- Shopping Bag ( 0 items )
Ships from: Saint Cloud, FL
Usually ships in 1-2 business days
Robert B. Parker Author of Hugger Mugger Wonderfully told, powerfully exciting, and entirely engrossing.
The New York Times A tingling and pungent entertainment, anchored in good characters and authentic-seeming situations....Be The One, as they say of ballplayers past their rookie season, shows that she is no flash in the pan.
USA Today Baseball Weekly April Smith has followed the rules of well-crafted fictionand made up a few of her own to make Be The One absorbing summertime reading.
The Wall Street Journal The book has many sizzling scenes and a strong finish....No one will leave this ball park of a novel without a satisfied grin.
Sara Paretsky Author of Hard Time Be The One has everything: sex, drugs, and baseball. In Cassie Sanderson...April Smith has created a convincing, compelling woman operating in the most American and most masculine milieu: professional baseball...Nonstop action....
The Denver Post You'd swear she was born with a bat in hand. Artfully avoiding the sophomore jinx, Smith has definitely rounded second with Be The One.
Robert Crais Author of Demolition Angel Peopled with characters as perfectly rendered as a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball, Be The One is a brilliant, original crime novel....April Smith has hit this one out of the park.
Publishers Weekly Firm and judicious....Provocatively rephrase[s] the perennial tale of a woman in a man's world.
Santa Fe New Mexican Will appeal to both the sports fan and the mystery lover.
She was that close to busting the record for the most consecutive bull's-eyes made under the greatest influence of alcohol, when the bar phone rang.
It was three o'clock in the morning in a local dive in Laguna Beach called Papa's. By then she had been throwing darts almost four hours, ever since the challenge by the French kick-boxer. The guy had looked like a cokehead, like he'd been put through a pencil sharpener, stringy tendons and collapsed cheeks. She had seen him staring at her and known what he was thinking: Here's one of those tall, all-American babes with the blonde braid and great body who lives for beach volleyball. Not too friendly, not too cool, but for him--une piece of cake.
He hadn't counted on fire and desire.
Her first toss drilled straight through the center of a red cork circle the size of a quarter.
He took his beat-up aviator jacket and split, and she kept it going until the place emptied out--except for the other two icons of Papa's, Mary Jo Martin, a TV newswriter who came in around midnight to work on a screenplay about a TV newswriter, and Big Tyson behind the bar, in his all-season leather vest and wool beanie.
The sound system was tuned to a jazz station and Cassidy Sanderson was working with the same smooth despair as Miles Davis's Kind of Blue, hitting the sweet spot seventeen times in a row. She had come straight from the stadium; khakis limp, the armpits of the white cotton button-down shirt translucent with sweat, but she had no idea. She had reached that state of detachment it takes Zen masters a lifetime to achieve: The point seeks the innermost circle, it is inevitable.
She walked seven steps back to aworn yellow line on the splintered floor. Another dewy glass of lager was waiting on a stool, illuminated, it seemed, by a spotlight of gold. It was an obscure microbrew from her home state of Oregon that she claimed made her feel "evergreen." She fingered the grooved shaft of the dart; warm brass, like a bullet.
"Don't talk to me."
"It can't be for me. My life is pathetic."
She had been thinking about stopping by her trainer Marshall Dempsey's place, waking him up, and getting laid. It wouldn't be the first time.
Mary Jo looked up from a laptop. "Who is it?"
Big Tyson shrugged. "Some kind of weird connection."
Reluctantly Cassidy came to the bar. Her bangs were damp and the look in her eyes was smeared.
"Damn it, my streak."
"What can I say?"
Tyson held out the cordless. Cassidy hesitated, seeming to be fixated by a large turquoise rock in his ring. Mary Jo put a comforting arm around her buddy's shoulder, which was like embracing a piece of granite. The pressure on Cassidy at work these days was intense enough to liquefy stone.
But Cassidy said hello and broke into a puzzled smile.
"It's Uncle Pedro," she told them. "Calling from the Dominican."
Mary Jo and Big Tyson exchanged a relieved look. Who the fuck knew who Uncle Pedro was but at least Cassidy wasn't breaking furniture.
