Diamond in the Rough. Marie Ferrarella

point or other, he’d entertained dreams of being a baseball player himself. Not outstanding enough to ever make it to the minors, much less the majors, he went to college, got a degree in journalism and did the next best thing to playing—writing about the game and the players who made it all come to life.

      He’d honestly thought he’d gotten over his disappointment in Shaw until he’d started writing the article. It was as if something deep inside of him was set free. The boy who’d been so sorely disappointed had been there all along, waiting to ask why.

      Until he knew why, he couldn’t begin to forgive. But all his attempts at interviewing Shaw over the last few years during baseball season had been rebuffed. The man didn’t even return his phone calls.

      Every year the members of the Baseball Writers Association of America would get together and pore over a list of eligible retired players to decide if there were any viable candidates. This year, there had been a rumor going around that perhaps it was time to bend the rules a bit, to forgive and forget and welcome a man who, had he not committed the unforgivable, would have been a shoo-in.

      As far as Mike was concerned, there was a difference between retired and run out on a rail. One was honorable, the other drenched in disgrace.

      When he’d heard the rumor a third time, Mike knew he had to say something, to finally speak up and make his feelings known. Looking back, maybe it had been the hurt boy who had written the article. But what he’d written needed to be said and he was certain that it had been the right thing to do.

      But obviously “Miranda” from Bedford didn’t share his opinion, he thought with a bemused smile as he read her latest e-mail. She’d told him so in no uncertain words—he paused to count the number of e-mails with her name on them—ten times. Ten different times. He shook his head. Who would have thought there were ten different ways to say the same thing?

      The woman was probably an old groupie, he thought. Baseball groupies had been around as long as the game, following a team from city to city just to sit in the stands and look adoringly at some player or other, if not the whole team. He had no doubt that Miranda had probably gotten a little something on the side once from SOS—the man was only human after all—and felt a personal connection to the pitcher.

      Mike rolled the thought over in his head. Shaw had been touted as the ultimate family man—until the death of his daughter. Shaw’s wife, he’d heard, never recovered and eventually died, but not before divorcing him. That had been a black period for the pitcher, but he still played. Some said better than ever, as if he was taking solace the only way he knew how. Off the field, there’d been talk of women and wild parties, but nothing had ever been substantiated.

      Mike couldn’t help thinking that this Miranda was probably from that era.

      Straightening, Mike began to type.

      Dear Miranda, he wrote. I’m afraid that you might be allowing sentiment to cloud your judgment. No one is arguing that SOS wasn’t a dynamic player in his day, only that he turned out to be a monumental disappointment to the worshipful boys—and girls, he added in deference to his stepmother, who all thought of him as their hero. Heroes blackened by scandals are no longer heroes, no matter what their personal stats are. I stand by my position. Under no circumstances is SOS to be absolved of his sin and welcomed into the hall of fame, to share space with the men who truly deserve to be there.

      He reread his words once, decided that he was satisfied and hit Send.

      Working at her station, Miranda noticed the e-mail response that suddenly popped up in the corner of her screen. Because the subject referenced was the title of the article that had gotten her so angry, she opened the e-mail immediately. She hadn’t really expected an answer.

      Scanning the reply, she set her jaw hard. Within a heartbeat, she was firing back a response to Marlowe’s response.

      Were you always such a pompous ass, or did your present so-called vocation do that to you? I’ve been following your column for some time now. Until today, I actually thought you had a brain, as well as a heart, but obviously the wizard decided to abruptly take them both back.

      Not bothering to reread her words, something she usually did very carefully before sending anything, Miranda hit Send. She hit the key so hard, she broke a nail.

      Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Tilda watching her. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to let it out slowly in an attempt to calm down. But she’d no sooner blown that breath out than more words appeared on her screen.

      Clever. Obviously I am not going to make my case with you, which is all right. Different opinions are what make the world go around. Let’s just agree to disagree.

      He was being lofty, and high-handed, making her out to be the small-minded one here when they both knew it was him.

      I don’t agree to anything, she fired back. You’re wrong, as well as inflexible. If you were in front of me right now, I’d make you eat your words.

      Mike leaned back, studying the latest missive that tore across his screen like silent gunfire. He’d obviously struck a nerve. Part of him felt like just letting this go. But both his father and stepmother had taught him to stand up for what he believed and never to back away from a fight, even one that was annoyingly inconsequential, like this one.

      No matter what my location, he typed, referring to her comment about standing in front of her, I’d still believe what I believe. He took off the kid gloves he’d envisioned himself wearing during the initial response. Forgiveness is for dropped pitches, not dropped morals. If you’d like to continue this debate in person, you name the time and place.

      There, that should put her in her place, he thought, pressing Send.

      Mike didn’t think he’d receive an answer, other than a few choice expletives, so he was rather surprised when yet another volley of words appeared on his computer screen.

      Bailey’s Sports Bar. Six o’clock. Today.

      Chapter Two

      Mike stared at the screen, waiting for something more to appear.

      Several seconds passed. No additional words materialized. The brief, staccato sentences seemed to pulse on the field of white, looking for all the world like a challenge. It reminded him of a cocky kid with his chin thrust forward, daring him to take a swing.

      Except that in this case, the words belonged to a cocky female. One who obviously lived and breathed the game of baseball—or maybe just focused on Shaw to the exclusion of everything else.

      The woman obviously was in dire need of a life, he decided.

      For a second, he debated the wisdom of meeting her. Undoubtedly, there were too many birds nesting on her antennae and he had no desire to get tangled up with a crazy woman. But then, Bailey’s Sports Bar was a pretty crowded place at six, even on a Monday. Besides, he had to admit that his curiosity had been aroused. If the woman actually knew SOS, she might be willing to tell a few stories. This might the closest thing to an interview with Shaw that he could score.

      Or maybe, if he played his cards right and she did know the former pitcher, he might even wind up getting an introduction.

      But as he finally put his hand to the keyboard, Mike saw a single word take form on his screen. Afraid?

      She’d hit him where he lived.

      You’re on, he typed, then realized he needed a way

       to recognize her when she walked into Bailey’s. How

       will I know you?

      Her answer was far from satisfying. Instead of a description, she gave him a cryptic reply. I’ll know you.

      Miranda liked having the advantage on her side. Maybe it wasn’t polite, but at the moment, with the article still warm on her desk, she wasn’t feeling very polite. And this know-it-all didn’t deserve any cut slack.

      Unless