The baseball left Gage Sanderson’s hand, fooooshed as it pierced the thick, Florida summer air, and caused a peal of jangling clanks as it struck the metal chain-link fence.
Gage, who was seventeen years old, wondered just how many such pitches he had delivered over the course of his life in that very back yard. How many fastballs, curves, sliders, sinkers, and all manner of other “junk balls” – as his grandfather called them – had hit that fence?
Gage cursed under his breath, unsure if it was because of the heat, the circumstances, or the fact that he had missed the mark again. Anyone else who might have seen his previous pitch would have been impressed – fastball, low and within just about any umpire’s strike zone. Gage, however, had different criteria. Precision was everything, and he had seen the ball miss the small patch of red paint on the chain-link which he had sprayed there earlier that year.
He had painted it right after Christmas as he had been preparing, with great hope, for the upcoming season – his senior season, his coach moving him into the number one pitching slot; his long-awaited chance to prove to the scouts that the only reason he had not yet played a substantial amount was because of the stellar players, now graduated, that had been in front of him.
In short, it was his year.
Then, in a matter of weeks, all of it had disappeared. In the end, COVID-19 had gotten a vote – the decisive one, as it turned out.
Gage retrieved the ball by the fence and glanced up at the sky. Cloudless, sunny, warm; no indication whatsoever – at least from where he stood – that a global pandemic was underway. Didn’t matter, though. In the end, decision-makers who didn’t care about his senior season (much less his opinion) had cancelled everything in sight, it seemed; prom, graduation, baseball. He shook his head at the magnitude and swiftness with which it had all happened…and cursed again.
Ball in hand, Gage walked back to the make-shift pitchers’ mound that he and his grandfather had made in the backyard years earlier, and got set as he stood on the rubber. Peering over his glove, he zeroed in on the red spray-paint of the fence and took a deep breath.
“This one’s for you, assholes,” he whispered. As he went into his wind-up, all at once he saw faces appear on the red dot; his coach, his principal, the school superintendent, the governor, anyone who he could remember that had a hand in the decision to quash his dreams, to ruin his senior year, to basically ensure that a scholarship would be out of the question for him. Gage Sanderson saw them all at once and felt a fury explode within him like a burst of gasoline to a flame as he pushed forward from the rubber with his right foot and propelled another fastball toward the fence.
BRRRRAAANNG! If it had been a bullet, it would have been a kill shot. Dead center on red. Gage smiled.
“Ready for a break?” asked a thick, male voice behind him.
Gage was startled as he turned, but grinned when he saw who his visitor was.
“My daughter tells me you’ve been out here all morning,” his grandfather told him.
“Hey, Unc,” Gage said, removing his Devil Rays hat and wiping away sweat with the bill.
“Take a load off,” said Unc, motioning to the family patio table.
Gage suddenly realized how tired he felt, and decided he could go for a rest.
Johnny Lee DuBose had been known as “Unc” ever since he had retired from the major leagues and come home to coach baseball in the Florida burg which he and Gage called their hometown. A coach, mentor, and adopted “uncle” (hence his nickname) to hundreds before retiring from that profession, he was well-known and respected in the community. Unc Dubose had pitched for a very brief time before falling into a trap that was all too common to “armers”; torn rotator cuff due to too much wear and tear too early. After hanging up the cleats for the last time, he had gone through the same period of deep bitterness common to many others whose careers end prematurely, before finding a new life as a coach and mentor.
Once Gage had come along, Unc made a vow to himself that he would do everything he could to ensure that the boy didn’t put all of his proverbial eggs in one basket when it came to sports. Unc had preached this to all of his players, but took a special interest when it came to his blood relative, who was more like a son to him than anything else.
As he sat across from his grandson – the only child of his only daughter – he stared at the boy and was reminded that his vow was now in jeopardy.
Gage was sullen as he sipped from a water bottle.
“Nice day to be out,” Unc said.
“Too bad we’re not allowed to be,” Gage answered. “Speaking of which, aren’t you breaking the law by being over here?”
