home plate, where he launched into a lesson on patience for a group of young hitters gathered around him.
“That’s pretty weird timing,” Dan thought to himself. But maybe he had glanced Votto — now the Reds’ batting coach -- earlier in the day, and it just hadn’t registered with him. Dan was still in a fog from his long winter.
When Votto finished his hitting class, one of the young batter stepped to the plate and squared up to face pitching coach Bronson Arroyo. Arroyo lobbed the first pitch down the middle of the plate, and the youngster pulled a shot down the third-base line, right toward Dan. Dan ducked by reflex, but Hal Franklin’s reflexes were better. The Reds’ backup third baseman made a jumping, stabbing grab of the line drive and fired the ball to an unknown prospect manning second base to complete the imaginary double play.
The smattering of a crowd clapped politely at the highlight-reel play, and Dan let out a whoop.
“Sure is hot down at the corner this morning!” he yelled. It was a bit of jargon that third basemen sometimes used to express their admiration for each other.
Franklin touched the bill of his cap and nodded toward Dan. A few of the folks seated near Dan chuckled, and he smiled in return.
As the second baseman threw the ball back to Arroyo, Dan could feel someone staring at him from off to his right. He followed the heat of that gaze until he locked eyes with an old man standing behind home plate, fingers interlaced with the chain link of the backstop. The guy looked to be in his 70s and, judging by his posture and pale skin, in poor health.
But his stare was dark and probing, and Dan felt a flash of recognition.
Did he know the elderly man standing behind home plate?
He would soon find out, because his voyeur loosed his grip and began a stooped shuffle in Dan’s direction.
Reunited
It was odd to think that a stranger would make such an effort to get to him, so Dan kept his eyes forward. The guy was probably just looking for somewhere to sit.
That may have been true, but he just happened to sit next to Dan. Right next to Dan as it turned out, and the two of them sat there in silence for several minutes, tension building the whole time. Finally, Dan could no longer withstand the quiet, probing presence next to him.
“Haven’t seen you around here before,” Dan said to the old man.
“Nope, first time here.”
The two were quiet for another moment, and Arroyo threw a pitch on the field.
“My name’s Dan,” Dan said, extending his hand.
“Pleasure to meet you, Dan. I’m Sam.”
Sam’s hand was as cold as his grip was weak, but those eyes were still strong, gouging into Dan’s, prying. “What does this guy want?” Dan wondered.
“My wife sent me to Spring Training as a Christmas gift.”
Dan smiled his approval. “Pretty great Christmas gift, if you ask me. Especially since it’s the Reds’ camp. You a fan?”
“Of the Reds?” Sam sounded like he couldn’t believe how ludicrous the question was. “Only since 1960!”
“Wow, that’s almost as long as I’ve …” Dan stopped himself. Even after more than fifty years, he still slipped up sometimes.
“What’s that?” Sam asked, suspicion clouding his face.
“Um, I was just thinking that’s, um, longer than I’ve been alive.”
“I should hope so, son!” Sam chuckled. “What are you, a tourist passing through?”
“No, sir,” Dan said. “I’m a scout.”
“No kidding! For the Reds?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now, there’s a job I could’ve really gotten into. Where you from, son?”
“I’m from Indiana,” Dan said.
“Me too! Well, originally, anyway. Born and raised there. Moved away after high school, though.”
“College?” Dan asked.
“Air Force. Vietnam.”
Dan nodded. Sam looked about the right age, and plenty of Dan’s friends had ended up in the service after high school. That was one thing Dan had not had to worry about, considering that the military didn’t have much use for a boy who was comatose nine months out of the year.
“Did you play ball? You look like were an athlete,” Dan lied.
“Ah, I look like hell now, but I was pretty decent once upon a time. When I was a senior, we even won the state championship. I didn’t play much, but it was great just to be part of that team. Made me think anything was possible.”
Dan nodded, distracted by the action on the field but still listening to Sam’s story.
“What position did you play?”
