Chapter 6
Greyson
Some of my greatest memories
were on a little league field.
~ Goose Gossage
The first day of Little League practice always involves some version of herding goats. I’m on the field early. My assistant coach, Will, pulls into the parking lot past the restrooms and across a grassy area from the ball field.
Will strides across the field toward the bleachers where I’m standing. “Hey, Greyson!” He smiles broadly.
“Hi.”
“Ready for another season of kid-induced mayhem, baseball moms and volunteer umpires?”
“When you put it that way …” I sound more stern than I actually feel.
Will chuckles good-naturedly. He reminds me a bit of Dustin, but with only half the craziness.
The girls arrive in waves, hugging one another and erupting into excited chatter and giggles.
Parents accompany some of the girls, others come with a caregiver or grandparent.
“Hi, Coach G!” girl after girl shouts when she runs up. Some give me a high-five or fist bump. Others are too busy seeking out their friends to do anything more than shout a greeting. Most of them also yell, “Hi, Coach Will!”
Over the next few minutes, my world narrows to this field and these players. I am Coach G—nothing else.
“Okay, girls!” I yell, followed by a shrill whistle through my fingers. “Let’s gather on the bleachers.”
The girls fill three rows, shuffling around to sit next to their preferred friend. My eyes snag on the new girl, Mia. She’s on the end of the first row, sitting still, back straight, eyes on me. The parents who stayed for practice mingle quietly near the dugout or at the top of the bleachers.
“Everyone give Coach Will your attention while he goes over the rules and tells us what we’re doing today.”
I step back and Will takes my place, running through the same list of expectations we review every season. Some of these girls were on our team last year. Many are moving up from T-ball to coach pitch for the first time.
Will wraps up his speech.
I ask, “Did everyone understand what Coach Will told you?”
Heads bob. Some of the girls practically bounce in place with energy. Our more reserved team members sit quietly, waiting to get on the field. A girl in the back row is bent over with her head between her legs, picking something off the underside of the bleachers.
Even though I know I’m opening a can of worms, I say, “It’s come to my attention that some of you would like a new team name.”
Cheers erupt. Chaos ensues as girls shout out names in an overlapping chorus. They’ve obviously been waiting for this opportunity.
“Okay. Okay. Eyes on me, girls.”
Most of them look at me, and everyone from last year puts their finger to their lips. It’s the way I call them to order.
“Look around you,” I say.
They all glance around. “When I say ‘Eyes on me,’ you look at me, and bring your pointer to your lips like this.” I demonstrate, making eye contact with each of them and keeping my lips thin and my face neutral.
One girl in the back row raises her hand.
“Yes, Tabitha?”
“What if we’re wearing our ball glove when you say it?”
“I never say, ‘Eyes on me,’ when you’re on the field.”
“Oh. Okay,” Tabitha says, lowering her hand.
Will chuckles and mutters, “There’s one in every group.”
“One?” I ask in an almost whisper.
We’re talking about seven- and eight-year-olds.
And we get them at the end of a long school day.
They’re tired and squirrely, and they lack self-control as a rule of thumb.
Half of them don’t care about baseball at all.
But I still pour myself into every minute of being their coach.
They may not know it now, but we’re making core memories on this field—maybe even friendships that will last a lifetime, even if that lifetime is cut short.
I clear my throat and tell the girls, “I’ll send a text to your parents. Once all the suggestions for a team name are in, we’ll have a vote. The new name will be announced at next week’s first practice.”
I glance at Will. He nods. It was his idea to give the girls a chance to rename the Possums since so many of them have asked for a change. But we need to move quickly so we can get the new name stitched on the uniforms.
“Everyone ready to practice?” I ask.
The girls all shout “Yeah!”
“Let’s start with our warm-ups.”
Will takes over. The girls pour off the bleachers onto the field.
Will has them spread out, jogging in place with high knees.
Then we all run one lap around the field.
We follow that with a few stretches and some arm circles.
Most of this routine simply serves to burn off the excited first-practice energy.
But it’s also a good way to get them used to following directions.
We group the girls in pairs and a few clusters of three to have them practice throwing.
I walk around saying things like, “Step toward the target,” “Eyes on the ball,” and “Nice and easy.”
Balls roll everywhere. Girls chase them down.
I’m especially watching the players who are new to the team—assessing their skill levels, thinking about positions they might fill and what will help them improve.
Avery’s daughter, Mia, has a good arm on her. I switch her up to pair with one of our oldest players on the team, Charlotte.
We only throw for five minutes and then the girls start to fidget. More balls land on the ground than in someone’s glove, so we move to batting practice. Helmets come out. Will throws and I play catcher. I send a few girls into the outfield to shag balls.
Mia hits a ball with a crack. It sails into the outfield past the point where I have anyone stationed to field balls.
“Leave it,” I shout.
“Good job,” I tell her.
She beams with pride, and moves to the back of the batting line.
After we’ve run through batting drills twice, we run a short mock game. Practice wraps up with a quick huddle.
“That was a great start to the season,” I tell the girls. Then Will reminds everyone when the next practice is.
“Arms in,” I say. Everyone puts their arms into the middle of the huddle. “On three.”
We all bounce our arms on each count and shout, “One, Two, Three! Goooooo Possums!”
Some girls shout their chosen team name instead. The whole group devolves into giggles, then they scatter to the bleachers to grab their belongings. Parents who stayed through practice step up to thank me. A few attempt to put in a plug for their choice of name.
“Thank you, Coach G,” Mia says.
“You did great today,” I tell her. Then I add, “Good work, Spike.”
