CHAPTER ONE
Evan
“Hi. I’m here to see Christy,” I say to a woman who greets me as I enter the hair salon my sister found for me online.
“That’s me.” A pretty, reddish-brown-haired woman pops her head out from the station behind the front counter.
I step around the ornate table and head her way with my hat in one hand and my other stretched out to greet her. “Hi. I’m Evan. Thanks for getting me in.”
“Of course.” She motions toward her chair. “Have a seat and tell me what you have in mind.”
I sit, then look at her in the mirror as she stands behind me. “Just a normal cut. Nothing special.”
“One low, tapered fade coming up!” she replies with enthusiasm I’ve never gotten during a haircut as she wraps the drape around me. “So, I heard you’re new to Nashville. Your sister said you’ve moved a lot the past few years. Are you a singer?”
I touch the hat that’s now sitting on my knee, glad it’s covered by the drape so she can’t see it. When I put it on today, asense of humility washed over me. I’ve waited years to wear this hat, but now that I can, it feels like I’m bragging if I do wear it. All my other ones are still packed though, so I put it on my head and walked out, knowing I’d feel naked without one.
“Nope. Not a singer.” I leave it at that and don’t say anything more.
The fact that I made it to the bigs is still sinking in. I’d been in the minors for seven years, grinding it out and fighting for that one spot on a forty-man roster.
When I started out in High-A, I was in a small town that felt like the middle of nowhere, and most people didn’t even realize the team was affiliated with the major leagues. No one knew or gave a damn who I was. I just got to play ball and go about my business. Now that I’m in Nashville, playing for the Tennessee Terrors, it’s going to be a different ball game altogether.
She places her hands on my shoulders and leans in to quietly say, “Good, because I’ve seen too many people crash and burn, and I didn’t want to watch another one go through that.”
I don’t want to say the same could happen to me next week if I don’t play like I was in Triple-A, so I just grin my response while she gathers her cutting tools.
That’s one thing that’s been on my mind for years. The only reason I’ve made it as far as I have is because someone else failed and was let go or dropped down a level so I could take their spot. You don’t think about that when you see a name go across the ticker about so-and-so being called up from Triple-A. They celebrate that person’s success, but nobody talks about the guy whose dreams were just shattered.
Baseball is a tough world. The game of failures could have you riding high one day and the lowest you’ve ever been the next. Coaches always told me I’d be judged not by the fact that I failed, but how I acted when I failed, and I’ve always taken that to heart.
When they pulled me into that office at spring training, I knew there was a possibility to go up, but I’d seen so many guys walk in there, thinking they were finally getting their shot, only to be traded—or worse, let go completely.
You just never know what is in store for you.
I’ve moved so many times over the last seven years that it’s been hard to have any life outside of baseball unless it involved my teammates. It’s sad to say, but sometimes, the only consistent thing in my life is my haircut every two to three weeks. That’s why my sister took it very seriously to make sure I found a salon I’d like.
I look in the mirror just as the woman behind me gives me a soft grin.
“Okay, here we go!”
A small laugh escapes my lips at how cheery she is—I mean, this is just a haircut.
She laughs herself. “Sorry, I have a seven-year-old boy, so sometimes, I forget I’m talking to adults.”
Memories of my mom when I was seven come flooding in, and I can’t help but smile. “My mom was the same way,” I say, trying to make her feel not so silly. “She ran a day care out of our house when my sister and I were little. She always said she forgot how to talk to adults after being with kids all day long.”
She works a comb through my hair, assessing her next cut as she speaks. “I talk to adults all day long, so I shouldn’t have that problem, but when I go home, it’s just me and my little man, so maybe that’s why.”
I take her in some more as she puts the comb down and reaches for the clippers.
“What’s your son’s name?”
“Nolan,” she says with a smile.
“With a name like that, he’s got to be into baseball.” I grin.
She lets out a hard laugh as she points to a photo sitting on her stand of her and a young boy wearing a Nashville Little League hat. They’re standing on a baseball field, and he’s holding a baseball up for everyone to see. “Do you know how often I get asked if that’s why I named him that?”
