Wilson had intended to arrive early for the tryout. He hoped it would be a sign to the coaches of his dedication to the sport. That, in turn, would've given him an edge. It was an edge he needed. As much as he loathed to admit it, he was no longer as quick or as strong as he used to be. Instead, he was late. Now, making the team had become much more of a challenge than it should've been.
With two baseball bags slung over his shoulders, an enticing thought crossed his mind... what if he didn't try out this year? After all, this wasn't Triple-A, Double-A, or even Short Season Rookie ball. This, like last year and the five seasons before, was independent ball – no major league affiliations at all. Had it only been five years? The seasons had blurred from one to the next to the point that they all felt the same. Sure, he was in a new city each time, but the homogeneity of these towns made them difficult to tell apart. The words on his chest would change, but not the people. Every roster had the same types – young hotheads, older condescending cretins, gum-chomping coaches who didn't know as much as they thought they did, and owners who knew even less. Wilson wasn't sure he had it in him to endure another season.
The rebellious thoughts dissipated when he remembered what would happen if he didn't play. He was in no way ready for that. Not yet, anyway. For now, there was only one option – make the team.
Wilson had never been quick on his feet, but he ran as fast as he could toward the stadium. Every second that passed meant it would be that much harder to convince anyone he was worthy of a roster spot. Sweat beads formed along his hairline, and his arms started to glisten. He could feel his body fighting him, urging him to give up and stop this ridiculous crusade.
Wilson slowed to a walk when he stepped onto the grass and surveyed the field. He counted thirty-three players. None were familiar. This was either a new crop of players or the tryouts were so late in the year that the usual suspects were on rosters elsewhere.
Behind home plate stood two people – a black man, who looked familiar, and a white woman who didn't. Both were holding clipboards.
"All I'm saying is, there are exactly two black people in this town – one is on this field, and the other is me!" the black man said. Wilson was certain he knew this man, but no name sprang to mind.
"I know," the woman said with a sigh.
"Let's hope the other rinky-dink towns in this league have a little more diversity."
The woman took notice of Wilson out of the corner of her eye. "Hi. You must be here for tryouts. I'm Gwen Chapman, owner of the Mudskippers, and this is our manager, Cam McBride."
The name, Cam McBride, sounded familiar, but Wilson couldn't place it. He'd met countless people over the years, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to recall all of them.
The manager leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the new arrival. "You look familiar. Were you playing in Sacramento about five years back? I did a rehab stint there, and I'm thinking maybe we crossed paths."
Wilson shook his head. "No. I've never played in Sacramento or even Triple-A for that matter."
Cam shrugged. "What's your name?"
"Wilson Fleming."
Cam rubbed his chin and looked up at the sky as though the answer to how he knew Wilson might be hovering up there. "This is gonna bug me."
Gwen leaned over, "Maybe we should let him join the other players while you think?"
"Right." Cam gave Wilson another good look. "Position?"
"Catcher." Wilson motioned to the two bags. "I've got my own gear. It's a little old, but still works well enough." This was only true depending on how liberal one was with the term "well enough." A few straps were missing from the shin guards, and some of the padding on the chest protector had been worn down. He'd been meaning to replace it for several years but hadn't gotten around to it. At this point, it was a "protector" in name only. If a fastball missed his glove, he could be in real trouble.
Cam pointed toward left field. "Bullpen's behind the dugout. Why don't you head over and warm up any pitchers who need it?"
Wilson nodded and lumbered over to the bullpen. There were two sets of mounds and plates, though only one was in use. A stocky pitcher, number twelve, was throwing with some impressive velocity, but Wilson could tell from the strain on his face that it wouldn't be long before the poor guy blew out his arm. Unfortunately, the catcher he was throwing to didn't seem to be saying or doing much to deter this. With no pitching coach in sight, Wilson knew he'd have to step up and hand out some tips, and groaned at the thought of this. Year after year, he told pitchers the same things only to be ignored by the ones who thought they knew better... and then ended up with the devastating injuries he was trying to prevent.
Number twelve responded with a quick "go fuck yourself" as soon as Wilson dispensed his advice. A few pitches later, the guy yelped in pain and spent the rest of the day with an ice pack on his elbow. Number twelve was not going to make the team.