Obviously they didn't read the sports page. Pedro Pedrillo was the most successful bird-dog scout in the Dominican Republic, which meant he drove a hacking old Datsun seven days a week across cattle country and fields of sugarcane looking for boys to fill the farm teams in the United States, but hoping to find the phenom--talent so pure it would light up the game like a fireball that doesn't burn. Cassidy Sanderson, a baseball scout as well, the only female scout in the major leagues, put a hundred thousand miles a year on her Explorer, driving the freeways of Southern California looking for the same light in a different forest.
"Where are you?" Pedro was asking.
"At my pub."
"But I dialed your home number."
"We have call-forwarding. New technology. I can send my calls anywhere I want."
"To a bar? That doesn't sound good."
Cassidy stared at the collection of weirdness behind the walnut bar. A kind of pressed aquarium in a mother-of-pearl frame with dried-up sea horses and guppies. An old straw hat. Shark jaws gripping a rubber human hand.
"I have found a ballplayer," Pedro was saying.
"What kind of ballplayer?"
"A pure hitter."
"Cassie . . . I like this kid."
"You like this kid."
"Yes, I do."
"Well, great. I'm very happy for you."
"I want you to see him. Fly down tomorrow."
For a moment she was lost, listening to the static.
"Are you there?"
"Yes, Uncle Pedro. Hold on."
She walked outside into the cold. Somebody's bare feet were sticking out the window of a Suzuki, We will, we will, rock you! blaring from the radio.
Cassidy pivoted in the opposite direction, past a sunglasses gallery and some beachy boutique, Candles 'n Crap, pacing with the phone to get a clear channel.
"You found a hitter. What's his name?"
"Alberto Cruz. You don't trust me?"
Pedro had played ball with her dad in the fifties. He was her godfather.
"How can I begin to answer that?" she said.
"You know how I look at a ballplayer."
"I got a list of fifteen things we can see with our eyes and another fifteen we cannot see with our eyes--"
Cassidy smiled, loving it--the list, the lecture, the oral history of baseball--hearing it evolve, full of pomp and fantasy, soothing as a bedtime story.
"I'm talking of the heart, the guts, the aptitude--" Pedro was going on, "and this kid's got it all. Exceptional talent. A center fielder with a quick bat, really drives the ball. Soft hands, good glove."
"The good face?"
"The good face," he echoed solemnly. "It's the dead season, the mills are closed, but they play in the sugar leagues maybe one time a week. Get here tomorrow and you can see Alberto Cruz in a game on Friday. They said on the news there's a big storm coming but you can beat it."
"Talking to my dog."
A small white terrier had padded out of the bar looking for Cassidy, shaking her hide and yawning. Edith, rescued from the pound, still had abandonment issues.
Impatient: "Got a problem?"
"Not a biggie. It's just three thousand miles out of my territory. They'll annihilate me, Pedro, they're just looking for a reason."
"This kid won't last. The other organizations are gonna be all over him."
Cassidy knelt to touch the soft reassuring curls of fur and gazed across South Coast Highway at the Laguna Life Guard Station, a landmark built like a miniature lighthouse. There might be dolphins crossing the bay.
"You said this kid is playing--?"
"Day after tomorrow."
Cassidy looked at her watch. The numbers were meaningless.
"I'd have to call my supervisor. Travis. Raymond. Someone. I can't just get on a plane."
"Okay," he said, "forget it."
"But Alberto Cruz . . ."
"One thing I learned after thirty years: There's always another ballplayer."
In Pedro's silence she heard a resounding affirmation of the ability of this boy and a shot of adrenaline pierced the boozy high. A batter has a quarter of a second to commit to the swing.
"I'll be there."
Cassidy Sanderson and Alberto Cruz have jogged nine miles, through a working-class Los Angeles neighborhood and twice around Elysian Park, and now the kid is starting to complain he's tired, they should quit, so she reaches past the ache in her thirty-five-year-old knees and sets an unforgiving pace, through a stand of pines up Stadium Way, panting, "What do you want?" a mantra she often uses to get young players focused on a goal.
