Montgomery, Alabama—the top of the ninth inning. The Montgomery Biscuits are finishing off the Jackson Generals.
This is minor-league baseball at its best. I’m eating a foot-long Conecuh Quick Freeze sausage on a bun. The beer is bath-water warm. I am sweating.
The last Biscuits game I attended was twelve years ago, when they were still new to Montgomery. I was sitting on the other side of the stadium with my cousin. The Biscuits lost that night.
But they are winning tonight. The man behind me is not surprised.
He’s white-haired. There is a bag of popcorn in his lap. He doesn’t move much, he’s past the age of unnecessary movements.
His name is Paul. He lives outside Montgomery, he’s been coming to games since 2005. He comes as often as he can. He wears a butter-yellow team cap, thick glasses. He looks like he forgot to shave this week.
“I love my Biscuits,” says Paul. “Them players are just kids, but they good players. Gotta good coach, too.”
That’s why he’s here. He loves the game. It’s in his blood.
“When my son was just a baby,” said Paul, "he liked baseball right away. I knew he was the real deal.”
Paul started working with his son during grade school and middle school. It was your typical Great American childhood. Games of catch at sunset. Homemade batting cages in the backyard—constructed from chicken-wire fencing.
“My son was a good pitcher,” said Paul. “Good, good pitcher.”
Good.
Major League scouts were at his son’s games during his sophomore year. By his junior year, Paul was getting phone calls.
“Had one scout tell me, ‘Make sure you keep that arm healthy and de-inflamed.’ So I’d ice his arm down after every game.”
A drunk driver killed his son during his senior year.
His son was on his way home from a friend's house. A two-lane highway. A woman driving a Bronco…