Wilson tried to help every pitcher he saw. Most gave little more than a casual nod and kept doing the same thing anyway. The only one who showed any interest in what Wilson had to say was an eighteen-year-old Hispanic kid named Diego. He didn't have the strongest arm, and his accuracy wasn't where it needed to be, but he had heart, and he was coachable. Wilson hoped it would be enough to earn the kid a roster spot.
Throughout the day, it became obvious who was destined to make the team and who wasn't. The only contentious position was catcher. Three of them were trying out, and most teams only kept two. Troy Takata was a lock. His hulking physique and raw power were too much to pass up, even if he struggled to hit breaking balls or throw with any semblance of accuracy. Emerson Snow, on the other hand, was small, sleek, and athletic. He was quicker out of his crouch than just about anyone Wilson had ever seen, and even though he wasn't lighting up the place with his bat, he had more solid hits on the day than Wilson. If Wilson were being honest, Emerson had the edge on him.
On one of the last drills of the day, however, the poor guy rolled his ankle, and that was it. Emerson was out. Wilson was in. He hated gaining a roster spot due to injury, but it did bring a measure of relief. This was another year he wouldn't have to worry.
Gwen rounded up the final roster to congratulate them and hand out locker assignments. Wilson's was at the end of the aisle, meaning he had only one neighbor – Diego. The kid was grinning from ear to ear. Wilson felt a pang of jealousy at the young player's exuberance. There was a time when he felt that way, when baseball was the prime source of his everyday joy. He had always loved the sound of a crisp fastball snapping into his glove, the feel of solid contact, and even the smell of hot dogs. At some point, that enchantment melted away, and everything he once regarded as special and unique had become blithe and mundane.
Wilson showered, changed, and exited the locker room. His ritual after joining a new team was to explore the town he would be living in for the next few months. In his experience, going by foot was the only way to grasp an area's true nature. He quickly learned that Larkston's true nature was heat. Excessive, intense, suffocating heat.
A few blocks from Earl Calloway Stadium, he spotted a local tavern, The Glove. The awning above the entrance was covered with a faded graphic of a 1950s-era mitt. Hoping they had A.C., Wilson grabbed the bat-shaped handle on the door and went inside.
The cool air brought sweet relief from the searing heat outside. His eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and noticed that nearly every inch of the place had some form of baseball paraphernalia. Under half of the countertops were cards and magazine covers. The other half had newspaper clippings and flattened cereal boxes. The walls were lined with framed jerseys detailing Larkston's past, including a baggy set from when the Mudskippers were known as the Honchos.
The most common object on display was the gloves. Nearly every type from baseball history seemed to be represented – one looked like a batting glove without the fingertips, another without any webbing, and a rare left-handed catcher's mitt. Wilson figured these had to represent a lifetime of collecting. This place was as much a museum as it was a spot to grab a meal.
A handful of patrons crowded around the bar, leaving most of the tables empty. Wilson spotted a menu resting on one of them and took a seat. A minute later, a blond waitress with elaborate and colorful floral-themed tattoos on her arms approached. Wilson guessed she was in her early forties, though he knew enough about women not to ask.
"Hi. Welcome to The Glove. We don't get many new faces. You got me curious," she said.
Wilson shook his head. "Oh, I'm no one special."
"Mystery only heightens my curiosity." The waitress's lips curled into a smile.
Wilson sighed. "I play for the Mudskippers."
The smile turned into a frown. "So, the rumors are true? Baseball is back?"
"It is. Tryouts were today."
The waitress let out a sigh. "And this place is going to be filled with a bunch of young guys with grabby hands who think they're God's gift to women because they can hit a ball with a stick." There was enough venom in her voice to make the easy assumption that she wasn't overly fond of baseball players.
"Sorry," she continued, "I don't mean to suggest you're like that."
Wilson waved away the apology. "You don't have to explain. I've played this game for a long time. I get it."
She narrowed her eyes and looked him over. Wilson began to feel self-conscious, wondering just what she was focusing on. Had he forgotten to wash off all the eye-black from his cheeks?
"I do have a question, though."
Wilson shifted in his seat, wondering where she was going with this. "Okay..."
"When the team was here before, the guys were always hoping that some way, somehow, playing in Larkston would springboard them to the majors. So, as a more... veteran player, do you have the same dream?"
Wilson shrugged. "I'm just trying to play another year."
"Independent ball doesn't exactly pay well. You could make a lot more money doing something else. And, forgive me for saying this, but you don't seem overly excited about it."
"It's my job. Do you get excited every day you come to be a barmaid?"