"I want to fall in love with you," replies Alberto Cruz, and gives the wondrous smile.
"I make a joke."
An unseasonable intrusion of hot desert winds has combusted the wet winter weather like a Christmas tree going up in your living room. The air is scathing. Her allergies are acting up. It feels as if someone's done her nasal passages with a bottle brush. "It's the dry air" is supposed to explain a lot: the flu that nailed the family over New Year's. A freak tornado that blew out the windows of a restaurant in Long Beach.
Things are stirring with a will of their own. Men in business suits have begun to appear at Dodger Stadium on their lunch breaks to buy tickets. The sky has a smooth shining quality, the air whisper-thin and clear, and sometimes the Santa Anas blow, knocking over power lines and café umbrellas, creating supernatural eddies of hot and cold in the most ordinary places, like the backyard.
It is hard to run up the mountain in this kind of heat, coming off in sheets from the hard-packed trail, scalding the calves and wicking moisture from the throat.
"What do you want? You want to be a Dodger?"
"Sí, I want to be a Dodger."
So she burns it. This impressive burst of speed will cost her, but it will send an important message. What is the message? Sometimes she wonders. Certainly she has nothing to teach Alberto Cruz about running -- eighteen years old, he runs like a deer -- while she has long since compromised the breath, nothing left in the legs, glucose-depleted, everything hurts, half a mile of straight-up switchback to go.
They pass an Asian mother and two daughters on their way to the playground. The girls are walking primly beneath Little Mermaid umbrellas while the mother shields her face from the sun with the Los Angeles Times. She may find it unusual to see a black man and white woman trot by -- both in incredible shape, both wearing backpacks and carrying baseball bats like some sort of sports SWAT team -- but her urban wariness reveals nothing.
For her part, Cassidy would never let the rookie see how much more it's hurting her than him, so her eyes stay fixed upon the horizon, singed this morning like a candle passing close behind a page. She keeps the features of her Nordic face relaxed, not strained, as if she's not preoccupied with a hundred other tangles, long blonde braid whipping sweat off her back. Loping easily beside her now, Alberto snorts with adolescent disdain as the trail yields in small rocky falls beneath the aggressive hammering of their high-tech neoprene soles.
The road rises at a steep angle along a brushy slope and Cassidy and Alberto break their third or fourth major sweat, tossing bright drops into the chinquapin and yucca. As they ascend, the view of the Los Angeles basin expands into an arc from Century City all the way around to Glendale. Coming at them directly ahead is the downtown cluster of high-rises and the shriek of jackhammers where they've finally begun to demolish buildings and excavate a huge pit, digging the bones of the old pueblo for a new sports and entertainment center.
Each day's heart-busting effort is Cassidy's deliberate reminder to Alberto of the work accomplished and the work ahead. When she scouted him in the shantytown of Río Blanco he had been laboring in a sugar mill. Seven weeks later, she has taken him an extraordinary distance -- signed by the organization and brought to the United States to train. Now, as they reach the summit, the reward comes into view: beyond a picnic area and down a hill they can see Dodger Stadium itself, set in the center of the bowl of Chavez Ravine like a three-quarter crown with the crest turned away so you can look directly into the field.
Fifty yards to go and an old instinct kicks in and Cassidy pours it on, sprinting to the top, beating Alberto by a footfall and feeling a ridiculous amount of sneaky satisfaction in pulling it off, although now she has to bend over and concentrate on counting to twenty in order to keep from retching.
It is strange up here, high above the city. The lone woman with a big dog, the four Caltrans guys sitting motionless in a yellow truck, seem isolated and surreal, as if the constant desert winds have scoured the surface of ordinary things, turning them into symbols of ambiguous intent. They skirt a tumbleweed, then jog slowly past a Mustang with a vivid royal purple paint job, like the powdered candy that comes in envelopes and stains children's palms.
"Drug deal," Cassidy remarks.
Alberto keeps his eyes ahead.
A volley of shots resounds from the police academy below.
They head toward Bishop's Canyon Park, ditching the backpacks and squirting water down their throats.
"How did you sleep last night?" she asks.
"What did you eat?"
