I looked up at Joshua “Bone” Crusher, all 6 feet 6 inches of baseball muscle and grit, his 34 inch, 32 ounce Louisville Slugger gripped in both massive hands, the handle cocked a few inches away from his left ear. He was smiling but not really listening as I showed him his strike zone heat chart.

“You’re not looking at the chart, Joshua.”

“Call me Bone, sweetheart. Everybody does.”

I flinched, pursed my lips in frustration but said nothing, and jabbed my index finger at the tablet screen, touching the bright red areas that denoted where he made his hardest contact, barreling the pitch at the most critical inflection point.

“You know why they call me Bone, don’t you, babe?”

“Concentrate, Joshua. Please. Skip said you’re chasing pitches low and away. This shows you where you should be looking instead—”

“I’m looking at a hot zone right now.” He put the bat down and made a move to cup my ass. I wear one size too big fleece sweats to hide my embarrassing bubble butt. Embarrassing for a guy, that is. Because I’m a guy.

It seems all my life, people have mistaken me for a girl. The name my mom gave me doesn’t help. Evelyn. As in Evelyn Waugh, the British author. My mom was a high school English teacher in our hometown of Somerset, New Jersey. She died in an auto accident when I was 12. Some drunk driver crashed into my parents’ car on John F. Kennedy Boulevard coming back home from the Somerset Diner. It left dad in a wheelchair. He does okay, I guess. Smalltown lawyer who handles mostly real estate matters. He remarried to a really nice lady after my younger sister Debbie went off to college.

I’m a scrawny fellow. Only 5 feet 6 inches from my head to my toes. I guess the trauma of mom’s passing delayed my puberty or slowed it to a crawl. Whatever. Doctors tell me it’s nothing serious, just rather low testosterone levels. They didn’t even prescribe HRT for me. It’s annoying that my skin is smooth, I’m virtually hairless except for the unruly mop on my head, and I’m beginning to get kind of curvy in unlikely places. But it’s my cross to bear. Otherwise, things are hunky dory.

I started to slap Bone’s hand away from my rear region when Mickey, the owner’s 15 year old grandson and honorary Spring Training batboy, ran over to us.

“Evie, Brian wants to speak to you…in his office.”

“What about, Mickey? Did he say?”

“No, he just said to tell you.” He turned to face Bone. “Don’t mess with the merchandise, Bone. Skip says there’s a lot of media around watching practice today. Does the word harassment mean anything to you?”

“Kid, does the word mind your own business mean anything to you?”

“That’s more than a word, Einstein.” I gently pushed Mickey toward the dugout.

“Come on, Mickey. Let’s go see Brian. Wonder what he wants.”

“After you’re done with Brian, maybe you can show me some more hot zones, Evie,” Bone shouted after us. He gave a thumbs up to some of the other players hanging around the batting cage and giggled. It was weird hearing a 240-pound behemoth laugh like a little girl.

“My name’s Evelyn,” I muttered to myself. “Why does everyone call me Evie?”

“I think it’s a nice name, Evie. It fits you. Pretty name for a pretty—”

It was Richie Morrow, a pitcher who was a highly touted rookie in The New York Titans’ starting rotation this season. Opening day was still two weeks away. I had worked with Richie on our Triple A club in Somerset last year. He really took to the analytic data I presented to him. We increased the spin rates on his four-seamer and slider a minimum of 5%. Made a big difference. That’s why he’s here in Spring camp, poised to make his major league debut.

“Richie, you, of all people should know I’m not a girl—”

“Alright, okay, got ya. Woman. I’m not a neanderthal like Bone and the others…”

“Love to talk, Richie, but Brian wants to see me in his office. Now, if you’ll move aside, Mickey and I can enter the bowels of the stadium and confront the monster in his subterranean lair.”

He stepped back and waved us by. “Milady. Forgive me. What are you doing for lunch?”

“Mickey and I are going to Manny’s Home Plate for their crinkle fries.”

