“Hawk,” Ma sighs. “I’m not saying the way she feels is right or wrong.”
“What are you saying?”
She drops the plug and adds the dish soap. “Watching you pitch brings me so much joy. Watching Nolan would do the same.” She turns and looks at me, giving me a mischievous smile. “Don’t flaunt it in front of your sister but teach that boy everything you know. Even how to wrangle a horse. It’ll make her happy.” Ma winks.
After living in Boston for so long, returning to my hometown, Richfield, is a complete cultural shock. In Boston, everything is available. Anything you want. Anytime, day or night. When you’re hungry at three in the morning, your favorite Chinese restaurant has no problem delivering. If you feel like doing your own grocery shopping after you win a game, Walmart and Target have you covered. Chain stores, restaurants, and coffee shops exist in multiples. There’s a Dunkin’ on every street corner, and a Starbucks on every other.
In Richfield, it’s mom and pop stores. Here, it’s knowing that your dollar is going into the pocket of someone you know. You’re putting food on their table, paying their bills, and giving them a life. It’s making sure you have a plan if you need something because come dinner time, the stores close, people go home to spend time with their families, eat dinner and load up the car to head to the local high school for football, basketball, wrestling or baseball games. Here, family comes first.
It’s what I see as I drive down the road. Moms walking hand-in-hand with their children without a cell phone in sight nor ear buds in their ears. I’m not saying the people of Boston are inattentive to their children, it’s just different in rural America.
The speed limit down Main Street is posted at twenty-five, most go ten, maybe fifteen. It’s customary to wave at everyone and even stop to say “hi” if an oncoming car is a friend of yours. It’s like time slowed down when places like Richfield were created. No one’s in a rush, they’re stopping in front of shops, chatting with the owners, telling them a story they’ve probably already heard by now. In small towns, news travels fast. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, it’s just a fact of life.
The weather is still brisk, unlike the temperatures in Florida right now, yet my window is down, and my elbow is resting on the door of my truck. Even though there’s only two cars in front of me, I’m going slow, and taking it all in. It’s crazy to me how much the town has changed. I wouldn’t say it’s evolved over time, but it’s definitely not living in the past anymore.
Where there used to be a movie rental store, is now one of those newer massage places where women can go in and get pampered, a facial, and a massage all in one. My married friends tell me it’s the to go when they need an emergency present for their wives or mothers.
And then there’s Maria’s. I’ve only taken one person to the fanciest restaurant in Richfield and that was Annie Miller. It was our senior year and I had no intention of going until she asked me. Right before the big day, she and my best friend at the time, Brett Larsen, had broken up. He cheated on her. It wasn’t the first time he had, but she finally broke things off with him this time. When she asked me to take her to prom, I wanted to say no, respect the bro code and all that, but I couldn’t. I had known Annie since kindergarten, and she was devastated. We hung out until college started, things became physical between us but then Brett came back into the picture. Apparently, he was her one true love or something like that, so I stepped aside. That wasn’t enough for Brett though. He went all macho, as if he had to prove something, and busted his hand up after trying to hit me. I ducked, and the wall met his knuckles. I can still hear him screaming.
A few people wave and one yells my name. That gets the attention of some others in the area. They stop, look and try to figure out how or where they know me from. Hawk is an unusual name, but unless you grew up here or are a rabid baseball fan, that’s all it is . . . a name.
Main Street spans four blocks, and then things start spreading out. There are a few buildings that have been converted into apartments, a grocery store that takes up half a block, and now there’s a hardware store that looks massively out of place. I try to recall my parents saying something about a box store moving into town but can’t. The store sticks out like a sore thumb though, and yet the parking lot is fairly packed.
On the backside of Main Street is my pride and joy. My heart. I pull into the parking lot, shut the truck off and take in my surroundings. The Sinclair Fields is a facility I developed with multiple baseball and softball fields, press boxes and a concession stand. Light poles, fencing and bleachers are perfectly placed. The scoreboards are dim but will come to life once Little League starts. Having the ballpark built was the first thing I did with my Major League salary. It was my way of giving back to a community that supported me through everything. When I should’ve been ranching with my dad, he turned a blind eye and allowed me to follow my passion for baseball. Growing up, the places to play were limited, so my dad gave us a small piece of land to play on.
One of the problems with my career . . . no, I take that back . . . the problem with me is that I never came home once the season ended. I wanted to rest, relax and rejuvenate, not work and working would be expected, so I stayed away or took my parents on tropical vacations instead. That’s probably why my sisters and their husbands aren’t very fond of me being home right now. I represent something they don’t have: Freedom. They’re ranchers, locals. Their lives are here, while I ran as far and as fast as I could without turning back.
Still, having this park built for the youth of Richfield has been one of the best things I’ve ever done and I’m looking forward to watching my nephew pitch in the next coming weeks. I suppose for that reason, my injury has a silver lining, although the BoRe’s may think otherwise.
My phone chimes and I look down at the screen. The alert reminds me that I have an appointment in an hour for physical therapy. Fun times. Nothing like working out an arm that doesn’t want to be worked out.
The season is off to a . . . start. Every fan wishes their teams started undefeated, although it’s nearly impossible for that to happen. The beginning of the season is temperamental. It’s still snowing, raining, and often there are threats of Nor’easters heading toward land. Still, we brave the bitter cold and wind to cheer on our teams.
* * *
The BoRe’s are sitting with a win/loss record of 6 and 5, and they’re being outscored by their opponents 47 to 59. If it wasn’t for a few nights of stellar pitching by Cesar Floyd and Max Tadashi, who recently came off the injured list after being day-to-day for a few weeks, our numbers would be vastly different.
* * *
Our bats have been stellar, with an amazing on base percentage, and the BoRe’s have no trouble scoring . . . it’s the defense. Too many misjudged pop-flies, stolen bases and wild throws to first is what gets us into trouble.
* * *
The Renegades have a ten game homestand going into this week
and then will hit the road to face the White Sox and Baltimore, before taking a one-day break to return home against Seattle, the Rockies and those pesky Astros, and head back on the road to Toronto and Houston. At least, it should be warm in Texas. Maybe the dome will be open at Minute Maid Park.
GOSSIP WIRE
Try as we might, we haven’t uncovered who in the BoRe family is expecting. How fun would it be for all the wives to be pregnant at the same time? We ran into Steve Bainbridge at Tasty Burger and asked him what he thought. He said, “if that’s the case, they need to pay close attention to the schedule. We can’t have most of our players gone on the same day.” Something tells me no one in the BoRe organization would appreciate this.
* * *
Our favorite designated hitter, Branch Singleton, may not be so single. Rumors are rampant that he eloped during a winter trip to Las Vegas. We’ve reached out to his teammates, but you can imagine their responses. This story is developing.
Eight
Bellamy