6. Campbell #2
Jake doesn’t argue further, but his silence is colder than the air.
He hand-delivers the pitchfork to his dad, his fingers never touching Roddy’s, giving him a hard stare as Roddy steps in to help him finish the chore.
Still, Jake lets him help, and the two men are suddenly moving in a synchronized dance born of the same DNA.
Connor doesn’t seem to have noticed the tense few moments that had me gritting my teeth.
The two men work the hay together while Connor’s camera captures every single frame of the silent drama. I think Connor is taken with the cool shots, ignoring the real story playing out in the silence. Thank God!
Twenty minutes later, the work is done. The sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of brilliant pink and orange.
“All right, let’s get some breakfast in you city folks,” a cheerful voice calls out.
Daisy walks down the back porch steps, holding a heavy ceramic platter loaded with steaming, fresh-baked blueberry muffins alongside a pitcher of orange juice and sweating glasses of ice water.
How the woman has time to bake, run a bustling restaurant-bar, and keep a property like this looking, well, magazine-shoot ready baffles me.
But I’ll indulge in her gifts. I snag a muffin before she sets the tray on a weathered wooden picnic table tucked under a massive oak tree.
“Atta girl,” she utters.
“This table is gorgeous,” I say mid-chew. My words are muffled, but this muffin is delicious. I run my palm along the surface of the red-stained table that looks as if it has been anchored into the dirt for decades.
“My father built this table fifty years ago,” Daisy says with a proud smile, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Best place for a talk. Now, y’all help yourselves. I’ve got to get over to Earl’s to open up the kitchen, so I’ll leave you to your media business.”
She offers a general wave before turning to head toward her truck.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Roddy’s gaze locked on Daisy’s retreating back, his eyes soft and a bit heavy.
I recognize longing when I spot it, and his stare remains fixed on her until her truck door slams and she backs out of the driveway.
He still loves her.
I turn my attention to Jake, and while I was watching Roddy, he seems to have been watching me. He shakes his head a tick, his mouth forming a slight frown. I’ll dig into that with him later. Right now, I need him to be on his best behavior.
“All right, guys, if we can just have you both sit on that side of the table,” Connor instructs, breaking the spell.
Jake slips on his flannel shirt as he moves to the far side of the table.
Roddy takes a seat next to him, sitting a little stiffly.
There’s a massive gap between the men, and the awkwardness could not be more palpable.
Connor is setting up his microphone, so I take the opportunity to motion toward the father-son pair, urging them to sit a little closer and loosen up.
They both roll their shoulders and shift their weight, but they don’t move a damn inch.
Connor gives me a thumbs-up, so I guess I’ll have to settle for what they’re willing to give.
“So, Roddy, Jake,” Connor begins, his youthful energy bouncing off the quiet morning air. “It’s not every day we see a legendary veteran and a rising star sharing a clubhouse. Tell me, why do you both love baseball? What does this game mean to you?”
I notice the flicker in Jake’s eyes when Connor uses the words rising star to describe him. I hope this shows him the value of interviews like this.
Roddy smiles, an almost nostalgic look in his eyes. “This game? It’s life, Connor. It’s the only thing that has ever made sense to me.”
He turns to Jake, and I brace myself.
“For me, it’s about tradition,” Jake says, his voice smooth, clear, confident.
He looks directly into the camera lens, delivering a flawless, media-friendly smile that makes him look like a hometown hero.
A breathy laugh slips out of my mouth, so I cover it with my palm.
I had low expectations of him. I admit it.
I thought I would need to do a lot of media training to get him better at this interview business, but damn if he isn’t a natural.
“Growing up, baseball was the invisible bond between us,” Jake continues, glancing at his dad with a soft smile.
“To get the chance to suit up on the same team as my dad, to share a bullpen with a guy who has a legacy like his before he hangs up his cleats? It’s a dream come true. It’s a special kind of magic.”
His answer is perfect. And I shouldn’t feel the chill across my neck from it. But it happens anyhow. And next to him, Roddy’s smile falters, a crease forming between his brows.
We both know those words are a lie. Every single bit of it. Jake is bitter, maybe justifiably. He’s been hurt by the years of neglect, the empty bleachers, the father who chose stadium lights over his own son’s childhood.
But Jake keeps going, effortlessly turning on the charm. He’s playing the part of Roddy McKinney’s son, his carbon copy. And while I am sure it will help his brand, and by extension, his chances on the team, my stomach sours.
“I feel incredibly lucky. Sure, when I was a kid, he wasn’t always there for the big games. He was out on the road, chasing pennants. But I always understood. I knew he was doing what he had to do for the game, and having him here now . . . it makes up for all of it.”
Connor beams behind the camera.
“That’s beautiful, man. Seriously. A special pair, a special story.”
The conversation continues to flow as Roddy shares a few stories from his early years as a rookie, and at one point, the two men chuckle about shared histories with the same high school coach, though their experiences were years apart.
The entire interview is flawless. I couldn’t have scripted it better myself. Thirty minutes pass in a blink.
“That’s a wrap!”
My spine snaps straight, and I twist my palm to check the time on my phone. I can’t believe we made it through.
“Thanks, Connor,” I say, my voice quavering with a bit of relief as I stand up. “Let me walk you out.”
Connor packs up his tripod and mic, and I join him toward his car, which is parked alongside mine in the driveway. He gushes the entire walk.
“Campbell, seriously, thank you. This is going to make a great story, and my numbers are going to spike. The McKinneys . . . man, they really have a special bond. You can just feel the mutual respect.”
“Yeah. Special,” I say through a tight smile, shaking his hand. “Send me the rough cut before it goes live.”
He nods, and while I know he won’t take any notes I may have for edits, at least I’ll have a chance to head off any issues I might spot on a second viewing.
I head back toward the property, my sneakers dragging in the dirt.
The morning sun is fully up now, and the cloud cover is gone.
It’s going to be a warm one today. As I approach the wooden picnic table, I stop just outside the shadow of the oak tree, unsure what to expect when I rejoin them.
Roddy is still sitting on the bench, his head bowed. Jake is standing.
“That was really good to hear, Jake,” Roddy says, his voice thick, rough with emotion. He looks up at his son. “I’m glad to hear your feelings aren’t all negative. That the past . . . that you understood.”
Jake shakes with a quiet laugh and turns his back to his dad, rubbing his palm over his mouth and jaw. He shakes his head and turns back around, looking down at his father. His performance is over. The act vanishes in a heartbeat, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp sneer.
“That was all pretend, and you know it,” he says, his voice lowering. “That was for Campbell and her media job. Don’t go fooling yourself into thinking we’re good just because I know how to play a part for the press.”
Roddy looks like he’s been struck in the chest. “Jake?—”
“I’ve got practice,” Jake snaps, turning on his heels.
He marches away from the table, his stride long and angry, and as he cuts past the oak tree, his dark eyes slam into mine.
He doesn’t say a word, but the look he gives me is heavy with accusation, a silent indictment that slices right through me.
He hated that, and I made him do it. He did it for the promise of getting his turn for once.
And if I don’t make that happen for him, then I’m no better than the guy who disappointed him in the first place.
A heavy weight of guilt settles deep in my stomach. I forced him into that box. I made him stand there and lie to his father’s face, weaponizing his childhood trauma just to manufacture a heartwarming headline.
Yet, as I watch him walk toward his truck, his broad shoulders squared against the world, a fierce, conflicting ache tightens in my throat. I want this for him. I want the front office to see past the brooding, defensive walls he’s built around himself.
I want to show the world the man Jake McKinney is. If only he would let me.