Her smile is full, and for the briefest moment she reminds me of Hallie. I shake my head. I’m losing it if even a random dark-haired seven-year-old draws up thoughts of Hallie.
Mia walks over to her grandma, who is here with her. They wave goodbye in my direction and I wave back.
Will and I stick around until the last child is picked up.
“Hey, Kayla’s cooking lasagna tonight,” Will says. “There’s plenty. Want to join us?”
“Maybe another time,” I say, like I always do. “Thanks for thinking of me.”
“One day I’m going to knock you out and drag you home with me.”
“I think that might be criminal,” I say, grinning despite myself.
“So is your level of isolation,” Will quips.
“I live with four … make that three … other men every other day for twenty-four hours straight,” I remind him. “I need a little time to myself when I’m not on the clock.”
“Point taken.”
On the way home, I stop by the Kinkaids’. Zach’s mom is home alone.
“Greyson,” she beams when she opens the door. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“First day of practice,” I tell her.
“Ah, yes. You and your baseball. How’s the team looking this year?”
“Messy, but it was just our first day out on the field. There are a few girls with real promise.”
“I’ll have to come out to watch.”
“You don’t have to,” I say, letting her off the hook.
She came to every one of Zach’s and my games growing up—or at least every one I remember. I can’t imagine it’s easy going to games, having those memories dragged up each time.
“I’d like to,” she says with a warm smile.
“Well, let me know when you’re coming and I’ll save you a spot up front, right behind the dugout.”
“Do you want to come in?” she asks me.
“I just stopped by to say hi.”
“I’ve got soup and warm bread.”
She holds the door open, so I step through. I won’t stay long. Unlike me, Mrs. Kinkaid doesn’t love solitude. She manages it, but prefers her home full of warmth and noise. It’s the least I can do to give her a piece of my evening.
“I was just sitting down to watch Jeopardy!,” she says, lifting her bowl off a tray table to move it to the dining room.
“Let’s watch together,” I suggest.
She smiles, places her bowl back down and moves to the kitchen to serve me a bowl of hot soup.
The smell of freshly-baked bread and savory broth fills the kitchen.
I take a seat on the stool at the island while Mrs. Kinkaid tears a chunk of bread from the long french loaf.
Her movements are like a practiced dance, right down to the way she sets my plate in front of me.
I inhale the nutty aroma and then I lift my plate and bowl and follow her into the living room.
She sets out a second tray table and clears off a spot at the other end of the sofa for me.
I’m about to sit when my phone rings. It’s a 2-0-2 area code. Washington, DC? Instinctively, I hold my finger up toward Mrs. Kinkaid.
“I’ll be right back. I have to take this.” I hold my cell in the air.
I step out onto the porch and answer the call.
“Hello?” I say.
“Greyson?” a man’s voice asks.
“This is he. Who’s calling?”
“Greyson,” the voice warms. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Stymes, though I’m not with the Army anymore. I’m with FEMA.”
“Hello, sir,” I say.
“Just call me Matthew,” he says. “We’re no longer in need of the formality.”
“Yes, sir. Matthew …” I almost say, Matthew, sir.
My shoulders square and my spine straightens before I even give it a second thought.
He chuckles. “I’m sorry to call you so late.”
The sound of his laughter is like an at ease. My posture softens and I release a breath.
“Isn’t it an hour later there?” I ask him.
I know he’s in Eastern time. I’m assuming he knows I’m in Central.
“An hour later. Yes.” He barely pauses. “I’ll cut right to the chase, Greyson. A position opened up, and I thought of you right away. I understand you went into firefighting after you were discharged.”
“Yes, sir.” I can’t seem to shake the habit of using the term. He doesn’t correct me.
“Well, we’re looking for an Emergency Management Specialist to conduct on-scene assessments and coordinate responses to incidents for our team at FEMA. You came to mind. I’d like to send you the information about the position. We’ll open applications this coming month.”
“You … FEMA … Okay.” I never stutter. This call is entirely unexpected.
FEMA. That would mean leaving Waterford Fire. Uprooting my life. Relocating to DC. The position is definitely a step up from my role as a local firefighter. I could make a real difference to people in crisis all around the country. But I’d have to leave my hometown and start over.
“I know I caught you off guard,” Lieutenant Colonel Stymes says.
“This position would open you up to a world of opportunities. You’d come in at GS-11 or GS-12 to start, based on your background.
But you know how these things work. After a few years, you could be sitting in my chair or you might move to another role entirely.
There’s a clear progression pathway open to you. ”
“Send me the details,” I find myself saying.
“Yes. Good. I’ll do that. Text me your address on this same number.”
“You don’t have it?” He found my number—my private cell phone—he certainly has my address.
“Of course, I have it. But it’s better if you voluntarily send it to me.” He chuckles. “Still direct as ever, I see.”
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
“Well, good. That’s one of the qualities that will make you a perfect fit. Your decisiveness and lack of emotional volatility will serve you well when faced with crisis management.”
I don’t respond.
“Well, I’ll let you go, Greyson. I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.”
“Thank you,” I say, hanging up the call.
I stand on the Kinkaids’ porch, my eyes tracing the sidewalk I walked countless times when I’d come here to call on Zach as a kid, and later as a teen.
I wish he were here to give me his thoughts.
Of all the people I ever knew, he was the one to push past my walls and get me talking. Well, him and Hallie.
My mind drifts back to that night in Munich, the one I’d think of whenever I needed a ray of hope in the middle of the desert. I still can’t believe she’s here, in Waterford, the girl I never forgot, even after all these years …