"What did you do?"
"Did you help with the dishes?"
"She don't let."
"It's polite to call somebody by her name."
"Mrs. Dulce don't let me wash the dishes," Alberto repeats, and Cassidy sees she will have to have another talk with Dulce Rodríguez, administrative assistant in the scouting department and den mother to young Latin players, who puts them up in her house when they first arrive in the United States and spoils them silly, just like back home.
"How about the laundry?"
Alberto rolls his eyes.
Cassidy pulls a warm-up jacket out of the backpack and slips it over the black halter sports bra slashed with hot pink.
"Oh, I see. You think doing laundry has nothing to do with playing ball. Laundry is for women. Ball is for men."
Alberto shrugs with shoulders so loose they pop up to his ears.
"You tell me."
He perches on top of a picnic table, knees jutting out of huge baggy shorts, gastrocs flexing the long stringy calves; six foot three, he will need to gain at least thirty pounds to compete. He is wearing the same shirt with the Aztec zigzags as when she first saw him at the mill, and the same gold chain with the Virgin inside a plastic heart. Even with the pencil mustache and shaved step hair he does not look like every other skinny homeboy. He looks exotic, uncomfortable in woodsy North American light.
And yet the good face shines, the eyebrows flying off the forehead like butterfly wings, a wide and hopeful look; in his eyes, the intangibles that make a ballplayer -- openness and balance, fire and desire -- and the smile, still that of a boy who is eager to please.
"You may be a rookie who hasn't even been through his first spring training," Cassidy is saying, "who hasn't made it to the minors, who might be sent home tomorrow, but you are still a professional ballplayer. You have already beat out thousands of kids for the honor and responsibility of representing the Dodger organization, and in doing this you have also agreed to be a role model. Do you know what 'role model' means? To show other kids how to be a good person. We are privileged to play this game. We don't just take, we give back. You're a guest in someone's home? Find a way to help. What's the matter?"
Alberto's face squinches up. "You talk like my big sister."
In reply, she tosses him a 32-32 Adirondack bat.
"Ready to work on those hips?" recalling Alberto's swing in effortless detail from scouting him on the rock-strewn playing field in the DR. Pedro had been right about his arm strength and ability to run: she had seen right away he was locking his lower hips. There had been flies and merengue and scampering boys wearing nothing but bathing trunks, and sweat and dust and Alberto's hips not fluid, not rotating into the ball. He has to open his hips and keep his head down, learn to trust his hands.
He hasn't moved.
"What's the matter?"
Alberto shrugs again.
"Is there a problem?"
"Yo no sé."
Enough of this crap.
Cassidy pulls out one of her coaching aids, a file folder labeled sluggers. Before the talk of body balance and wrist action, before the soft toss and repetitive swings, they are going to take a look at the batting stances of the Old Timers in magazine photos she has laminated.
Before Alberto creates history, he's going to learn it.
"Who's my top player of all time?" Cassidy muses, although Alberto hasn't asked. "Roberto Clemente."
She flips the plastic sleeves, past Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle and for a moment they are blinded by a spot of sun sliding across the plastic.
"I'd even put him ahead of Griffey."
A hot wind sends curlicues of brown eucalyptus leaves floating down around their shoulders.
"Clemente could do anything. Run, hit for power. The whole picture."
And she shows it to him: the famous Puerto Rican right fielder on the follow-through of one of his sizzler line drives, enormous extension, shoulder in, chin pointing toward the ball. She's got a portrait of him, too, in which his deep brown face is cast in shadow and you can see, in the furrowed brow and eyes not looking at the camera, the tension in a hitter with a lifetime average of .317 who would always be an outsider.
Cassidy becomes so engrossed in looking at the picture she fails to notice Alberto has been holding something out to her, a scrap of paper worked between his fingers.
She takes it from him. In childlike printing on lined paper it reads in Spanish: Dear Señor Cruz, I know what you did. Worry when you see me. Pay $10,000 by 1 February or you will die. Box 182, Nagua, DR.
It is so preposterous Cassidy smiles. "Gee. What-all did you do?"
Alberto says, "I do nothing."
