Free Striking Out by Alison Gordon

baseball, but don’t. Want me to fax stuff over to you?”
    “Not if it isn’t news. And what are you columnizing on?”
    “The Great Good of the Game, what else?”
    “I can hardly wait. And I’ll probably drop in at the office tomorrow or the day after.”
    “I’ll get the red carpet ready.”
    Then I called Joe, who didn’t have any news for me either.
    “I was hoping you knew something.” he said.
    “What are you hearing from your people in New York?”
    “The owners won’t give an inch. They figure the longer we’re out, the more paycheques we miss, the more we’ll be willing to give up.”
    “Are they right?”
    “No. They’re losing money too. It’s a two-way street.”
    “And you’re playing chicken on it.”
    “Uh huh.”
    “And the fans? What about them?”
    “You know the answer to that. Just write that we’re sorry, and we appreciate their messages, but we won’t go back into slavery, no matter what. We just hope they’ll understand and let the owners know how they feel.”
    “Yeah, fine. Those particular clichés have been well covered. But what about you? Don’t you think you owe them something?”
    “It’s not just us that owes them. It’s the owners, too.”
    “Fair enough, I guess. What are your plans now?”
    “I’m just hangin’ in and waiting for the phone to ring. Most of the guys have gone home with their families, but I’ve got to stand by and keep the solidarity going, know what I mean?”
    The irony of a guy taking home 3.2 million dollars a year making like a speaker at a CCF picnic of my childhood didn’t escape me.
    “Have you talked to any of the other guys?”
    “Almost every day.”
    “What about management? Have you talked to anyone from the Titan office?”
    “Not for you to write about, but Ted Ferguson and I are talking. Except he doesn’t know anything either. He’s being kept out of the loop because he’s not one of the hard-line owners. They’re the ones in control of the situation.”
    “So how long will you stay here? You must want to get home.”
    “That’s what Sandy keeps asking me.”
    Joe is the only publicly gay player in baseball. When he came out a few years ago, he assumed others would follow, but they looked at the rough ride Joe got and decided to stay in their closets until after their careers. It’s too bad. Joe has weathered his storms pretty well. The fact that he’s the player rep shows what his teammates think of him.
    “Fly Sandy up for the weekend, why don’t you?”
    “I wish. He’s too busy.”
    I heard footsteps running up the stairs, and the door banged open. T.C. came in, shouting my name.
    “Just a sec!” I called to him, then told Joe to keep in touch and hung up.
    “Kate, you got to come with me. Maggie’s missing, and I think something’s wrong.”
    “What do you mean? What’s wrong?”
    “You got to come. Anthony’s waiting there.”
    I followed him down the stairs and out the door, then he rushed me to the laneway. As we rounded the corner, I saw Anthony standing by Maggie’s garage. He’s a tall, striking boy, with a face that’s broody in repose. He was dressed in the usual baggy shorts, huge T-shirt, and baseball cap askew. And, of course, the famous Rolex that T.C. covets.
    “What is it you want to show me?”
    “This,” T.C. said, indicating her chair, which was toppled on the ground.
    I looked at it carefully. There were dark stains all over it.
    “Blood,” T.C. said, rather melodramatically, I thought.
    It was also splashed on her boxes, which were every which way, instead of in their usual neat arrangement.
    “You’re sure that’s blood? It looks like paint.”
    I stuck out a finger and touched it. It was dry, and I couldn’t tell how old the stain was.
    “Whatever it is, it wasn’t there before,” Anthony said. “We found this chair for her, and it wasn’t all covered with stuff then.”
    “When did you last see her?”
    “Yesterday,” Anthony said. I thought. I