“Had to go to the store,” Unc said with a wry grin. “Runnin’ low on bran flakes. When you get to be my age, you can’t take bathroom activity for granted.”
Gage grinned. Unc smiled, triumphant; thankful to have snapped the boy out of his funk, even if it was temporary.
Unc continued, “Then I figured, ‘what the hell? Checking in on my grandson sounds pretty much like an ‘essential service.’”
Gage nodded.
“Any movement on college applications?”
Gage shook his head. “Sent a few videos out. A few junior colleges, as well as UF.”
“That’s not what I asked you,” Unc replied, fixing Gage with a glare.
“What do you want to know?” Gage asked his grandfather with an insolent frown.
“I want to know what you’re doing to secure your future,” he answered, “besides worrying about baseball.”
“Can we not do this?”
“Following your heart’s fine,” Unc said, “but if you forget to use your head…”
“…that’s when your heart gets lost,” Gage finished for him.
“You did listen,” Unc affirmed with an air of surprise.
“You’ve only said it a hundred times,” Gage replied.
As Unc stared at his grandson, he almost chuckled at how the boy – despite having a different last name – often carried himself with the same trademark DuBose brashness. And the similarities didn’t stop there. Gage was tall and lanky, just as Unc had been, and he and Unc both had the same mannerisms, expressions, and other peccadilloes that often surfaced for a moment before disappearing once more below the surface of individuality and age.
“And I’ll say it a hundred more times, if that’s what it takes for it to sink in,” Unc told him. “Look, Gage, there’s other ways of getting into college besides an athletic scholarship. With your ability to write…”
Gage cut him off and flounced up from his chair in frustration. He walked a few paces out into the backyard, away from the shade. “Here we go with the ‘writing’ and the ‘essay scholarship’ again.”
“Why does that bother you?” Unc asked, not getting up. “Do you really feel that threatened by someone suggesting that there might be another way for you to move forward? Especially someone like me who’s been where you’ve been?”
“You hurt your shoulder,” Gage replied. “You didn’t get your future taken by a stupid-ass virus.”
“Who says your future’s been taken from you?” Unc retorted.
Gage turned and glared. “No scout – college or pro – is going to offer an unproven pitcher. You know it as well as anybody. And you also know that walking on and paying my own way is out of the question. We don’t have the money.”
Gage spun and showed his back to his grandfather. Unc let him sulk for a moment before rising out of his chair. He stared at his bitter grandson and once more saw himself; years younger, standing before a foot locker in a team clubhouse in some no-name small town with a double-A team, having just received the news – definitely a torn rotator cuff, possibly salvageable, but not likely. And with the recovery time on the horizon, why would the franchise continue wasting money? He was damaged goods. Thanks for playing, kid, but your future ain’t here.
His heart hurt as he watched his grandson kick at the turf the way pitchers do at the mound when they’re preparing to throw. Somehow coming to terms with reality lay somewhere beneath the level of topsoil; just one cleat-trench away.
“Let’s go,” Unc called out.
Gage turned. “Where?”
“Somewhere,” Unc said.
“Are you nuts?” Teresa Sanderson asked her father. “It was a major risk for you to even come over here.”
Unc sipped from the glass of sweet tea she had poured for him and grinned. “Then I must be nuts.”
Teresa pushed a strand of blond hair off her forehead and glared at him with her striking blue eyes. Just like her mother’s, Unc always marveled. “I can’t let you take Gage.”
“I’ll tell you what you can’t do, Rese,” Unc replied. “You can’t let him sit around here pouting and expecting it to change reality.”
Teresa sighed heavily and stared at him.
Unc continued, “You young folks call it an ‘intervention,’” he said to her, his blue eyes sparkling from within a weather-beaten tanned face, framed by a mane of thick white hair. “Way I see it, Gage just needs what we old farts refer to as a good, ol-fashioned talkin’-to.”
“Please be careful,” she almost begged.
Unc smiled at his daughter. “You remember jumping off the roof and into my arms as a youngster? Like to drove your mama crazy?”
Teresa smiled, remembering.
“I wish you could regain that sense of trust when it comes to me taking my grandson out.”
