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He made the majors straight out of high school.
But the real achievement, the real feat that made him a king in this small town, was his eleven-year stint with the New York Yankees. He’s exactly what every boy in Groveton dreams of becoming, including me.
Scott Risk wears a pair of khakis, a blue polo, and a good-natured grin. “And you are?”
“Ryan Stone,” Dad answers for me as he appears from out of thin air. “He’s my son. ”
The circle of men outside the barbershop watch us with interest. Scott holds out his hand to Dad. “Scott Risk. ”
Dad shakes it with a badly suppressed smug smile. “Andrew Stone. ”
“City Councilman Andrew Stone?”
“Yes,” Dad says with pride. “I heard rumors you were moving back to town. ”
He did? That’s the sort of news Dad should have shared.
“This town always did love gossip. ” Scott keeps the friendly look, but the light tone feels forced.
Dad chuckles. “Some things never change. I heard you were looking at buying some property nearby. ”
“Bought,” says Scott. “I purchased the old Walter farm last spring, but asked the Realtor to keep the sale quiet until we moved into the home we built farther back on the property. ”
My eyebrows shoot up and so do Dad’s.
That’s the farm right next to ours. Dad takes a step closer and angles his back to make the three of us into our own circle. “I own the property a mile down the road. Ryan and I are huge fans of yours. ” No, he’s not. Dad respects Scott because he’s from Groveton, but loathes anyone from the Yankees. “Except when you played the Reds. Home team takes precedent. ”
“Wouldn’t expect anything else. ” Scott notices my baseball cap. “Do you play?”
“Yes, sir. ” What exactly do I say to the man I’ve worshipped my entire life? Can I ask for his autograph? Can I beg him to tell me how he stays calm during a game when everything is on the line? Do I stare at him like an idiot because I can’t find anything more coherent to say?
“Ryan’s a pitcher,” Dad announces. “A major-league scout watched him at a game last night. He thinks Ryan has the potential to be picked up by the minors after graduation. ”
Scott’s easygoing grin falls into something more serious as he stares as me. “That’s impressive. You must be pitching in the upper eighties. ”
“Nineties,” says Dad. “Ryan pitched three straight in the nineties. ”
A crazy gleam hits Scott’s eyes and we both smile. I understand that spark and the adrenaline rush that accompanies it. We share a passion: playing ball. “Nineties? And you’re just now getting the attention of scouts?”
I readjust my hat. “Dad took me to Reds’ tryout camp this past spring, but…”
Dad cuts me off. “They told Ryan he needed to bulk up. ”
“You must have listened,” Scott says.
“I want to play ball. ” I’m twenty pounds heavier than last spring. I run every day and lift weights at night. Sometimes, Dad does it with me. This dream also belongs to Dad.
“Anything can happen. ” Scott looks over my shoulder, but his eyes have that far-off glaze, as if he’s seeing a memory. “It depends on how badly you want it. ”
I want it. Badly. Dad checks his watch, then extends his hand again to Scott. He’s itching to pick up some new drill bits before supper. “It was nice officially meeting you. ”
Scott accepts his hand. “You too. Would you mind if I borrowed your son? My niece lives with me and she’ll be starting Bullitt County High tomorrow. I think the transition will be easier for her if she has someone to show her around. As long as that’s okay with you, Ryan. ”
“It would be an honor, sir. ” It would. This is beyond my wildest dreams.
Dad flashes me his all-knowing smile. “You know where t
o find me. ” The crowd near the barbershop parts like Moses commanding the Red Sea as Dad strolls toward the hardware store.
