4. Campbell
FOUR
CAMPBELL
The evening air has a bite to it, but nobody in this stadium seems to care. It’s opening weekend in Sweetwater, and when it isn’t college football season around here, baseball is literally the only game in town.
The seats are packed, a sea of faded orange and navy blue caps vibrating with a special kind of energy. Hotels are full. Families drove to this small, special place from the bigger cities to the north.
Kevin wants me to work on getting a turnout like this every weekend, but there’s something special about the first real game of the year that will be hard to recreate.
No coaches sitting in folding chairs outside of the dugouts without repercussions from the umps; caps on mound visits to tweak a rookie’s arm slot and speed to the plate.
By now, it’s time to see which of these boys can fly on their own, and who might benefit from the extra spring games down in Double A.
I pull my Mavericks zip-up hoodie tighter around my shoulders, my tablet clutched against my chest like a shield from the sudden steady wind.
Nobody’s hitting it out in this, but those of us camped over here beyond the home dugout are bound to get a lot of foul balls.
I should be thrilled with tonight’s turnout.
The gate numbers are up two hundred percent from last season’s opener.
And I managed to get the local radio station to actually broadcast live instead of playing the game on delay an hour after the final out.
Who’s tuning in late at night to be slow-rolled the results of a game they either got updated about on their phones or heard the final score from a neighbor? Small towns fascinate me.
I’ve done great work during my short time here, and I’m proud of the strong start.
But my stomach has been tied in a series of inescapable knots ever since Kevin stopped in and upped the stakes with the whole selling the team bit.
Add in my morning phone call from dear old Dad reminding me that my spot with his firm is waiting for me when I’m ready to “give up my little hobby and take on a real job,” and it’s no wonder my stomach is all cinched up again.
I slouch back in my seat, propping my sneaker-clad feet on the cupholder so I can rest my tablet on my thighs.
I like keeping my notes in here along with the stat tools the team populates.
A lot of the baseball reporters come from the good-old-boys club, and I’ve learned the best way to keep them from talking down to me at pressers is by knowing more than they do. So I study—everything
I tap open my notes for Roddy and set my eyes on the big guy as he slides his mask down and takes his place behind the plate.
He pounds his mitt a few times and nods toward Hunter Reddick, the easiest story to sell out here.
Hunter’s a number one draft pick. Landing one of those on my first assignment with this organization was a stroke of luck.
Plus, so far, the kid’s been phenomenal with the media.
He’s personable. Downright charming, actually.
If only some of that charm rubbed off on Jake McKinney.
“Go ahead. Set up outside,” a soft, raspy voice says to my right.
I blink, pulled from my inner thoughts, and look at the woman sitting a few seats away from me.
I’d squeezed into a rare empty pocket in the third row behind our dugout just before the first pitch.
She must have snuck in behind me. The woman looks to be in her late-thirties or early-forties tops, with kind, tired hazel eyes and brown hair pulled back into a claw clip.
Her Mavericks hoodie is worn, the blue faded from use rather than the intentional distressing we’re trying to sell in the team shop. She’s a true fan.
“Sorry?” I say, leaning toward her so she can hear me over the ambient chatter of the crowd.
“Oh, I was talking about Roddy,” she says with a smirk, nodding toward the diamond. “He always calls for the fastball outside on a 1-1 count to a left-handed hitter early in the game. He likes to see how far they’re willing to reach.”
I look back down at the field. Sure enough, the future Hall-of-Famer drops his fingers between his thighs and shifts his weight.
I wonder if he even bothers with the PitchCom, or simply sticks with old-school hand signals.
He pounds his glove exactly where the woman predicted.
The pitcher throws. The batter reaches. Crack.
A lazy pop fly straight to third base for an out.
“Wow,” I mutter, scribbling a quick note in my tablet. “You know your baseball.”
The woman gives a faint, bittersweet smile, her eyes never leaving the man setting up for the next batter behind the plate.
“I know him,” she says softly, almost to herself.
My PR brain, always on high alert, twitches.
But before I can dig into what that means, Roddy chases down a foul ball for the third out behind the plate.