“We are? Yeah, Richie. See ya.” He stuck his tongue out. “She goes for younger guys.”

I didn’t get an MBA in marketing to get a job doing statistical analysis for a major league baseball team. It just happened. Of course, I had a baseball background. I played in high school and, even though I wasn’t good enough for varsity, I pitched on intramural teams in college. Due to my lack of size, I specialized in throwing off-speed stuff. The technical baseball term for it is “slop.” But I was a whiz on a spreadsheet with my background in statistical analysis. I researched pitcher-batter matchups and devised winning gameplans. My senior year, the head coach of the varsity team used my analytical breakdowns to get our school to the NCAA Division 1A regional finals. We lost but mostly because the coach wouldn’t take up my offer to pitch in the championship game. He scoffed at me afterwards but I’m sure my off-speed repertoire would have shut the other team’s lineup out.

After I finished my two-year MBA program, I was surprised to discover that my college coach had joined the coaching staff of The New York Titans. Furthermore, he had recommended to General Manager Brian Anson that he hire me for his analytics department. I was initially thrilled but exasperated when I learned he had urged Anson to hire me as much for my expertise as the fact that diversity was a major league initiative meaning hiring women for jobs in baseball would win a gold star from the Commissioner’s office. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I reported for work with The Titans’ minor league affiliate in my hometown of Somerset last summer and began delving out my analytical suggestions to the young prospects on the club, my star pupil being Richie Morrow.

The door to Brian Anson’s office was wide open. He was seated behind his desk, his mobile phone glued to his right ear while he was punching the keyboard on his laptop. At the moment, he was just nodding at whatever the person on the other end was saying. He looked up.

“Yes, Mickey?”

“I brought Evie like you asked, Brian.” He stepped aside and I waved, a silly gesture that reinforced everyone’s preconceptions about my gender. I had to stop doing things like that.

“Come in, Evelyn. Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a sec. Getting notes on some players on the minor league fields across the street. Yeah, right. Hmm, that sounds interesting. He’s a problem, I know. Okay, call me later.” He disconnected and stared at me for a full ten seconds.

“You did a great job with the kids in Somerset last summer. Especially with Richie. He’s gonna be a star. Wouldn’t surprise me if he won Rookie of the Year this season. He said he owes a lot of his improvement to you—”

“He’s a smart kid. I just pointed him in the right direction. He’s got a great arm.”

“Well, you did such a great job we thought you’d do the same for the big club—”

“Thanks for the confidence in me, Brian. I try to do the best I can—”

“Unfortunately, Evelyn, we’ve come to a…an impasse. A bump in the road…”

“How do you mean?”

“I guess the veterans on the team aren’t connecting with you. The analytics I mean.”

“Once they see I can help them overcome their weaknesses, I’m sure they’ll come around. There’s always a period of adjustment with advancements in knowledge. It’s a process…”

“I’ll cut to the chase. It’s not your analytics they’re having a hard time accepting. It’s you.”

“Me? I find that hard to believe…”

“They see you as a distraction.”

“Huh?”

“They think you’re a girl!”

“Brian, you know I’m a guy. I never led anyone to believe I’m anything but. Just tell them. Make it clear if there are misconceptions.”

“I’ve tried. They don’t believe me. Half the squad thinks you’re a lesbian, the other half keep asking me if you’re single. This isn’t working out, Evie…I mean Evelyn.”

“Do you want me to go across the street and work with the minor leaguers again?”

“No, we’re fully staffed now. You’d be pushing our new hire out the door.”

“Reassign him. You’ve got five minor league teams, Brian.”

“It’s a her. You opened the door to women in the coaching ranks. She’s someone we had to outbid The Red Sox to get. Sorry, Evie, I have to let you go. We’ll give you two months severance and a very nice letter of recommendation. Maybe you can hook up with another team. I know the Dodgers are looking for a woman to hire…”

“That doesn’t really help me, Brian. I’m not a woman—”

“I don’t think most people would believe you. Anyway, it was a pleasure having you work for us.” He stood up and approached me with his hand held out to shake. “Just talk to Lenny before you clear out your locker. I’ve told him to have a check ready for you. Goodbye. Good luck.”