"Server," she corrected. "Barmaid makes me think of girls wearing skimpy outfits that look like they're about to fall off. 'Server' is gender neutral, and servers can wear anything." She motioned to her black pants and t-shirt.
"Point taken. I'll rephrase. Do you get excited to come to work as a server?"
She shrugged. "It pays the bills."
"Exactly," Wilson said.
She tucked the pen behind her ear and extended her hand. "Betty."
Wilson gave it a gentle shake. "Wilson."
Betty took his order and delivered it to the cooks in the back. Wilson figured she wouldn't return until she had food in hand, but to his surprise, she plopped down across from him.
"How long have you been playing baseball professionally?"
Wilson drew a breath and held it, debating how honest he should be with this woman. "It seems like forever. I don't know if I wanna do the math to know exactly how long it's been."
"Ever think about retiring?"
"All the time." He sighed. "I'm not quite ready yet, though."
Betty moved her fingers along her forearm, brushing over a lengthy tattoo of a pink and purple lotus flower. "I was married once. This place actually used to be his. Eventually, he and I discovered we loved different things, and his wasn't me. I decided the best way to move on was to create a routine and coast by wearing a shield that protected me from anything that might come back one day to hurt me. Working in this place, propositions came my way a lot, but I swatted them away just like a pair of wandering hands – and I get a lot of those, too. Now that I've had some distance, I realize that I've just been depriving myself of the opportunity to experience joy."
Wilson barely knew this woman, but he saw something in her that he admired. She had let go of her past. Why hadn't he?
"I guess the truth is I've been doing the same thing for so long that I'm almost afraid to find out what'll happen if I hang up my cleats," he said.
Betty placed her hand atop his and said nothing. Wilson looked into her eyes and felt a gentle warmth. It had been a long time since he felt that from another person.
A bell rang out from the kitchen, causing the two of them to jump. Betty removed her hand from his and placed it on her chest. "Sorry. I don't know why that startled me. I work here. I should be used to it!" She let out a laugh. "That's your food. I'll be back."
She got up and hurried into the kitchen. Wilson closed his eyes and rubbed them. It had been a long day, and he was looking forward to a thick burger no matter how over – or undercooked it was.
He heard someone sit across from him and reopened his eyes, expecting to see Betty. It wasn't her. It was the manager, Cam McBride, smirking in that "I know something you don't" kind of way.
"Well, what are the chances we'd run into each other here?" Cam said.
"Pretty high, actually. I think this is the only restaurant in town," Wilson replied.
"And it's baseball themed! There's even a picture of me on the wall over there during my brief stint with the Cubs."
Cam pointed to an area with five framed photos of baseball in action. Three featured all-white players, and a fourth was Henry Aaron on a follow-through of a swing that, most likely, was a home run. The fifth, which Wilson focused on, featured a runner sliding into a base with a cloud of dust around him while the fielder attempted to apply the tag. It was impossible to tell if he was out or safe, just as it was impossible to tell which of the players was Cam McBride. Neither of their faces was in focus, nor were the names legible on the backs of their jerseys. He could only assume Cam remembered that play well enough to know it was him.
Wilson opened his mouth to reply when Betty approached and set a burger, fries, and a beer in front of him. He gave her a quick "thanks" and grabbed the ketchup bottle.
Betty flashed an impersonal smile and turned to Cam.
"And what can I get you?"
Cam pointed the beer at Wilson's fingertips. "I'll have the same as my friend Dale here."
Wilson's heart stopped, and his face turned gaunt. What had Cam just called him?
Betty's eyes darted to Wilson's to see the look on his face. "Sure. Be back in a minute." She walked off without another word.
Wilson waited for Betty to be out of earshot before speaking up. "My name's Wilson. Not Dale."
With a light grin, Cam reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He thumbed through it until he found what he was looking for and set the device face-up on the table. On the screen was a photo of a minor league team.
Wilson didn't reach for the phone to get a closer look. He knew what it was, but he decided to act like he didn't. "What is this?"
"That is the Tri-City Red Frogs. Two thousand six. A few days before the season started. It was my first year in the minors. I had a teammate named Dale Rawlings." Cam reached across the table and put his finger on one of the players. "Look familiar?"
Wilson had to wait for Cam to remove his finger to see who he was pointing to. Once he did, it confirmed Wilson's fears. The man in the picture looked exactly like him.