Gage emerged from his bedroom, wearing a fresh shirt and shorts. His thick dark hair was matted from the hat he had been wearing.
“You ready?”
Gage nodded.
“Be careful,” Teresa reminded, giving them both a hug and kiss. She then held up two hospital masks and gave them both one each. “And wear these.”
Both of them begrudgingly accepted the masks and then proceeded to don them with even more reluctance.
“You can take that damned thing off,” Unc said, once they were in his beat-up Chevy Blazer. He tossed his mask into the floorboard. Gage grinned and did the same.
Unc inserted the key in the ignition and managed to crank the Blazer after only two tries. “Confounded truck needs a mechanic almost as much as the rest of the world needs toilet paper,” he grumbled. “Only problem is my regular guy’s shut down.”
Unc put it in reverse and backed out of the driveway.
Gage asked, “So where are we going? Is this like gonna be one of those ‘grandfather-grandson’ deep talks?”
Unc stared straight ahead as he drove. “I’m trying to remember if you were always this much of a little shit, or if this ‘no baseball’ thing has really got you acting the fool more than usual. Either way, I’m gonna throttle you if you keep being a smart ass.”
Gage looked out the window and grinned.
“To answer your question,” Unc continued, before hesitating. “We’re going to pay a little visit to nature this fine afternoon.”
“Nature?” Gage asked.
Unc glanced at him and smiled. “You heard me. We’re going to pick dandy-lions, count ladybugs, skip through fields of wildflowers while holding hands and giggling. Manly shit.”
Gage decided not to pursue the matter any further.
As they drove, the streets of Gage’s neighborhood opened to a busier thoroughfare which carried Unc’s Blazer through town. Normally, the byways were at least moderately congested in the afternoon, with heavier traffic materializing at rush hour. COVID-19 had changed all of that, though. During the few times Gage had ventured out since the pandemic had started, he found himself wondering if it was all just a dream. Empty streets, which took them by even emptier storefronts, many of which belonged to small business owners. Even as a teenager, too often typically preoccupied by the subjects common to kids his age everywhere, Gage felt for the people of his hometown whose livelihoods were now threatened, and wondered just how differently things would look once it was all over.
“Tell you one thing,” Unc said as he drove uninterruptedly through an erstwhile busy intersection, “this Corona virus mess has done wonders for my blood pressure. Fewer drivers on the road means fewer jackasses behind the wheel.”
Gage nodded. “Yeah.”
“Including you.”
Gage made a mocking laughter noise and punched his grandfather in the arm.
Unc chuckled as he maneuvered the Blazer into the parking lot of a familiar shopping center, and found a spot close to the door.
“I thought you said we were ‘tending to nature,’” Gage said, unfastening his seat belt.
“We are,” Unc said, turning off the car.
“At Publix?”
Unc picked up his mask and fastened the elastic bands around his ears. “Gage, just keep your eyes open, your mouth shut, and that damn thing on your face.”
“What’s going on, Unc?!” said a tall black man as Unc and Gage rounded a corner and turned down the cereal aisle. He looked to be about forty years old and had the build of an athlete; or maybe someone who used to be an athlete. He wore a peach-colored Publix golf shirt with slacks, and a mask similar to the ones Unc and Gage had on.
“Good to see you again, Jor,” Unc affirmed, his speech muffled by the mask, as he stopped about six feet from the man. Gage knew that under normal circumstances, the two of them would likely share a “manly hug” – Unc’s characterization of how men should hug each other, with the obligatory three pats on the back. (“’I’m-not-gay’, one pat for each syllable,” is how he’d always put it). “You hanging in there?”
“Day by day,” the man said to Unc.
“Yeah? How’s the job treating you?” Unc asked.
“Oh, man, it’s keeping a roof over my head and food on my table; that’s all that matters right now.”
“Good to hear,” Unc said, his eyes brightening.
“Thanks to you.”
Unc scoffed at the complimentary overture. “You know me,” he said. “Don’t mind helping friends out.”
“Friends and former players,” the man said.
“You were always one of the good ones, Jordy,” Unc said, his admiration genuine. “You ever meet my grandson?” he asked, turning to Gage.