Stunned, I walked toward the clubhouse to clean out my locker, my head down, my eyes reddening despite myself. I almost collided with Richie as he came out of the clubhouse. He had changed into his civvies, I guess to go have lunch, foregoing the team spread of club sandwiches and protein drinks.

“Evie, watch where you’re going! Hey, are you crying? Did Anson yell at you? That fat bastard! He shouldn’t treat a woman that way—”

“I got sacked, Richie. I’m clearing out my stuff.”

“What? I’m going to talk to him. He can’t fire you—”

“It’s no use. The players say I’m a distraction. Anyway, you’re a rookie. Do you think Anson would listen to you?” I sat on the chair in front of my locker and stared ahead, trying to dry my eyes with my hand. Richie handed me a tissue.

“You can clear out your locker after lunch. I know a place out past the Causeway with the best Cuban Sandwiches in Tampa. I think you might need a cocktail with one of those paper umbrellas too. Come on, change into something nice. I’ll wait for you in the parking lot.”

Richie drove a cherry red Nissan Z sports coupe. I had to remind myself that Richie had been a first round draft pick, receiving a signing bonus in the seven figures. He was a rookie but wasn’t struggling on a typical minor leaguer’s wages. I had changed into something “nice.” Nope. Just my normal black t-shirt and black denim pants. I had also put on a totally unnecessary baseball jacket, considering it was in the 80s at midday. Richie was disappointed.

“I’ve never seen you in a dress or even a skirt. All this time I’ve known you. I was going to ask if you wanted to go with me and some of the guys to the beach on Thursday. The last off day before we break camp. Well, now…I guess you’ll be heading north.”

“I don’t think I’d want to hang around town. Got to start sending out my resume…”

“You have an MBA. You could get a marketing job, couldn’t you?”

“I guess. Brian said The Dodgers are looking for an analytics person. I’ve never been to California. My sister is working in LA for a sportswear company. She could put me up while I explore the opportunities out there. Problem is The Dodgers are looking for a woman—”

“That’s perfect for you! This might end up being a real break in your career.”

I looked out the window at the bay as we sped down the Causeway. This was so annoying. Everyone thinks I’m a woman. Brian and the front office all know I’m a guy. It’s just everyone else I meet. Do I have to drop trou and wave my dick at them to get it through their thick heads? I’m not mad at Richie. He’s been really nice to me. He’s not a moron so I wonder if he’s, as the Brits say, taking the piss out of me. I turned to look at him. A girl would find him cute. Not that it matters.

“Whatever happens, Evie, let’s stay in touch. I’ll miss you. You know, my parents keep wanting to have you over for dinner sometime. They say they want to thank you for helping me make the bigs. They’ll be sorely disappointed to hear you won’t be with the team anymore. If you don’t mind, can I still call you now and then? You understand my mechanics better than anyone…”

“Sure, Richie. Text me anytime.”

“I’ll do that.” He banged his hand on the steering wheel. “Shit, shit, shit! Why did they do this?”

I placed a hand on his shoulder and gently rubbed, keeping my eyes focused on the bay’s shimmering surface.

Six weeks later, still jobless, I sat at the breakfast table in my father’s house in Somerset, yawning as I poured Honey Nut Cheerios into my bowl. My stepmother, Consuela, had her laptop open on the table in front of her, trying to find a marketing position for me locally, most likely in Jersey City or New Brunswick, a manageable commute from Somerset County. My dad would nod now and again, wink at me, and take another sip of his coffee.

Staying with my parents meant I could make my severance payout last longer but I didn’t want to be a burden on my dad, nor did I want to intrude on their privacy. Consuela married my father after both of his children had moved out and she had no children of her own (she was a widow).

“No, sweetie, we’re not put out by having you stay here. We’re ecstatic really. Aren’t we, Consuela?”

