Hawk: The Boys of Summer #4

by Heidi McLaughlin

This was not how I expected the night to go.

  The notebook I brought to the meeting, that I intended to fill with useful hints and tips, falls out when I pull my bag from the passenger seat. I leave it there, not wanting the reminder of how I’ve failed Chase. When I get to my front door, I take a few calming breaths, not that they’re doing much for me. It’s going to take me awhile to get over this. I hate knowing I’ll have to plaster a smile on my face when I see Brett downtown or out and about, and I’m not sure whether I should tell Annie what he did. She should know what type of man she’s married to, someone propositioning moms who are trying to help their sons. The thought makes me shudder.

  I push down on the lock release and step into my house. Chase sees me right off and comes running toward me, talking a mile a minute about the day he had in school. He says nothing about recess or who he ate lunch with, but happily talks about the volcano he has to build for science class.

  “I did that too,” I tell him.

  “Grandma told me. She said she could help.”

  “No fair. What if I want to help?”

  Chase shrugs. “You can, if you have time.”

  “I do, bud.”

  “Hey, is something wrong?” he steps closer almost as if he’s inspecting my red rimmed eyelids.

  “Nah, just really tired. I had a long day.”

  “Maybe you need to take a long, hot bath.”

  I run my hand over his dark blond hair and smile. “You’re right, bud. That’s exactly what Mom needs.”

  He smiles and runs toward his room just as my mom enters from the kitchen. She’s drying her hands on a dish towel and when we make eye contact, she sighs.

  “What happened?”

  I motion for her to go back into the kitchen with me where I pour myself a glass of wine that I fully intend to finish, and probably refill a few times, so I can put this night out of my mind. My mom and I sit at the small breakfast table. She’s drinking coffee and I’m on my way to becoming a wino. Once I start talking, the tears start flowing. My mom doesn’t ask any questions, and she holds my hand while I fill her in.

  “I’m failing at this parent thing.”

  She squeezes my hand. “You’re not, Bellamy. You’re doing everything you can to give Chase the life he deserves.”

  “Maybe I should move back to Spokane.”

  “So Chase can watch while Greg plays dad to his sister, but not to him? I think that’ll make things worse for Chase. Here, he’s the focus of our attention. There, he’s subject to the crap his stepmother pulls.”

  “I know.” My voice is weak, and I don’t even believe my own words. “I don’t know what else to do for him. He just wants to play sports and make friends but those things go hand in hand here, and stupid Brett Larsen is making it impossible.”

  “We’ll figure it out. I’ll ask around . . . maybe there’s a high schooler who can train with him or take him under his wing.”

  “Like a big brother or something?”

  She nods. “Exactly. Do you remember David Farmer?”

  “Mr. Farmer? Yeah, I had him for gym class. He used to coach . . .” My eyes go wide. “Doesn’t he run the youth center?”

  “Yes, he does. I’ll go talk to him tomorrow and see if he has some time to spend with Chase or if he knows of a young man who would be willing to.”

  “Oh, Mom . . .” I reach across the table and hug her. “Why didn’t I think of him earlier?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she says. “What matters is that we find someone to help Chase and I think David could be the one.”

  By the time she leaves, I’m full of hope. Brett Larsen can go fly a kite as far as I’m concerned.

  Seven

  Hawk

  All I need out of life is a hot cup of coffee and the view from my parents’ back porch. The sun is barely rising over the snowcapped mountain range that seems closer than it really is. There’s a fine mist lingering off the ground, making it look like the cattle are missing their legs between their knees and body. When I was younger, my mother used to take pictures from this spot and turn them into greeting cards. She’d sell them down at the local drugstore, which has always been a tourist stop — the place to buy Richfield Montana t-shirts, magnets and hand-painted cows wearing Christmas wreaths around their necks.

  The peace and quiet here is a renewed calm. I went from this to the University of Utah, where I played one year of collegiate ball before I signed my major league deal and landed myself in one of the busiest cities in the US. It’s surprising I’ve survived in Boston as long as I have. It’s constantly noisy, filled with people always coming and going and the traffic is a bitch, but damn, there’s some kind of magic there. The people of Boston love their city, and they love their sports teams. The fans consider us their family. They’re not intrusive when they see us on the streets. They care when we’re ailing; the sheer number of gifts my manager has sent to my parents’ place alone shows me that they’re missing me . . . probably not as much as I’m missing them. I’d give anything to be back in Bean Town, wearing layers of clothing, and about to take the mound.