“Third base, mostly,” Sam said.
That pulled Dan’s attention back to his chat mate. “Third base? Me too!”
A sly grin splashed across Sam’s face.
“Uh-huh. Thought so. I mean, you really lit up when that young man made his play out there. We all stick together, don’t we?”
“Pretty much,” Dan agreed. “It’s sort of like driving a Jeep.”
Something was bothering Dan about Sam and their conversation. Something wasn’t quite right, though he didn’t know what it was.
“When did you graduate from high school, son?” Sam asked.
The feeling of unease intensified, and Dan grew guarded.
“Oh, it’s been awhile now,” he said.
“Couldn’t have been too long. What are you, 30?” Suspicion clouded Sam’s eyes again.
“Something like that,” Dan said, then, trying to take the focus off himself, “When did you say you won that state championship?”
“Didn’t. But it was 1974.”
Dan sat bolt upright and squinted his eyes at Sam.
“And where did you go to school?”
“South Pickens.”
Realization hit Dan like a punch to the solar plexus. He leaned close to the old man, studying the wrinkles and liver spots, searching the eyes.
“Sam Butler?” Dan asked, forgetting the apparent age disparity between them.
Sam Butler had been the third-string third baseman on the South Pickens team that won the Indiana state championship in 1974. That was the same team that Dan helped coach in his first year after the accident.
The accident that had left him in a state of hibernation — a coma, some called it — for nine months. It had been more than 50 years since Dan had seen Sam, who was then just a slip of boy. Dan imagined how that boy must have matured, become a strapping Air Force cadet, got married, raised a family. Now here he was, hobbled and sickly, weighing maybe less than he did when Dan knew him all those years ago.
“You’re Dan Hodges, aren’t you?” Sam asked.
It wasn’t the first time Dan had seen the bewildered recognition on the face of some long-lost acquaintance, but it was the first time he’d ever had to answer the charge close-up.
“Yes, Sam. It’s me.”
“But how?” Sam studied Dan’s eyes, sorted through his former coach’s youthful features. “You can’t be more than 30 years old!”
Dan shrugged. “Baseball keeps me young, I guess.” It was a lame attempt at humor.
Sam sat a couple of inches straighter and tried to puff out his chest.
“No! I don’t believe you! You’re trying to play a trick on me … for some reason … and I don’t appreciate it at all.”
Dan felt an ache around his heart and regretted having engaged Sam at all. He hadn’t meant to hurt the old man. But this was his out.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you, sir,” Dan said. He stood and walked from the bleachers, eager to get far away from the uncomfortable conversation.
After a few dozen steps, Dan heard a rustling behind him, and then a craggy voice called out: “Coach! Gonna take this one deep!”
Before Dan could even register the words, he patted himself between the shoulder blades once with his right hand, then rested the hand on the back of his head. This had been the Eagles’ sign for a hitter to choke up on the bat, and it was Dan’s st
andard reply whenever one of his fly-swatting charges tried to swing for the fences.
His response was a dead giveaway, and he hung his head in resignation.
“Dan, it’s really you!” Sam yelled.
Slowly, Dan walked back toward his old companion, steeling for the questions that would come.
—
“Last thing I remember about you,” Sam said, “was seeing the paramedics carry you out of the stands while we were celebrating on the field. It was tough … we were all worried about you, of course, but we were young.”
“I’ve always felt bad about raining on that big day,” Dan said.
Sam seemed not to have heard Dan’s apology. “I left of the Air Force the next week and never even thought about you again — until today.”
The two men looked straight forward, not making eye contact.
“Say, whatever happened to that sweet little girl you were dating?” Sam asked after awhile. “Gracie?”
“Gabbie,” Dan corrected.
“Gabbie! That’s it. Whatever happened to her?”
“We got married about 10 years after high school,” Dan said.
“What took you so long?”
Dan thought about those early years after his beaning. Troy was born the year after South won state, but Gabbie stayed with her parents. She couldn’t