“Who you looking for, Steve?”
It was John Dever, the Nationals’ PR guy.
“Nieves,” he said.
“Right there, somewhere in the middle of all those people,” Dever said, pointing to a locker in the corner of the room.
Stevie nodded his thanks and moved to the outside of the circle. At that moment he couldn’t see or hear Nieves. He would have to be patient. The TV crews would push their way forward first, cameramen using the sheer bulk of their equipment to forge a path. They would get their sound bites and move away, and the circle would grow smaller. It was late at night, so almost everyone was on deadline. Stevie knew he would get close to Nieves eventually if he just waited the others out.
He looked at his watch. He was in pretty good shape. Because it had been a low-scoring game, it had taken only two and a half hours to play, lightning fast for a postseason baseball game, given the length of the commercials between half innings. It was now 11:20, and he didn’t have to file until the Herald’s 12:45 a.m. deadline. Stevie knew he could write eight hundred words in forty-five minutes, so as long as he was upstairs in the media workroom at his computer by midnight, he would be okay.
A couple of TV crews came out of the circle, and everyone else moved closer. Now Stevie could hear a little of what Nieves was saying.
“Every pitch was where we wanted it to be,” he said with a slight, though noticeable, Spanish accent. “The first six innings I could have put my glove down and closed my eyes because the ball was going to be right where I put it.”
That was a good line, and Stevie turned his body so he could scratch some notes down while still leaning in to try to hear. What he really wanted was to get Nieves to talk about Doyle off the field, since they had played together in the minors and he probably knew him as well as anyone on the team. Doyle had mentioned that to Stevie over breakfast, which felt like it had taken place about a month ago.
More people moved out of the circle. Now Stevie could actually see Nieves, who was sitting on a chair, still in uniform, streaks of sweat and dirt running across his shirt. There was still an ESPN crew that hadn’t finished up. The guy holding the mike, whom Stevie didn’t recognize, asked Nieves if he felt vindicated playing in the World Series after the Yankees had released him. Typical TV question, Stevie thought. It had nothing to do with the game, and if you looked at Nieves’s statistics, it was easy to understand why he’d been released. Before 2008 he’d never come close to hitting.200 in a season.
Nieves apparently felt the same way. “I don’t blame them for releasing me,” he said. “They traded for a guy who was better than I was. But I’ve improved my hitting the last two years, and that’s why I was able to stick with this team.”
Stevie already liked Nieves. He sounded like he was smart and honest. He didn’t give cliché answers. The ESPN crew finally moved away, and Stevie was behind only a handful of guys with notebooks. It was 11:35. Still in good shape.
There were more questions about Doyle’s control and his stamina near the end of the game. Nieves had clearly been through this already, but he understood that the media came in waves, often with repeat questions. He patiently answered the questions again. More guys moved away. Now it was only Stevie and three other guys. One, whose credential identified him as Tom Stinson from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, asked the question Stevie had wanted to ask: “You and Doyle were in Triple-A ball together early this season and a few years ago when you were both in the Padres organization. Do you know him pretty well?”
Nieves smiled, then shook his head. “I probably know him as well as anybody. But that’s not saying much.”
That got Stevie’s attention. The four reporters all stayed quiet, waiting for Nieves to continue. Stevie was thankful there were no TV people around, because undoubtedly one of them would have plowed through the brief silence and asked something lame.
Seeing that no one was saying anything, Nieves shrugged. “Look, I’m not saying Norbert’s not a good guy. He’s a really good guy. Just quiet, very quiet.”
Stinson followed up: “Is he shy?” he asked.
Nieves thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say shy,” he said. “He always seems to have a lot on his mind. He’s friendly, I’m sure you guys have talked to him. But for the most part, he keeps to himself. I just always thought he was, well, kind of sad, to be honest.
“Maybe it’s raising two kids by himself, that can’t be easy. Tonight when we got in here, before they let you guys in, everyone was pounding him on the back because he pitched such an amazing game, and he just kind of smiled, said thank you, and asked John Dever when he had to go to the interview room. That’s the way he’s been as long as I’ve known him. Joy doesn’t seem to be his thing.”
Stevie had been right about Nieves. He was clearly very perceptive and very honest-surprisingly honest, especially in a locker room situation. Stinson started to ask another question, but all of a sudden Stevie saw a microphone pop up in Nieves’s face and noticed a cameraman sticking his lens right over his shoulder.
“Wil, you guys have to be thrilled to go back to Washington tied at one game all,” the guy with the microphone said, asking an answer, something Stevie had gotten used to seeing TV people do a lot.
Nieves looked startled by the interruption, but he politely answered the question. The guy started to ask another question. Apparently, that was enough for Stinson.
“Hold it,” he said. “Wil was talking to the four of us, and you just barge in here and interrupt. You need to wait until we’re done, which will be about another minute.”
He didn’t shout, but his tone was firm.
“Hey, pal, I’m on deadline here,” the TV guy said.
“Just like everyone else,” Stinson said.
The TV guy turned from Stinson and asked another question. This time Nieves didn’t have a chance to answer because Stinson put his hand right over the microphone and stepped in front of Nieves.
“Your choice,” he said to the TV guy. “Wait sixty seconds, or we can stand here and both blow deadline.”
The TV guy started screaming profanities at Stinson and tried to grab the microphone back from him. Stevie saw the cameraman start to reach toward Stinson with his free hand. Without thinking, Stevie blocked the guy’s arm, throwing him off balance.
“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” the camera guy said, stumbling backward and almost dropping his camera.
Before Stevie could answer, Stan Kasten, the president of the Nationals, whom Stevie had noticed walking around the clubhouse when he came in, materialized, stepping between Stevie and the camera guy.
“Hey, fellas, you aren’t supposed to fight each other, you’re supposed to fight guys like me,” Kasten said, smiling. “Let’s all get along here.”
The TV guy was yelling at Kasten about Stinson’s not letting him do his job. Kasten had been the president of the Braves for almost twenty years and apparently knew Stinson. “Tell me in ten seconds or less what happened, Tommy,” he said.
“Sure,” Stinson said. “The four of us were talking to Wil, and this guy barged in, stuck the microphone in Wil’s face, and went off on a tangent that had nothing to do with what we were talking about.”
“Free country,” the TV guy said.
“He’s right, Stan,” Nieves said, much to Stevie’s surprise. He had watched the scuffle with a bemused smile on his face. “These guys were almost done when he interrupted.”
“ Norman,” Kasten said to the TV guy, “when these guys are done, I will personally escort you back over here to talk to Wil.”
Stevie noticed that everything in the clubhouse had stopped so people could watch what was going on. In fact, he noticed several TV cameras rolling on the scene.