The crowd roars, and he lifts his mask to reveal that signature McKinney smile.
He makes it look so easy. All of it. And just as quickly, he shifts all the credit to the rookie pitcher, giving Hunter a healthy slap on the ass as they slip into the dugout.
Suddenly, the energy in the dugout is vibrating with camaraderie.
That’s the Roddy McKinney effect. He’s a masterclass in leadership. He commands the field and orchestrates the game like a seasoned maestro. The only problem is the man he displaced to do it here.
I shift my gaze down the third-base line, all the way to the bullpen. Sitting on the wooden bench, his arms crossed over his chest and Mavericks cap pulled down so low his eyes are entirely in shadow, is Jake.
I’ve studied the stats. It’s not like Jake was set to be the star of the squad this season.
The opposite, actually. He’s here because of sheer grit, and probably a healthy dose of stubbornness.
I’ve asked around—the guy simply doesn’t know how to quit.
He might not see how powerful that drive can be, but I do.
He just needs to learn how to sell that quality to a roomful of stat-heads who don’t always pay attention to the nuances.
Not all greatness can be read in numbers.
Sometimes, it’s in the stories people have to tell.
“He looks off,” the woman next to me utters.
I glance back at her and see another woman has joined our row, and she’s wearing one of Roddy’s jerseys from his time in St. Louis, before he settled in and became a Texas legend.
These ladies are real fans. Or maybe . .
. more. I follow the gaze of the first woman, and she isn’t looking at Roddy anymore.
Her eyes are locked onto the bullpen. Onto Jake.
“What do you mean?” I ask, my interest fully piqued.
“It’s nothing,” she says, recrossing her legs and closing her body off to me. I get the hint, but also, this lady should quit talking to herself out loud if she doesn’t want me being nosy.
I make eye contact with the second woman, and she shrugs, glancing to her friend then leaning across her lap toward me.
“She means Jake,” the other woman says. “He’s nursing his right shoulder. See how he’s leaning slightly to the left while he sits? He does that when his traps are tight. He won’t tell the trainers. He’s too stubborn.”
My heart does a strange, violent thud against my ribs, and I study both women, noting the delicate lines around their eyes, the familiar shapes of their jaws. I should probably be concerned about my media target lying about an injury, but there’s something here that has me stuck. Then it hits me.
“You’re family,” I breathe out with a subtle laugh, the pieces instantly snapping into place. I’ve done some digging, enough to understand why there’s so much baggage attached to Roddy and Jake’s relationship. This must be?—
“Daisy,” the first woman says, giving in to the warm smile that seems more natural to her than the cold shoulder she tried to give me. She stretches out her palm, and we shake. My eyes dash to the faded tattoo on her ring finger. It looks as if she attempted to remove something there.
“And I’m Winnie, Roddy’s smarter, prettier sibling,” the second woman says, taking my hand as soon as Daisy and I finish shaking.
“It’s really nice to meet you both. I’m?—”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Daisy says, chuckling and glancing at Winnie. “She’s Jake’s PR nightmare.”
I sigh as Winnie rears back and says, “Ohhhhh, so this is Campbell.”
“Glad to know I’ve at least made an impression.
In my defense, pushing these guys to talk is part of my job, and Jake isn’t exactly an open book.
I’m glad I met you both tonight, actually.
I could use some insights when it comes to those two.
Roddy and Jake? I simply want to get them to sit down for one interview, and you’d think I was telling Jake to prep for a root canal. ”
Daisy breathes in deep, her mouth a fixed, hard line as her gaze drops to her own lap. She fidgets her hands together then stretches her palms out on her thighs before meeting my gaze again.
“Jake’s a great kid. Well, man, but he’s always a kid to me. You know,” she says, shrugging.
“Sure, sure,” I nod, getting comfortable sitting sideways in my seat. I’ve seen plenty of baseball. If I’m going to get anywhere with these two, I need to put all of my focus on this conversation.
“His father and I have a complicated history is all, and we’re all adjusting to him being home now. I mean, not that we’re sharing a home, or sharing anything, just . . .” She gets flustered and scrunches her face before looking to Roddy’s sister for help. I turn my attention to Winnie.