I’m Katherine Henry. My friends call me Kate. I am a baseball writer by trade. I’m forty, older than most of the Titans, including the manager. I’m tallish, prettyish, and a lot more interesting than most of the people I write about.
I’m good at my job, to the active disappointment of some of my male colleagues, who have been waiting for me to fall on my face since the day I walked into my first spring training.
I am also the only woman on the team plane who doesn’t serve drinks.
Kate has her problems with the arrogance, ignorance, easy money and bigotry of the sports world. She also has impossible deadlines and puts in weeks of overtime. But it’s all in a baseball-season’s work.
Until the day the designated hitter doesn’t show for the game: someone seems to have used his skull for batting practice.
The homicide squad is called in, and Kate’s search for a scoop puts her at odds, and in pleasantly close contact, with the law. As real life impinges on the world of baseball, Kate learns how naïve – and vulnerable – she really is.
I’m good at my job, to the active disappointment of some of my male colleagues, who have been waiting for me to fall on my face since the day I walked into my first spring training.
I am also the only woman on the team plane who doesn’t serve drinks.
Kate has her problems with the arrogance, ignorance, easy money and bigotry of the sports world. She also has impossible deadlines and puts in weeks of overtime. But it’s all in a baseball-season’s work.
Until the day the designated hitter doesn’t show for the game: someone seems to have used his skull for batting practice.
The homicide squad is called in, and Kate’s search for a scoop puts her at odds, and in pleasantly close contact, with the law. As real life impinges on the world of baseball, Kate learns how naïve – and vulnerable – she really is.
