I stop by the senior center on my way out of town to make a few visits to residents who have no involved family. On my way out, I remind the staff not to mention that I come here on occasion. I do like living in Waterford, but it’s a part of life that everyone talks—even the nursing home staff.
“I promise not to tell anyone,” a CNA named Jenny says with a smile. “Though I don’t know why you wouldn’t want people knowing. I think it’s sweet.”
“Exactly,” I say with no further explanation.
I’m not sweet and I don’t need people getting the wrong impression.
I drive home and finally feel tired enough to take a nap for a couple hours before I have to wake to head to the ball field.
My life is divided into two equal halves.
One half is spent at the station and running calls. The other is on the ball field. When I was young, my passion for baseball knew no bounds. At one point I had dreams of going into the majors. My coaches were like second dads to me, shaping how I saw the world, encouraging me, setting an example to follow.
Now I return the favor, only I coach girls baseball.
I arrive at the field a half-hour before my assistant coach and find a spot on the bleachers. We’re just doing sign-ups today. Most of the parents have already pre-registered online, but we require the kids to come sign an agreement about sportsmanship and attendance to practices and games.
There are always some stragglers—kids whose families missed the online deadline for sign-ups, etc. Like the little girl marching across the field as if she owns it right now. A woman who looks a little young to be her mom trails behind her. And behind her, a woman who must be an aunt or grandma.
“Hi,” the girl says, sticking her hand out to shake mine. “I’m Mia. And I’m here to play ball.”
I don’t smile as a rule. I take all sorts of heat for my lack of friendliness from the guys on my crew, and even from Mrs. Kinkaid and Tate. But this girl, her spunk. And the glint in her eye? Well, she draws out a smile.
“Hi, Mia. I’m Coach G.”
“Coach G.” She tries on my name and nods. Then she looks around the field. “Where’s the rest of the team?”
“You’re early,” I tell her.
“Yeah. I have that problem sometimes.”
“Not a bad problem to have,” I tell her.
The other two women catch up to Mia. The older of the two sizes me up and then introduces herself. “I’m Margie. You’ve already met Mia. This is my daughter, Avery. She’s single.”
Avery looks over her shoulder at Margie. “Mom!”
I glance from Avery to Mia and back. Mia’s not checking with Avery the way most girls check in with their moms. And Avery’s body language is equally detached.
“What?” Margie says to Avery. “You are single. No shame in telling the man.”
“Sorry about her,” Mia says to me, pointing at Margie. “She says whatever she thinks. Zero filter.”
I chuckle despite myself.
“Mia and I just moved into town this week from Maryville. We’re staying with my daughter. Mia’s here to register for little league.”
“You came to the right place,” I tell Margie, picking up the clipboard and handing it to her. “You’ll need to fill out one of these forms. Practices are twice a week. Games are on Saturdays. My assistant coach should be here any minute. He covers any practices and games when I can’t make it due to work.”
I turn to Mia. “What position do you play?”
“I can play catcher. If you think about it, that’s the hardest. But I also have been pitcher and shortstop. And I played third base. I’m seven, but I’ve been playing since I was four. T-ball first.”
“Wow.” I don’t even mask my surprise—both at the articulate way she expresses herself and her versatility on the field.
My assistant coach, Will, arrives. I introduce him to Mia and her family. Other girls and their parents start to arrive. Will passes out forms for the girls to sign. I hand one to Mia and then I get dragged into a few conversations with some of the moms about schedules and snack sign-ups.
Mia approaches me after she finishes signing the sportsmanship and attendance agreement.