“Don’t think so,” Jordy answered, before waving to Gage from six feet. “Good to meet you, man. Jordy Jacobs.”
Gage introduced himself while maintaining social distance.
“He’s a baller,” Unc told Jordy.
“He looks like one,” Jordy agreed, as he sized Gage up.
“Pitcher,” Unc clarified. “You should see his fastball. Not even you could have hit it back in the day.”
Gage felt pride as his grandfather bragged on him, especially now that he realized who they were talking to. It was the Jordy Jacobs; local legend; former all-state outfielder whom Unc had coached, and who had been drafted high by the Pittsburgh Pirates years earlier. Gage had seen Jordy’s picture in various locations at school, and had often wondered what happened to him, especially on those occasions when Unc would bring him up in conversation. Somehow, though, Unc had always found a way to change the subject before Gage could ask.
“You ready to escort us out?” Unc asked Jordy, almost under his breath.
“You know I got you, Unc,” Jordy said with a wink. “Follow me.”
Gage followed Unc as Jordy led them toward the back of the store. As they reached a set of free-swinging double doors that led to the “employees only” section in the rear, Jordy cast a furtive glance around before walking through and motioning with his head for the two of them to keep following.
The dank smell of old cardboard and rotted fruit hit Gage’s nostrils as Jordy led them through the darkness to another door and opened it. Sunlight spilled in, and they were soon out in the fresh air again.
“Can’t be too careful around here,” Unc said to Jordy, glancing around with a look of concern on his face. “Counties in Florida have mostly been pretty lax about enforcing the governor’s stay-at-home order. Unfortunately, ours has become one of the few exceptions. Pays to take extra care if you want to get outdoors and spend time with your grandson,” he said, gesturing to Gage.
“I bet that’s right,” Jordy said with a chuckle.
“I’m obliged,” Unc said extending his hand for a split second before withdrawing it, as Jordy instinctively backed away. All three of them chuckled. “How soon we forget,” Unc chuckled.
“I’m the one that’s obliged,” Jordy corrected. “After all you did for me…”
“Don’t mention it,” Unc dismissed.
“You guys be careful out there,” Jordy instructed. “Especially you, Gage. Gotta protect that arm.”
“Yes sir,” Gage responded.
After a final goodbye, Unc led Gage through a hole in a chain-link fence which took them down into a ravine.
“Where are we going?” Gage asked.
“Exploring,” Unc said.
Gage decided to not ask any more questions, and figured anyone in his current situation probably would be likewise disinclined. Unc’s reputation as an outside-the-box-thinking coach who got results and whose record spoke for itself had a way of shutting down questioning attitudes – not that Unc himself overtly discouraged questions. Whatever this was, Gage determined, Unc had a plan; just like he’d had a plan when he had taken his team on a whitewater rafting trip and extreme obstacle course during one offseason – after that team had suffered through a losing season the year before – and subsequently won the state title that following year. Unc had known what he was doing when he had paid money out of his own pocket to bring one of his player’s mothers down from New England for the season. He had set up living arrangements for her, employment, and travel all so that she could watch her boy play his senior season; a season in which he had ended up leading the state in homers. Performance on the field, he had always asserted, results from about 70 percent of what happens off the field. You want players reaching their potential? Invest in that 70.
Gage followed, his mind spinning as it alternated between wondering what was going on and worrying that a police officer might just appear at any and slap a stiff penalty on them for violating a state order.
Unc seemed to sense this, as well as the need to change the subject. “Nice to see ol’ Jordy Jacobs again, huh?” Unc said, as they reached the trough of the ravine and began crossing a dried stream bed. Gage looked around, certain that a copperhead was nearby.
“Yeah.”
“I got him that job there, you know?”
“I picked up on that.”
They were silent for another moment as they reached the other side of the ravine and began scaling it again. Gage watched his grandfather’s muscled legs strain against the incline and marveled at the old man’s physical prowess at his age. He hoped that it was hereditary.
“What happened to Jordy?” Gage asked, his curiosity piqued.