“Yes, Evelyn, it’s a chance for me to get to know you better. And I can teach you how to cook. Your future husband will be glad I did.” She laughed.

“Now you’re trolling me. Dad, are you putting Consuela up to this? It’s not funny.”

“She’s only seeing what’s obvious. I have two beautiful daughters. There’s Debbie, who is my youngest, and then there’s you, Evie, my eldest. We’ve always known you were a girl. Up here (pointing to my head) and here (pointing to my heart).”

“Medical science doesn’t see it that way, dad. I’m just kind of a neuter—”

Dad squeezed my hand. “You’re my beautiful little girl. Your mother knew it when she was carrying you. That’s why she named you Evelyn…”

“But she named me after that British writer, didn’t she?”

“That’s what you assumed, Evie. No, Evelyn was your grandmother’s name—”

“Everyone called her Eve. I thought it was just simply Eve.”

“We were going to call you Eve for short too but when the doctors said you were definitely a boy…”

“Doesn’t change the fact I’m male not female.”

“You are what you are…inside, dear. You should think seriously of taking that step and transition,” Consuela advised.

I looked at my father. He simply nodded and squeezed my hand again.

“It’s a major step. Maybe I’m just something in-between, neither male nor female. Remember Doctor Slayton told us I was just having a delayed puberty and my hormones would sort themselves out eventually?”

“He was a quack. But when you turned 18, it was your decision and you weren’t sure…”

“I’m still not sure.”

“Oh, I keep forgetting to tell you. Debbie told me she wants you to consider interviewing for a marketing position in her company—”

“That’s in LA, dad. I still haven’t heard from The Dodgers—”

“You said they were looking to hire a woman. I’m sure they found out from The Titans that you’re technically male.”

“I’ll give her a call but I don’t see myself moving to California just to work for a sportswear company, an industry I have little interest in or knowledge of.”

“She misses her sister too. You two used to be inseparable. She depends on you a lot, especially after your mother passed. You were practically her second mother.”

“We’re not children anymore, dad. I can’t hold her hand into her thirties.”

There was an interregnum while we finished our breakfast, only punctuated by the news radio station Consuela liked to monitor for the weather before she left for her nursing shift at St. Thomas Medical. Dad worked out of his home office. He had a small client list and was semi-retired nowadays.

“Oh, I’m going to the Titans game tomorrow evening. Can I borrow the Corolla, dad?”

“Sure. Consuela can drive the SUV to work. She’s used to the modifications now. Why are you going to the game? I’d think the less you’re reminded of The Titans, the better.”

“Richie’s parents are coming to New York for the first time to see him pitch tomorrow night. He says they expressly wanted to meet me and take us all out for dinner after the game.”

“That’s very nice of them. They know you helped their son a great deal,” noted Consuela as she turned the radio down.

“There’s a problem, though. They all think I’m a girl. Even Richie who should know better. What do I do? It could be very embarrassing. Not just for me but Richie as well.”

“What are you thinking of wearing tomorrow night?” Consuela asked.

“Kind of what I wear normally. Maybe a long sleeve shirt with button-down collar and the navy-blue dress slacks. You know, the one with the extra room in the seat. I hope it’s not too tight. I’ve gained some weight recently.”

“No, no, chica. You have to look gorgeous for Richie’s parents. He wants to show you off to them. No, you need a beautiful dress to wear!”

“Like I have a beautiful dress in my closet? Or a dress period?”

“Look, my shift ends at 5. Be ready to go shopping, muchacha. We’ll hit Bridgewater Commons. At the very least, Macy’s will have some cute dresses.”

“Consuela! They’ll arrest me as a pervert!”

“A little makeup, brush your hair out, my sandals with the kitten heels, maybe some nail polish. You’ll look like a supermodel!”

“Dad, are you co-signing this?”

“It’s Richie’s parents. Just do it for Richie…and maybe yourself too. Look beautiful for them. It’ll be fine. It’s one night, right?”

What could I say? I was outgunned by my own parents. Oh, the humanity!