  Still, I’m happy to be home. The weather isn’t all that much different so I’m still in layers, but now I’m wearing flannel shirts with long john’s underneath, and cowboy boots. The door behind me opens and closes. I don’t bother to turn around to see who it is. My brother-in-law, Warner, stands next to me with a cup of coffee in his hand.

  He sighs heavily. Not once, but twice. There’s something on his mind. Thing is, I don’t want to know what it is. He and my other brother-in-law, Alan, hold the same grudge against me as my sisters do. They all think I chose wrong, that I should’ve given up my dream of playing professional baseball and worked the ranch like them. The thing is, working here was never in my blood. I hated doing chores, wrangling horses and chasing cattle through the fields. Being up before the sun never appealed to me and my father saw that early on.

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Sore.”

  “Imagine so.”

  Warner has taken a spill or two. One time, he and Alan were being stupid and decided to race each other on horseback. Warner’s horse spooked and bucked Warner right into a tree. He couldn’t work for three months because of a concussion. According to my sister, that was my fault too because my dad decided to take the afternoon off to watch my game on television. How many grown men need a babysitter? Two . . . and they both happen to be married to my sisters.

  “When do you go back?”

  Here we go.

  I tilt my head from side-to-side, popping my neck. “Twelve weeks, give or take.”

  “Rehab?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better if you did that in Boston?”

  I set my mug down on the railing and turn toward cowboy Warner. “What’s your problem?”

  “You,” he states so matter-of-factly that for a moment I feel as if I’ve done something wrong. “Your presence here bothers your sister.”

  “So, what? She can get over herself. This is our parents’ house, not hers.”

  “It ain’t about the house, Hawk. It’s your life. It’s about Nolan.”

  “Nolan? What does he have to do with me being here?”

  Warner brings his mug to his mouth and takes a long drink as he looks out over the ranch. “Nolan idolizes you.”

  “I have a clean image, Warner.”

  “It’s not about your image, it’s about baseball. He wants to play.”

  “Let him.”

  “See that’s where your sister and I disagree. We’re ranchers.”

  I have no idea what sound comes from me. It sounds like a laugh, but it’s more like complete disgust and disbelief. “No, Warner, you’re a rancher. Nolan is a ten-year-old boy who wants to run amok, play sports, fish in creeks and kiss a girl behind the barn. No different than you when you were his age.”

  “I knew this is what I wanted to do.”

  I shake my head. “Only bec
ause at fifteen you were in love with my sister and you figured the only way to win her affection was to come work for my dad. You were just never smart enough to leave.” I don’t give Warner a chance to respond. I leave him standing on the porch and return to the house. I have therapy later and the drive to Missoula is going to take two damn hours.

  In the kitchen, my mom is standing at the sink. I go to her, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “The sunrise was beautiful.”

  “It always is.” She nods toward the porch. “Elizabeth is scared.”

  “Of what? Nolan not following in his father’s bootstraps?” I think my humor is funny, but it seems that my mother does not.

  Mom turns the faucet on and holds her hand under the water. I’ve seen her do this a million times. She’s waiting for the water to warm so she can fill the sink with suds to wash the dishes that have already piled in the sink. Warner, and likely Alan, are unable to clean up after themselves.

  “It takes a village to run a ranch.”

  “They should have more kids then.”

  “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

  Even the best laid plans tend to change when it comes to my life, it’s the nature of the beast. My mom manages the local bank and normally can set her schedule the way she sees fit until there’s a crisis like there is this morning. It’s definitely a perk of living in a small town. Their printers aren’t working, and no one can log into the network. It’s not the end of the world having to talk to David Farmer alone, except that I’m anxious and eager to help my son, so I find myself mulling over and over again what I’m going to say to my former gym teacher. I’m trying to remember if I had a good relationship with him. Did I show up to class on time? Was I wearing the appropriate physical education clothes? Did I run the mile in the time he allotted? Sadly, I have no answer for any of my questions. I think I was a decent student for him, and hopefully respectful, because I’m about to ask him for a giant favor.