Unc didn’t answer right away, and Gage wasn’t sure if it was due to shortness of breath or Unc collecting his thoughts or maybe he – once again – didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe all three.
“Young, dumb, and full of cum,” Unc finally grunted with exhaustion. “Got out into the real world after being drafted, and realized suddenly how small a pond he had come from; regardless of how much talent he truly had.”
“He ever make it to the Bigs?” Gage asked, following behind.
“Got called up for a game at the end of one season. Played an inning. Struck out. And they sent him back down almost immediately. Never got a call from Big Club again. Tore him up. From there, he hit a pretty tragic – not to mention common – tailspin.”
Gage said nothing as they crested the top of the ravine again.
Unc continued, “Jordy Jacobs isn’t the only former player I’ve had to find a job and a substance abuse recovery program for,” he said. “But he damn well may be the most talented.”
Gage looked ahead and noticed the sweat and labored manner in which his grandfather was now moving. Good physical condition or not, the years had started to materialize about his demeanor. Unc Dubose suddenly looked old.
“For a coach, watching a player put all of his eggs in one basket when it comes to the game is almost like watching his kid run out in the middle of traffic. They get walloped every time.”
Unc’s words settled upon Gage like a heavy weight as they hiked on for what felt like another mile in the sticky heat. In truth, it was more like several hundred yards.
Soon there was a clearing, and Gage finally saw a familiar sight. His sense of direction had never been the best, and thus it had not occurred to him that the Publix backed up to a ravine that backed up to the field where Gage had grown up playing Little League. Unc’s little nature walk had been a clandestine means for them to escape to the old ballpark, though Gage was still unclear as to why they were now there.
“Recognize this place?” Unc asked, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his brow.
“Of course,” Gage affirmed.
“I come here a lot these days.”
“Seriously?” Gage chuckled. “How do you manage to not get caught?”
“Lots of help from Jordy,” Unc answered. “He and I have put to good use that little escape trick I just showed you.”
Gage just shook his head as he followed his grandfather along the perimeter of the outfield fence. “What are we doing here?”
Unc didn’t answer, but continued to lead Gage toward a set of aluminum bleachers just beyond a fenced-in dugout.
“We’re going to sit and watch the field,” Unc said.
Gage waited a moment for a follow-up of some kind; some further explanation that would offer detail or clarity surrounding such a simple activity. But it never came.
“Sit down,” Unc instructed. And Gage obliged. “And watch the field quietly. Anything you need to say, say it in a whisper.”
While it felt good to sit after the uphill climb, Gage wondered once more what this was all about. While he relished the faint breeze that blew through the small athletic complex as the sun beat down on them both, the calming sensation of rest following exertion soon gave way, and Gage’s curiosity got the better of him again.
“So,” he whispered, “what are we doing out here again?”
“Already told you,” Unc said quietly. “We’re watching the field.”
Moments passed, as neither of them said a word.
“Anything particularly familiar about that field?” Unc finally asked.
Gage scanned the area before him with his eyes; from the home dugout to the third base and left field line, to the infield, back to centerfield, second base, first, then right, then the visitors dugout which they had just passed.
He looked at his grandfather and shook his head. “No.”
“What about the dirt mounds in left-center?”
Gage looked once more. The gopher holes. He grinned.
“Remember those little bastards?” Unc said with a chuckle.
“Yeah,” Gage answered.
“You probably remember the ankle sprain you got from one of those burrows years ago, don’t you?”
“Had to miss the championship game that season,” Gage recollected.
“Cried like a little girl as a result,” Unc clarified. “Inconsolable for two days.”
Gage nodded.
“Notice anything different about the field, though?” Unc asked.
Gage looked for another moment, then turned back to Unc, and shook his head.
“Are the gopher holes more numerous or less than what you remember?”
Gage took another glance. “Less.”
Unc nodded, and said nothing.
They continued staring ahead, neither of them saying much. Unc soon pulled out a packet of sunflower seeds and offered them to Gage, who took a handful.
“Just keep looking at the field,” was all Unc said, as he spit a mouthful of hulls onto the ground.
An hour passed.