"He does. Very strange. You know, they say we all have a doppelganger out there somewhere? This guy is probably mine." Wilson leaned back, feeling rather proud of himself.
Cam grinned. "I remember Dale because of this story he told about some ex-teammates putting a curse on him. Now, a lot of guys think they're cursed, but Dale was sure of it. Said the curse had kept him in the minors. That's not the kind of story you forget."
"Well, never getting out of the minors can certainly feel like a curse."
Betty returned, setting the beer in front of Cam. "Anything else?"
Cam didn't look at Betty. His eyes were locked on Wilson. "No. This is good. Thank you."
"Well, I'm never far away if you need me." She glanced at Wilson and returned to her post behind the bar.
Cam took a long swig of his beer, closing his eyes as he gulped it down. By the time he was finished, half of it was gone. "I also remember that same shitty catcher's gear you had out on the field today. That crap looked old then."
Wilson dragged a fry around in a little pool of ketchup on his plate. "You know, I've met people throughout my life who are damn near carbon copies of each other. In high school, I knew this guy who was always making sound effects to describe things cause he didn't know what anything was called. A few years later, I had a teammate from the other side of the country who did the same thing. They'd never met, but they were nearly identical."
Cam took another long gulp and finished what was left of his drink. "The point is, I know you've been around this game a long time, and whether that was you or not, really doesn't matter. The reason I came down here was to tell you that Emerson's ankle isn't as bad as we first thought. So, we're gonna have to let you go."
Wilson's stomach sank. This was the absolute worst news he could've heard. His urge was to scream, yell, complain, and tell Cam he was making a terrible mistake. However, he'd been around long enough to know it was near impossible to change anyone's mind. The die was cast before Cam walked into the restaurant.
Cam leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Actually, that was only half the reason. The other half is a proposal."
Wilson knew where this was going, and he wanted no part of it. "No. Thanks. I'll find somewhere else to latch on."
Cam brushed Wilson's refusal aside. "I saw you out there with the pitchers. You knew what you were talking about. Look, you may not have noticed, but I'm a one-man show out there. Gwen's great, but she's not a baseball coach. Hell, I barely know what I'm doing. I really could use some help. So, I'm offering you the job of assistant coach."
Wilson opened his mouth to reply and closed it again a moment later. His instinct was to be defiant, tell Cam where he could put that offer, and walk away... but, for some reason, he wasn't moving. Some part of him was intrigued by Cam's suggestion, and that terrified him.
"Take a day and think about it. If you're interested, come to the office tomorrow." Cam stood and dropped some cash on the table. "Dinner's on me. Have a good night."
Cam gave the picture that may or may not have been of him a long look and walked out.
Wilson dropped his head in his hands. He had never failed to make a team after tryouts or been released before even playing a game. It was a new and frightening situation.
He pulled his fingers away from his face and peered down at the dinner in front of him. It no longer looked as tempting and delicious as it had a few minutes earlier. Nothing did.
"I'm getting the sense you're not gonna eat that." A tattooed arm touched the edge of his plate. Wilson looked up to see Betty standing in front of him. "Probably for the best, though. You'll live a lot longer if you don't." She smirked.
"What time are you off?" Wilson asked.
Betty lifted a brow. "Jumping ahead a few moves, aren't you, Wilson... or is it, Dale?"
Wilson sighed. "I'll explain that. You seem like an easy person to talk to, so I was thinking we could... talk. That's all. I promise."
Betty smiled and sat back down across from him. "I was off five minutes ago. I decided to stick around until your friend left."
"He's not my friend. He's the manager of the Mudskippers."
"From the look on your face, I'm guessing he didn't have good news."
Wilson shook his head. "Not the kind I wanted, no."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
Wilson drew in a breath and held it. He was stalling. Thinking. There had been an urge to tell her everything, but now he wasn't so sure he could. What if she didn't care? What if she rejected him?
He exhaled and decided he couldn't keep it a secret anymore. It was worth the risk. She, a woman he'd just met, was worth the risk.
"What I'm about to tell you is going to sound... a bit crazy, and you're probably going to regret sticking around."
"You really know how to put the listener at ease," she teased.
Wilson laughed. "I've never told anyone this before. I've been going around from town to town hiding who I really am and, like you, avoiding getting to know anyone. It was easier that way. Then, I met you and realized I can't do that anymore."
Betty folded her arms. "I can infer quite a lot from that. Most would think it has to do with orientation, but I'm gonna go with secret family. Am I right?"
