of his pectoral muscles, reminding himself how little give there is. I watch his torso until the others in the room behind him, some bigger, some darker, mostly the same, begin to run together into a mural of skin. It will be like this every day now for half a year, the hopeful waiting to show their distinction. The way it’s been for eight decades, when professional players first showed up in Clinton, arriving on passenger trains that no longer stop here, through the corn.
“Long season,” Danny says to me. And then, “God is good.”
· · ·
Tom Bigwood died two weeks ago. It had been a long time coming. He said he was going to make it to opening day, he said no way in hell he wasn’t, but then he died of colon cancer. In the same paper that ran “L’Kings’ Carroll Seeks Fresh Start,” there was a paid obituary for Tom, who was never famous the way Danny could be. It commemorated him as a son, a brother, a friend, a season-ticket holder for thirty-three years.
I sit in Tom’s seat, like an idiot.
“You know where you’re sitting, don’t you?” I’m asked by a woman named Betty, with white hair and a face that looks like a chipmunk Christmas tree ornament that my grandmother used to have.
My silence works as an answer.
“That’s Tom’s seat.”
I look around for Tom.
“Oh no, he’s dead. You can stay there, I suppose.”
Betty gives a short, sad laugh and then says, “I’m Betty, what’re you writing?”
She points to my notebook and I flush, mumbling, “Oh, well, everything seems so interesting here.” Betty announces to the whole section that a young man wants to write a book about us. I flush more. A couple of people ask me why in the hell I would want to waste my time like that. Betty says, “Oh, hush.” She leans in and tells me that she wishes Tom were here. He could have told me anything. Nobody sat here watching more than him. And he remembered specifics. People. Faces. Games. Betty and some others around me chipped in to buy a season ticket for the empty seat where Tom always sat. It seemed right. And they chipped in to get him a brick on the small walk in front of the stadium. A brick engraved with his name and his favorite saying,
“Instant replay,”
called out when something awesome happened and he wished he could see it again. Tom’s family got him one, too, so now he’s doubly there in the ground as we all walk in to watch.
“Oh, there’s Danny,” Betty says. She points to the left-field line, where the players are ambling toward the dugout. They all look the same from here. She must have remembered his walk.
As the players get closer, Betty waves to Danny. He trots over and says hi. He looks happy, at least amused. He remembers her. Danny was one of Tom’s favorites, she tells me. Tom watched Danny in the last year that he watched anything. But this year, when Danny was at spring trainingin Arizona, Tom was buried in a cemetery two miles from where he was born. The fans from his section were there, and Ted, and some former players who stayed around the area when their careers ended. They brought LumberKings trinkets to enhance the ambience: a cap, a ball, a pennant, leftover green beads from some beer promotion a few years back.
Betty starts to tell me everything about the Baseball Family, which has a lot of overlap with her real family but is bigger. I am in the middle of the Family. There are Julie, Cindy, Joyce, the one who collects all the baseballs. Bill, Betty’s husband. Then Tammy, Betty’s daughter, Tim, her son, never moved away. And Deb and Dan and Gary, all of them rolling through shared history with a rhythm at once familiar and still surprising. Dan used to work at ADM, quit a few years ago to go drive a truck. Gary still works there, doesn’t want to talk about it. Everyone laughs at that. Then Betty asks what’s home for me. I tell her I don’t really know. She says, sincerely, to me, this near stranger, in a way that would make
“Long season,” Danny says to me. And then, “God is good.”
· · ·
Tom Bigwood died two weeks ago. It had been a long time coming. He said he was going to make it to opening day, he said no way in hell he wasn’t, but then he died of colon cancer. In the same paper that ran “L’Kings’ Carroll Seeks Fresh Start,” there was a paid obituary for Tom, who was never famous the way Danny could be. It commemorated him as a son, a brother, a friend, a season-ticket holder for thirty-three years.
I sit in Tom’s seat, like an idiot.
“You know where you’re sitting, don’t you?” I’m asked by a woman named Betty, with white hair and a face that looks like a chipmunk Christmas tree ornament that my grandmother used to have.
My silence works as an answer.
“That’s Tom’s seat.”
I look around for Tom.
“Oh no, he’s dead. You can stay there, I suppose.”
Betty gives a short, sad laugh and then says, “I’m Betty, what’re you writing?”
She points to my notebook and I flush, mumbling, “Oh, well, everything seems so interesting here.” Betty announces to the whole section that a young man wants to write a book about us. I flush more. A couple of people ask me why in the hell I would want to waste my time like that. Betty says, “Oh, hush.” She leans in and tells me that she wishes Tom were here. He could have told me anything. Nobody sat here watching more than him. And he remembered specifics. People. Faces. Games. Betty and some others around me chipped in to buy a season ticket for the empty seat where Tom always sat. It seemed right. And they chipped in to get him a brick on the small walk in front of the stadium. A brick engraved with his name and his favorite saying,
“Instant replay,”
called out when something awesome happened and he wished he could see it again. Tom’s family got him one, too, so now he’s doubly there in the ground as we all walk in to watch.
“Oh, there’s Danny,” Betty says. She points to the left-field line, where the players are ambling toward the dugout. They all look the same from here. She must have remembered his walk.
As the players get closer, Betty waves to Danny. He trots over and says hi. He looks happy, at least amused. He remembers her. Danny was one of Tom’s favorites, she tells me. Tom watched Danny in the last year that he watched anything. But this year, when Danny was at spring trainingin Arizona, Tom was buried in a cemetery two miles from where he was born. The fans from his section were there, and Ted, and some former players who stayed around the area when their careers ended. They brought LumberKings trinkets to enhance the ambience: a cap, a ball, a pennant, leftover green beads from some beer promotion a few years back.
Betty starts to tell me everything about the Baseball Family, which has a lot of overlap with her real family but is bigger. I am in the middle of the Family. There are Julie, Cindy, Joyce, the one who collects all the baseballs. Bill, Betty’s husband. Then Tammy, Betty’s daughter, Tim, her son, never moved away. And Deb and Dan and Gary, all of them rolling through shared history with a rhythm at once familiar and still surprising. Dan used to work at ADM, quit a few years ago to go drive a truck. Gary still works there, doesn’t want to talk about it. Everyone laughs at that. Then Betty asks what’s home for me. I tell her I don’t really know. She says, sincerely, to me, this near stranger, in a way that would make
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