Something Mr. Morris insisted be included was language that if there were ever a dispute over the agreement or any of its terms, standard rules of contract interpretation would apply. Later, he explained he didn’t want the NCAA trying to say their interpretation of any language should have precedence because of their role and experience in regulating college athletics. He also negotiated a ‘get out of jail free’ card for anything I’d done up to this point. The NCAA couldn’t come back later and say that my fundraising for Washington and the subsequent baseball game were found to violate any rules.
Mr. Morris was happy but warned me I needed to be vigilant, and we should prepare for them to break their word. He said that when they did, having the waiver in hand would give us a strong position when we ended up in court. He made it sound like a foregone conclusion. I guess I was naïve because to me it felt like we’d worked everything out. Mr. Morris said he expected we weren’t out of the woods yet. He hadn’t steered me wrong so far, so I listened to his counsel, and Dad authorized him to prepare for the worst.
Caryn received the happy task of letting all the recruiters know I had my letter of eligibility for amateurism. That, combined with my SAT scores, would allow them to assure my eligibility. They would have to wait until after my fall grades were in to get the final word. But with my current grades and SAT scores, I wasn’t really at risk of not qualifying at most schools.
◊◊◊
We drove to St. Joe for my baseball game. They’d declined to do a doubleheader at State on Saturday. From my perspective, that ended up being a mistake. Fritz had to park three blocks from the high school because of the crowd, which meant that we had to navigate that to get to the athletic facilities. Fritz acted like a fullback to punch a hole in the crowd so I could get to the locker room.
“Glad to see you decided to join us,” Moose said when I walked in.
“Did you know there are people here?” I asked and blinked at Moose.
“Get dressed,” he ordered, unamused.
Everyone else thought I was funny. When we came out to warm up, Moose had to send the autograph-seekers packing. He promised there would be time for signing after the game. Coach Haskins told us that people were upset because they couldn’t get in. The St. Joe police were out in force, but it looked like they had their hands full. The bleachers were full, and it was standing room only around the baselines and outfield. Their bleachers might’ve held a hundred people. I would guess we had at least a couple thousand fans circling the field.
As visitors, we got to bat first. After the national anthem, I smiled when the first notes to AC/DC’s
St. Joe’s team seemed a little shell-shocked when I stepped into the batter’s box. Their pitcher looked around like he wasn’t sure what to do. I had a huge smile when he grooved one right down the center of the plate. That ball jumped out of the park in a hurry. I put my head down and ran around the bases. It was bad enough I had theme music; I didn’t need to show the kid up.
It shook their poor pitcher up because he threw two more pitches that were knocked out of the park before their coach pulled him from the game. I’d hate to calculate how that outing would ruin his ERA.
Their next man up was good. When I came up to face him, he didn’t give me anything to hit, which meant he walked me. He had a good move to first and made me eat dirt. I watched to see what foot he would lift and took off when he lifted his front one. He panicked and balked, which awarded me second base.
I had him flummoxed when I began to dance around at second like I planned to steal third. He balked again, giving me third, and that brought his coach out for a talk. I smiled when Coach Haskins called for the bunt. St. Joe played it well, and it was a bang-bang play at home. I was called out, but my aggression on the base paths was evident, and it fired up our team. We ended up winning 7–2. I went three for three, drove in a run, and scored one.
When I jogged in and had shaken all the St. Joe players’ hands, Moose handed me a Sharpie and sent me to sign autographs. Even though it was a colossal pain in the butt, I knew this was part of it. I gave some of the St. Joe guys shit when they got in line for me to sign stuff.
◊◊◊ Friday April 8
I was backstage getting makeup put on when Halle found me.
“There must be two hundred people out there,” she worried.
“Two hundred and fifteen,” I said confidently.
“How do you …”