The sun continued its assault with an occasional light breeze as the only respite for both of them as they sat staring into the outfield.
Finally, Gage had to stand.
“Sit!” Unc hissed at him.
Reluctantly, Gage sat back down.
“Just stay seated, Gage,” Unc admonished in a whisper, causing Gage to wonder for the umpteenth time what this was all about.
“Here,” Unc said, offering the pouch of sunflower seeds again. “Eat some more of these. Maybe you won’t feel as antsy.”
Gage accepted and began munching.
They sat and continued staring.
Another hour.
Both of them stared ahead and said nothing. Gage watched the field and – in lieu of any conversation with Unc – allowed his memory to run wild. It was here that he had honed his natural-born talent for baseball, particularly on the pitchers’ mound. It was here that he had suffered through several agonizing defeats, and dozens victories – some of them close, and many of them won in heroic fashion.
Unc Dubose had been there for all of it. After Gage’s parents divorced when he was two, his mother moved back to Florida from Maryland to be near her parents. Gage’s father was active in the early going, but his involvement – outside of mandatory child support – had dwindled over time, and he eventually drifted out of Gage’s life for good.
Gage respected Unc, even if his ways of doing things seemed harebrained at times.
As a toddler, he had been terrified of the toilet, which naturally caused problems for Theresa, particularly with toilet training. Bribes, treats, and the like were ineffective. So Unc had stepped in. Into the backyard he and his young grandson went. Utilizing a plastic swimming pool and flecks of breakfast cereal (Frosted Flakes were a favorite of Unc’s), they began “target practice.” Gage would aim for the cereal pieces in the pool and get a “point” for each one he hit with his tiny arced stream of urine.
“Going potty” soon was changed to “shooting fwakes” (as Gage pronounced it). And from there, he never had another accident.
Gage smiled to himself at the memory, which had faded over time, but which Theresa had always looked upon with fondness and reminded him of periodically. As Gage turned his attention to the field once more, he was sure this was yet another unorthodox way of teaching him…something. What was it, though? That was always the question. There was always some…
“Shhht, keep real quiet!” Unc interrupted his reverie. “You hear that?”
Gage listened intently. At first there was nothing, but after a few seconds, he heard it; a faint, shrill piercing of the still air with what sounded at first like an anguished scream.
“Coyotes,” Unc said.
Gage looked at him. “Here?”
“All over this place,” Unc nodded. “Been here for years.”
“I’ve never seen them.”
“Probably because they’re terrified of humans.”
Gage was uneasy, but remained trusting of his grandfather. He turned slightly back toward the field. So we’re here to watch coyotes, he told himself.
The high-pitched howling became louder, and Gage became more nervous.
“Just stay still and quiet,” Unc said, reading his apprehension. “They’re more afraid of us than we ever could be of them.”
More loud trilling from a source Gage could not see. He kept his eyes forward and wondered just how close they were.
Suddenly, it stopped. The high-pitched wailing sound was no more, causing – strangely enough – even more anxiety in Gage as he looked desperately for any sign of the predatory animals his grandfather had indicated were there…somewhere.
Moments passed, and Gage felt his heart rate increasing and became aware of his shirt sticking to his back. This was nothing new, given the amount of heat and exertion he had been through already, but at that moment he was innately aware of a difference – however subtle – between sweat generated by heat and exercise, and sweat produced by genuine fear.
“There,” Unc said, pointing suddenly at the far left-field corner of the chain-link fence. Gage strained his eyes to see. At first, he could make out nothing, but then something moved, and the four-legged figure became visible.
The coyote’s legs were long, and its slender torso was coated with fur that was a smattering of brownish-orange, black, and gray. Even through the distortion of the chain-link, Gage could make out a pair of haunting, predatory eyes that were framed by a sleek face. The coyote’s long, pointed snout seemed to probe the air, sniffing – searching – for something that was out there. Its large ears were angled straight up – also sensing – seemingly waiting for a moment of any danger, in which Gage was sure the majestic-looking animal would take off never to be seen again.
“Can it get near us?” Gage asked.
