John Feinstein - Change-up - Mystery at the World Series

“I didn’t think about this,” Susan Carol said. “Of course there’s security. Otherwise the place would be overrun with fans and autograph seekers.”

“What do we do?” Stevie asked.

“You follow me,” a voice behind them said.

Stevie and Susan Carol turned at the sound of the voice and saw a tall young man with light brown hair, blue eyes, and a big smile on his face. He looked at Susan Carol, still smiling.

“I’m David Doyle,” he said. “It’s great to meet you, Susan Carol.”

Stevie could see that Susan Carol was startled by David Doyle’s appearance. He was a good three inches taller than she was-which made him about six foot two, Stevie guessed. Since Norbert Doyle had said his twins were fourteen, Stevie had expected someone more like himself and less like a J.Crew model. Susan Carol had no doubt expected the same thing.

“Why, it’s very nice to meet you too,” she said, putting her hand out. Stevie noticed instantly that the Southern accent was turned up all the way: “Whaa, it’s verra naace to meet you toooooo,” the last word strung out as if she couldn’t cut herself off.

“Steve,” he said, stepping in between them to break up the handshake. “Steve Thomas.”

“Oh, right,” David said. “Yes, very nice to meet you.”

He wasn’t looking at Stevie as they shook hands. Stevie felt as if he was standing in a hole looking up at David Doyle, not to mention Susan Carol, even though she was wearing running shoes.

“Come on,” he said. “My dad and sister are waiting for us inside. Just follow me.”

Stevie was feeling a little queasy as he followed David Doyle and Susan Carol. At the Super Bowl the previous winter, Susan Carol had worked with Jamie Whitsitt, the lead singer of a famous boy band. Stevie had been quite jealous until she had assured him that she had absolutely no interest in him. But David Doyle seemed different.

She’d slipped into full Scarlett O’Hara mode the instant she’d laid eyes on him. She’d never done that with Jamie Whitsitt.

David showed a key card to one of the guards as they approached the hotel entrance and said, “They’re with me,” hooking a thumb at Stevie and Susan Carol, which was good enough to get them past the guards and through the front door.

Even with all the security, the lobby was crowded. “The restaurant’s in back,” David said. “Dad was hungry, so he’s already eaten. Morra and I waited for you. We’re starving.”

“Me too,” Susan Carol said, almost causing Stevie to gag. He started to say something, then thought better of it.

They walked through the restaurant to a booth in the back. Norbert Doyle stood up when he saw them coming. “Good to see you again, Steve,” he said, shaking hands. “Obviously, this is Susan Carol. Nice to finally meet you. I’m glad David found you.” He turned to the girl sitting on the inside of the booth. “This is my daughter, Morra. Morra-Steve and Susan Carol.”

Stevie could tell right away she was David’s twin. She had long light brown hair, bright blue eyes, and the same friendly smile.

“Nice to meet you both,” she said.

Stevie was determined not to let her pretty face affect him as obviously as a handsome one had affected Susan Carol. He was here to do an interview-not flirt.

“You both must be very proud of your dad,” he said.

“Let’s all sit down,” Norbert Doyle said, sliding in next to his daughter.

True to her word, Susan Carol ordered a second breakfast when David and Morra ordered. Norbert asked for coffee, as did Stevie.

“So, where do we begin?” Norbert Doyle asked after the orders had been taken. He turned to Susan Carol. “I sincerely doubt we can say anything that will match your Buckner story. It was all anyone was talking about on local TV and radio this morning.”

“What an amazing story,” David said to her. “I read your stuff all the time.”

“Why, thank you, David,” Susan Carol drawled. “That is so nice of you to say.”

Stevie smiled what he hoped was a professional smile. He had a feeling this was going to be a long day.

THINGS ACTUALLY WENT A LOT BETTER once Stevie took his tape recorder out and started asking questions. Even putting aside how long it had taken him to make it to the big leagues, Norbert Doyle was not your typical professional athlete in many ways-most of them good fodder for a story.

He had grown up in Springfield, Massachusetts -a Red Sox fan-and had signed a contract with the hated New York Yankees right out of high school when they picked him in the thirty-fifth round of the draft. “Most kids who get drafted that low don’t sign, they go to college,” he said. “But at that point in my life, I thought school was boring. All I really wanted was to play baseball-even if it meant playing for the Yankees.”

He had bounced all around the minor leagues over the years. On six different occasions he had been released, and he had pitched for teams belonging to the Yankees, the Blue Jays, the Angels, the Rockies, the Mets, the Marlins, the Red Sox, the White Sox, the Devil Rays, the Padres, and the Reds before the fateful trade to the Nationals that had finally gotten him to the majors.

“I was close on a few occasions,” he said. “Or at least I thought I was. In ’01 I thought I was going to make the Mets roster out of spring training. I pitched fourteen innings that spring and gave up one run. I thought I had the team made until they told me there was a kid they had acquired in the Rule Five draft who they had to keep, so I ended up back in Triple-A, at Tidewater.”

“What’s the Rule Five draft?” Stevie asked.

“It’s a draft they hold in the winter for minor-league players,” Norbert explained. “If a team takes a player, they have to keep him on their major-league roster that season or return him. A lot of times teams will take a chance on a younger player they know isn’t ready and keep him around a season, so when he is ready, they’ll still have his rights. I guess the most famous Rule Five draft pick was when the Pirates took Roberto Clemente from the Giants.”

“Sounds like you should have gotten someone to take you in that draft,” Susan Carol said, causing David Doyle to laugh-at least Stevie thought-a little too hard.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Norbert said. “But once you hit about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, no one even looks at you during that draft.”

That was pretty much when he knew, he said, that he was probably destined to be what was known as an organization player, signed by teams to fill out minor-league rosters and not really considered a major-league prospect.

“I had to take a hard look at my life about then,” he said. “I had two kids, and I knew I could play awhile longer, but I wasn’t going to get rich, and I wasn’t going to be one of those guys who retires and does TV or doesn’t need to work. So I went to college.”

He enrolled during the off-seasons at Springfield College and found that he loved it then as much as he had hated it as a kid. It took him eight winters to get his degree, but by then he was hooked, and so he went on for a master’s degree in English literature at Boston University. “My specialty,” he said, “is English and Irish poets. Which means I’ve read a lot of great stuff, but I’m still not sure how I’m going to make a living when I’m done with baseball. I need to finish my dissertation this winter to get the degree.”

“Teaching?” Stevie suggested, amazed that someone would want to read poetry, but impressed nonetheless.

“I hope so,” Norbert said. “I’d enjoy that.”

Stevie asked about Norbert’s wife. Was she here in Boston too?