Page 3 of Sideline Play

Bumping forearms with Remington and jumping back with their hands exploding up as he passes behind me, my dad asks, “You ready, Princess?” He pulls my hat from his back pocket and tugs it down on my head.

“Are you?”

“Always.”

“Then let’s go kick Atlanta’s butt.”

Tucking me under his thick and heavy arm as we walk out onto the field, he proudly praises, “That’s my girl,” before sending me on my way to the bullpen to do a final pregame check of Roman’s multi-million dollar arm. And just within my periphery is a certain catcher’s perfect ass, voted one of Nashville’s finest in Music City Lifestyle Magazine’s latest issue.

Shaking my head clear as Remington looks up from his squat to talk to his rookie shadow, I focus on Roman, stepping onto a chair to better leverage his shoulder. Finding it tight, I hop back down and start to stretch him out, holding each one just beyond the point of comfort to finish loosening him up. His aversion to most people touching him often leaves him only partially ready for a game if our dad, Jennings, Warner, or myself are unavailable. Then just as the big baby begins to whine, I release him and let him rest before starting again, detailing my school week and Winnie’s latest fear, my new robot vacuum.

“Worst four thousand dollars dad and I ever spent right there–fuuuck! I take it back; I take it back!”

Slowly releasing his arm, I happily smirk, “Yeah, you fucking better take it back, asshat. Winnifred’s a gentle and delicate soul. If she knew her uncle was making fun of her, she’d probably cry.”

“You’re insane, Squeaks.”

“She’s my baby!”

“She’s a Doberman!” he protests. “She shouldn’t be shitting herself when you get mugged.”

“That wasonetime!”

“All it takes is one.”

Joining us, our dad says, “Gotta side with Ro, Princess. While she looks the part, Winnie is pretty useless when it comes to defense. I mean, she doesn’t even bark when someone’s at the door.” Then, grabbing our hands and pulling us all up, he adds, “Come on. We don’t have a lot of time. Jennings wants to consult with you over Tate’s hip.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, spotting him by the stands, taking a picture with a small child who is swimming in Remington’s number eight jersey.

“Usual wear and tear. Nothing a little rest and PT can’t fix. With Jennings’s wife so close to popping, he wants to start transitioning you into filling in for him during his paternity leave.”

“Really?” I ask excitedly. “We all just assumed his duties and students would be shuffled amongst Hastings, Scott, and Ashford.”

“But you didn’t hear that from me, got it?”

I mime zipping my lips closed and throwing away the key as we lean against the fence watching the fans fill the stadium. Soaking in the view of our first and forever home, I tuck in under my dad’s arm as Roman whispers, “This never gets old,” crowding in close at my side so I’m perfectly cocooned between them.

When our image is plastered on one of the giant screens, we wave. Through an uproar of excitement, our dad says, “This was always the dream, but you two are my biggest accomplishments. Nothing this field and its fans have given me can ever hold a candle to the pride and honor I feel at being your dad. I love you.”

“I love you too, Daddy,” I whisper alongside Roman’s, “Love you too, Dad.”

TWO

REMINGTON

I’man original fan of the Nashville Nighthawks if there ever was one. Cut me open and you’ll find that I bleed that deep hunter green native to the rolling hills of Tennessee that is the team’s color. I never missed a game, and on my fifth birthday, my ma gifted me my very first glove, its leather tanned and dyed to match my team exactly. It was then, out front of our double wide surrounded by cracked concrete and weeds as she threw me my very first catch, that I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up: a catcher for the Nashville Nighthawks.

Every moment after, I lived and breathed baseball. Playing for hours in that depressed trailer park we called home. Begging Ma for tapes to record the games on so I could study every catch, crouch, throw, and swing of the Rangers’ catcher, Iván “Pudge” Rodríguez, for trips to the batting cages, and for just one more pitch from her tired arms after she got home from her job in the city waiting tables that were covered in white linen cloths and where the men had to wear jackets. Which she would throw, every time and without complaint or even a huff of impatience, even going as far as to say, “Here, throw it back. I didn’t give youa good pitch,” when it wasn’t what my five year old self deemed to be perfect.

The only thing that topped that birthday until the day I signed my Letter of Intent, and later my first contract with Nashville, was when she came home waving an open letter in her hand, joyfully shouting that I had been accepted into the travel league. It was an expense that, even at nine years old, I knew was going to weigh heavy on her, but she always managed. Sure, my cleats weren’t always new or of the best quality and my gear had been well loved before coming to live out a second life with me, and oftentimes the kindness of other parents was how I made it to games since she couldn’t always afford to take an entire weekend off for tournaments, but I was passionate about it. And I was lucky because she deemed that passion and dedication worth every single penny and minute of her time in order to give me the best chance at making it.

Other than my ma, baseball has been my only love. I live it, breathe it, and worship it. If baseball is my religion, then the Nighthawks are my pastor. I didn’t care that they were the worst team in the league. And I do mean the worst. I was a diehard fan and nothing could sway me from my devotion. Not the piling losses or jokes from announcers. Not even the bullying from my teammates in little league about being too poor to like arealteam.

I was a righteous little fanatic, and that unwavering faith in them paid off during the 2003 Draft when Colt Jones—a prodigy switch pitcher with a 95 mile per hour fastball, a stacked arsenal of every pitch imaginable, and the most coveted player that year—surprised the entire league and every one who was following along by signing with my team instead of taking a no-draft contract with a more established organization. Turns out Boomer Hayes and his wife were able to offer him something no one else had thought to try—special arrangements for hisnew daughter, Scarlet Amelia Jones, who he proudly wore slung across his chest in a pink carrier, to go anywhere and everywhere her daddy went. From home games to road stretches to Spring Training, there wasn’t a part of the game Scarlet didn’t witness from the sidelines. Boomer even dubbed her the unofficial forty-first name on the team’s roster.

From the moment Colt Jones made his Major League debut, the world of baseball was obsessed with him. His rookie card was one of the most coveted items of the season and his jersey a constant sellout. His endorsement deals with athletic companies a proverbial goldmine as cleats, gloves, guards, and anything else you would need to train like a top athlete flew off the shelves. If it had the number 15 or the name Jones on it, it wasn’t just a collectible, it was an investment, because we all knew he was a guaranteed Hall of Famer.

That Midas Touch wasn’t exclusive to him either. It extended to his daughter. From what I remember seeing and hearing my ma talk about, if Scarlet Jones was wearing it, every mother and father in America wanted it for their little girl, too. Clothes, toys, hell even the damn no-name Wal-Mart backpack her dad used as a diaper bag until it was fraying at the seams threw the world into a fever pitch with the need to own it. They were the face of not only the Nighthawks but the entire franchise of the MLB, the Golden Duo.

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