“If it wants to,” Unc said with a curious air of nonchalance.
Gage suddenly felt as though he might wet himself. Never a box of Frosted Flakes around when you need them. He almost chuckled at his own inward joke, amazed that he could find it within himself to be humorous at a moment like this. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, he reasoned. Might as well go out with a laugh, if you’re gonna go out.
“Watch,” Unc said, pointing again. “She’s burrowing under.”
Gage kept his eye on the wild canine prowler and gasped as, sure enough, it seemed to duck down for a moment near the base of the chain-link fence and resurface on the other side.
“Must have dug that hole a while back,” Unc whispered. “I’ve seen them come and go through it several times before.”
“You’ve seen this before?” Gage asked in amazement.
Unc nodded. “I come out here a lot.”
“You’re crazy.”
Unc chuckled. “Maybe so. But you’re about to see something even crazier in just a minute. Watch the coyote.”
“What’s he gonna do?”
“She,” Unc corrected. “Just watch what she does.”
Gage turned his attention back to the field. The coyote was now sniffing the ground and ambling in a guarded manner through left field. Her pattern was haphazard for a moment, as she moved in what looked like circles. Soon, however, the coyote stopped and seemed to zero in on a particular spot just yards from where she stood. Her head bowed slightly, ears stood even more upright than before, and her hind haunches were slightly flexed.
Gage was enraptured as he watched the incredible animal fixate on whatever she saw – or thought she saw. The coyote was at least fifty yards away from them, but she may as well have been right there by the bleachers.
She began moving; prowling. Almost as if controlled by a remote device of some kind, her steady, intrepid gait was marked by a grace that Gage had only seldom seen demonstrated in nature. As she crept slowly and purposefully, Gage became aware of another sight just yards away from where the coyote was stalking.
Stalking! Yes, that was the word. She was stalking something…a gopher, no less.
Sure enough, Gage saw a particular mound of dirt in left field move ever so slightly and became aware of a sleek brown head that was popping up intermittently, only to submerge beneath the earth just as quickly as it had surfaced. Each time it popped up, the coyote would freeze; her instincts fully in control as she continued her unwitting demonstration for Unc and Gage on how best to stalk a prey.
“See the gopher?” Unc asked.
“Yes,” Gage said, barely able to get the words out. His mind was fixated on the singular scene of nature unfolding before him.
The gopher did not see the coyote. Gage could tell this by the fact that the gopher was popping up and staying above ground at longer and longer intervals looking for food; grabbing wildflowers, other weeds, and whatever else it could forage.
“Any second now,” Unc whispered.
Gage kept one eye fixed on the coyote – fully coiled and ready to strike – and the other on the gopher – as it went back into its burrow after another longer period. Gage held his breath, and waited for the gopher to come up again. This was it, he was sure.
Gage blinked, heard Unc gasp, and completely missed the (seeming) millisecond it took for the coyote to pounce. When he became cognizant again of what was happening, he saw the coyote prone on her belly by the gopher mound, her entire head almost completely submerged in the hole, probing violently – desperately – for her prey.
“She got him,” Unc assured.
Sure enough, a moment later, the coyote pulled her head out of the ground; a large brown mass sandwiched between her strong jaws, akin to a dog with a chew toy. The coyote gave several violent jerks, breaking the gopher’s back and neck, before crouching down once more with her prize. She pawed it and nudged it with her nose to ensure that it was indeed dead, before rising again. Gage barely had time to notice the small smattering of blood on the dog’s lower lip before she turned and began ambling victoriously with her dinner toward the burrow under the fence, from whence she had come from. Gage and Unc watched as she slid back under it and disappeared into the dense forest.
“Gopher’s gonna be a fine meal for those cubs of hers,” Unc almost beamed. His tone was normal – no more whispering – and this had a relaxing effect on Gage after the seeming hour of suspense (it was really more like ten minutes) they had just been through. Gage turned and looked at his grandfather, who had a serene look about him.
“Used to always joke,” Unc continued, “that we needed to hire Bill Murray to bring some dynamite out here.” He glanced at Gage, noticing the look of confusion on his face.”