The paper has been folded and massaged so often it feels like cloth. Cassidy realizes he has been worrying it over and over, trying to rub the message away.
"Players get stuff like this all the time."
But his wide-hewn handsome face remains grim.
"Forget about it. Not your problem. I'll give it to security."
Then Alberto reaches into his pocket and comes up with three more identical notes.
Worry when you see me. Pay $10,000 by 1 February or you will die.
"Where did you get these?" Cassidy sifts through the damp soft papers, a lot less happy now.
"They coming to the stadium."
"I don't know. I throw out."
More frustrated than she would like, "It would help if we had the postmarks. The dates." Then, "Are there more?"
Alberto shakes his head and sits back down, looking toward the San Fernando Valley. Now Cassidy knows why he has been lagging, why the good face has become a pout, carrying the weight of this, afraid to say anything, afraid to hold back.
"Where is Nagua?"
"In the north."
"Who do you know in Nagua?"
"I not go there."
"You didn't do something back in your country that might have made somebody mad -- "
"No! Why you not believe me?"
"I didn't say I don't believe you."
But she knows very little about his past. On Friday she had seen him play, by Sunday she had made the deal and was out of there.
Alberto picks up a twig and breaks it.
"I do nothing."
Cassidy tries to ignore the pressure building in her chest. Threats against players on the Internet, pornographic letters, crazy fans acting out in the stands -- there must be so many incidents of sports rage every day in professional ball you'd need a team of computer geniuses just to keep track. Still. You could dismiss one or two stupid notes, but four? Four is starting to sound like an obsession.
"We'll take care of it," she assures Alberto, hating what she has to do next, which is report to her scouting director, Raymond Woods, there is some trouble with this kid. The one kid, of course, she risked her job to go out and sign. It would be less agonizing to run up the mountain again, backwards, wearing ten-pound ankle weights.
Alberto says, "Okay," and picks up a piece of the twig and starts to tap it against the picnic table.
He had extinguished a welding torch and come slowly through the ash-white smoke. He had taken his time, not intimidated by strangers waiting for him. Cassidy had liked that. Underweight, but tall. She had liked that, too, an elongated figure moving with an easy gait through a huge open threshold, out of the shadows of the sugar mill and into the searing humid sun.
When it was explained the blonde American woman had come to the ingenio in the middle of the afternoon to see him play baseball, Alberto did not betray surprise and did not look away.
His fawn brown eyes held hers, as they do now, in a shaded grove at the top of Los Angeles, with curiosity and patience; as if he were used to waiting a long time for things that mostly don't turn out.
Copyright © 2001 by April Smith
Posted May 11, 2009
The plot dragged, the character was not easily sympathetic. The book was too long. I really have enjoyed April Smith's other books, but not this oneWas this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted September 5, 2000
I enjoyed 'Be The One'. I thought the she-jock Cassidy and her super cool job were entertaining. Not to mention the great twists and turns the plot took. Fun for sports fans as well as non-sports fans.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 9, 2008
Former superstar Cassidy Sanderson does not feel like a pioneer or a freak. Instead baseball has always been part of her gene pool so being the only female major league baseball scout seems normal to Cassidy. She knows that for her to keep her job, she needs to remain productive, signing prospects for the Los Angeles Dodgers. Lately, Cassidy seems in a slump so when she receives a tip about the next great Dominican Republic athlete, she immediately flies to the Caribbean. <P>On the island, Cassidy meets financier Joe Galinis and realizes that Alberto Cruz is even more than she expected. She returns home with a major prospect and a lover. However, instead of accolades and a bonus, Cassidy finds herself in the midst of a voodoo-blackmailing plot that leaves her wondering who can she trust? <P> Sports mystery fans, especially lovers of baseball will warmly welcome the return of Cassidy Sanderson (see NORTH OF MONTANA). In her mid thirties, Cassidy still retains that competitive toughness that provides the edge to a well-drawn character. The clever intermingling of baseball, scouting, and voodoo turns BE THE ONE into a perfect game that will surely place April Smith¿s novel on everyone¿s top three lists of sports mysteries. <P>Harriet KlausnerWas this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.