the small town sense of things. Packton, Pennsylvania is often referred to as the biggest small town in the United States. Yes, it’s occupied by screaming fans and hordes of camera crews for a portion of the year, due to the major league team being its bread and butter. But it’s the quiet months that make me fall in love with it over and over again.
I love my hometown. This is the place I was born, raised, and know I’ll settle down in. We’d traveled a lot in my youth, either to away games or internationally because, let’s face it, I was a rich kid. Back when my mother had still been around, she’d wanted lavish vacations to European islands or resorts in the Maldives. Places that weren’t really fit for a child, but my parents had brought me along … probably because they didn’t want to spend time alone with each other.
Despite all that travel, I knew that my home was in Packton. Not only do I love the people here, with their “take care of your tribe” vibe, but this is where my beloved Pistons are. The baseball franchise that is smack dab in the middle of suburban Pennsylvania is my heart and soul, and there was no question whether I’d go into the family business.
So I took my usual walk this morning, with the rising sun as my backdrop. I got dressed, put on the lucky bracelet my grandfather had bought for me the year we won the Series when I was nine, and kissed his picture on my way out the door. Then I came to the ballpark, walking through the retired numbers monument before coming up here for breakfast. After this, I’ll go up to the owner’s suite with Uncle Daniel, but sit in the stadium seat in the railed off area. The one all the way to the right, where my grandfather sat for every game.
This is my first game as the Pistons general manager, and I am going to go about my routine as usual. Even if there is absolutely nothing routine about this opening day.
4
Hayes
Each locker room I’ve ever been in has its own energy, its own feel.
Some keep a vow of silence before games, with players pumping themselves up with their own music in their headphones. Some are more lax, with teammates shooting the breeze or joking around until we take the field. There are those locker rooms where hardcore metal or rap is blaring through speakers, and everyone is kind of beating their chests like egotistical primates.
But apparently, though not surprisingly, the Pistons locker room is full of chauvinistic men rating women on their looks.
“Did you see her this morning, in her Pistons red? That ass though …” Jimenez, our catcher, wolf whistles as he leans back in his chair, spreading his legs wider.
“Someone really should just smack it, just once. I’d like to see that jiggle.” One of the pinch runners, I forget his name honestly, snickers.
As if this ball club couldn’t sink lower in my opinion of it.
I’m sitting with my head in my locker, trying to do the meditations an old sports psychologist friend taught me years ago, and all I can hear are these two morons going on and on about tits and ass. When in reality, they’ve probably never had real ones in their faces. They seem the type to go for easy pickings, the bat bunnies who hang around after games or show up in hotel rooms.
“Y’all talking about Colleen? Good Lord, that woman is a freaking knockout.” Max, the left outfielder, joins the group next to me.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, because of the name that just came out of his mouth.
Something close to jealousy, or maybe an itch of rage, prickles under my skin. They shouldn’t be talking about any woman like that, much less one that is their boss. But something about it being Colleen, the face I haven’t been able to stop from popping into my thoughts at random times, makes my hands clench into fists.
“I’ve been trying to get into those panties for years. Something about the coach’s daughter, man … that fantasy? God damn.” Jimenez keeps at it, and it’s a miracle I don’t take my Louisville slugger and crack him across the cheek.
“She’s not the coach’s daughter, never was. But her daddy is in prison. Think that means she’s got Daddy issues now?” the cockiest of the Pistons bunch, Shane Giraldi, pipes