Unc chuckled. “That’s right, I forgot. All the best movies were made before you were born, kiddo. You never saw Caddyshack.
“Still in all,” he went on. “This place always had a gopher problem…until the Corona virus, that is. Coyotes were always too afraid to get too near this place until the humans stopped hanging around.”
They were silent for several moments as the soft breeze picked up. Off in the distance, the wails and howls of the pack intensified once more.
“Who knows how many rodents and other pests those magnificent creatures have gotten rid of,” Unc said. He spit a few more hulls. “I’ve never been much of a scientist, but I’ve lived long enough to know that nature has a way of solving our problems better than we can ever dream of doing. Trouble is, in order to do that, we have to stop and get out of her way, and oftentimes we’re just too damn stubborn to do that. Times like that are when we need a little push.”
He rose to his feet and looked at his grandson. “As pitchers, you and I both know what it is to face a smart-ass batter who crowds the plate. Sometimes it’s tolerable, but sometimes those pricks need a brush-back pitch or two thrown their way. You know the kind I mean: high and inside fastball that gets just close enough to them so they back up. It’s not about hurting them; hell, we’re not even trying to hit them. We’re just setting boundaries – re-setting them, really – so they don’t get crossed again. Those batters re-set, get in their stance, and can still hit us, still get on base, or even still take us downtown. But they have to do it on our terms, from a place where we dictate. That’s why we send ‘em our brush-backs.”
Gage looked at his grandfather, who towered over him as he stood.
“So take the brush-back, Gage,” Unc told him in as soft and grandfatherly a tone as Gage had ever heard. “Take your brush-back and go find your future.”
With that, Unc turned and walked off the bleachers, which rattled with his every step.
Gage sat for a moment, looking at the field, remembering his childhood, the memories, the injuries (including from the gopher hole), and the victories and defeats alike. Then he thought of the moments he’d spent with his grandfather – the lessons and excursions alike – starting from as far back as he could remember, and leading up to this one on this day. And it was at that moment he realized he would never forget any of them – especially this one.
Slowly, he left the bleachers and scampered to catch up with Unc, as the two of them retraced their steps back to the Publix parking lot.
That evening, Gage sat in his room and switched on his laptop. After his system booted up, he navigated to the webpage that had been given to him some time ago – but which he had largely disregarded – and looked over the requirements once more. They were plain enough: 1,000 words, double-spaced, life experience, make it original. At least that was the gist of college scholarship essay he now had to write.
Gage then pulled up his computer’s word processing program, and got ready to type.
But then he stopped. Somehow it didn’t seem right. Somehow, even though he knew this was what he was supposed to do, he could not make himself do it. He was an athlete, not a “smart kid” who got academic scholarships. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He rose from his desk, suddenly needing his glove and ball. It was his “go-to” fidget instrument when he was nervous. Where was it, though? His mom had cleaned his room earlier, and so it was likely that he would find it in his closet.
Gage went to the closet door and opened it. Sure enough, both items were on the middle shelf. As he retrieved them, something else slid off and hit the floor. Gage looked and was surprised at what he saw: his old ankle brace from the “gopher hole” incident years earlier. Gage had worn it for the majority of that season as he rode the pine, loathing its very existence and dreaming of the day when he could get back onto the field.
Brush-back, he heard Unc’s voice in the far reaches of his mind. Nature’s brush-back…take your brush-back, and go find your future.
Gage knelt in the closet for another moment. Slowly, he replaced the ankle brace – once dark-blue but having faded to a lighter shade in the years since. He then did the same with his glove and ball, increasingly certain that he did not need them – at least not at that moment. Turning and walking from the closet, he shut the door, returned to his desk, and sat back down.
He began typing at the top of the first page: Coyotes, Gophers, and Outfields: What A Lost Season Has Taught Me.
He had begun. His scholarship application essay now had a title. Gage smiled…and continued writing.
“In baseball, a brush-back is usually a fastball – high and inside – that is meant to make a batter not crowd the plate…”
The words flowed freely, and Gage Sanderson smiled as he typed; his future now much clearer than it had been earlier that day.
