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chamber. I wondered what we were in for.
The director of the emergency room, the owner of the
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