Wilson shook his head. "Not even close." He picked up his glass of beer and chugged the remains in one long gulp. "In nineteen eighty-five, I was eighteen years old. The Texas Rangers had just drafted me and sent me to Single-A ball in Iowa. There was a creek not far from the stadium. It wasn't easy to get to, but I found a path and showed it to the guys. We had curfew, and we were all underage, so any late-night drinking would have to be done there. Pretty soon, it became a regular thing until one night, the cops busted us. The Rangers were pissed and decided to make an example out of us. Every single person who got fingerprinted that night was released... except me. I was drafted higher than the rest, so they gave me a short suspension and a second chance."
Betty scrunched her face up in confusion. "That doesn't make sense. How could you have been eighteen in nineteen eighty-five?"
"You'll see..." He sucked in a deep breath. "The other players were, understandably, less than pleased that I hadn't paid the price like they had. I, being the arrogant shithead I was back then, responded by saying the team gave me a pass because I was a star, and they weren't. The guys said I didn't deserve to make the majors, and they were gonna place a hex on me to make sure I wouldn't. I would age slowly as long as I kept playing, but I'd never get out of the minors. Of course, I laughed at them. The Rangers released me at the end of the year. I caught on with different teams over the next few seasons but only got above Single-A once. As the years passed, I realized I was getting older but didn't look it. People started noticing, so I changed my name. A few years after that, I changed it again. It's been my routine ever since. I've probably had ten names by now. Cam wasn't wrong. I did play with him, and I went by the name of Dale Rawlings. A few years later, I became Wilson Fleming. At some point, I'll be someone else."
Wilson was fully expecting Betty to either burst out laughing or run out the door screaming. To his surprise, she did neither. She leaned forward, intrigued.
"What happens if you don't play?"
Wilson shrugged. "I don't know. I can feel myself aging underneath, but my outward appearance is moving at a different speed. I know I don't look eighteen anymore, but I also don't look the age I should. One year, the team I was on folded in the middle of the season, and a few days later, I had a patch of gray hair. Then, I caught on with another team, and there was no new gray. It made me think that, if I retire, my body will catch up."
Betty lifted a brow, "Would that be a bad thing?"
Wilson let out a little chuckle. "What would I do with myself? All I've done is play baseball for close to forty years."
"Anything you wanted! Might not be your cup of tea, but I could always use some help around here."
Wilson leaned forward with his elbows on the table. "Well, Cam did offer to make me an assistant coach, but –"
She cut him off, "Perfect! I mean, who would make a better coach than you?"
"A lot of people. Just cause you can play the game doesn't mean you can coach it."
"Well, you won't know if you don't try."
Wilson nodded. "I'll think about it. Thanks for listening."
"Oh, my pleasure. That was easily the most insane, batshit story I've ever heard. Entertaining but batshit. And trust me, I've heard enough wild stories in this town to wonder if there's something in the water. A smart woman would respond by telling you to kindly leave and not come back. But I can't help thinking maybe a small part of that is true."
"I wish I could prove it to you."
"You could start by telling me your real name."
Wilson hesitated. It had been a long time since he'd even heard his real name. "Darwin Redfield. People used to call me 'Red.'"
Betty reached out and squeezed his hand. "I like Darwin. The team can call you Red." She let go and stood up. "You never finished your burger. I'll be at work tomorrow night in case you wanna come back and finish it."
"What if I look different?"
"If it's the real you, I won't mind." She flashed a smile and walked off.
* * *
The next day, a middle-aged man with thick gray hair stepped into the team office. It was a sizeable space with enough desks and offices for ten to twelve people. At the moment, however, there were only two.
Gwen sat behind a large desk with a small laptop on it. Cam leaned against the wall just a foot away, peering over her shoulder.
Gwen spotted the man and looked up. "Can I help you, sir?"
The man stepped forward with a nod. "Yes, ma'am. I'm Darwin Redfield – though you might remember me as Wilson Fleming or even..." he locked eyes with Cam. "Dale Rawlings. Cam offered me a job. I'm here to accept."
Gwen turned to Cam. "Care to explain?"
Cam's mouth gaped open. "I don't know if I can."
Darwin flashed a smile. "I can. It's a long story. A bit out there, but I'll tell you sometime. Right now, we have work to do. I got an idea on how to bring up Garcia's velocity."
Darwin couldn't wait to get on the field. It was the first time in years he'd felt that way.
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