scout last night. Some of them heard the story at church this morning.
Most of the listeners are generational farmers and this kind of news is worth hearing again, even if it means standing in the type of August heat where you can smell the acrid stench of blacktop melting.
In my peripheral view, I notice a man stop on the sidewalk and assess the ring of listeners and my storytelling father. I don’t pay attention to tourists and if he were a local, he’d join the group. It’s better to leave the tourists alone. If you look at them, they talk.
Groveton’s a small town. To appeal to
HC TITLE-AUTHOR
94
tourists, Dad persuaded the other councilmen to call the old stone buildings dating back to the 1800s Historic then add the words Shopping District. Four B-and-Bs and new tours of the old bourbon distillery later, and the city folk brave the fifteen-mile winding
country road from the freeway. It can make parking a bitch on the weekends, but it gives lots of good people jobs when money gets
tight.
“What’s the local gossip?” the man asks.
He’s speaking and I didn’t even make eye
contact. That’s bold for a tourist. I fold my arms across my chest. “Baseball.”
“No kidding.” There’s a drop in his tone that catches my attention.
I turn my head and feel my eyes widen in
slow motion. No way. “You’re Scott Risk.”
Everyone in this town knows who Scott Risk is. His face is one of the few to peer at the student population from the Wall of Fame at Bullitt County High. As a shortstop, he led his high school team to state championships twice.
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 HC TITLE-AUTHOR
95
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 HC TITLE-AUTHOR
96
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 HC
Most of the listeners are generational farmers and this kind of news is worth hearing again, even if it means standing in the type of August heat where you can smell the acrid stench of blacktop melting.
In my peripheral view, I notice a man stop on the sidewalk and assess the ring of listeners and my storytelling father. I don’t pay attention to tourists and if he were a local, he’d join the group. It’s better to leave the tourists alone. If you look at them, they talk.
Groveton’s a small town. To appeal to
HC TITLE-AUTHOR
94
tourists, Dad persuaded the other councilmen to call the old stone buildings dating back to the 1800s Historic then add the words Shopping District. Four B-and-Bs and new tours of the old bourbon distillery later, and the city folk brave the fifteen-mile winding
country road from the freeway. It can make parking a bitch on the weekends, but it gives lots of good people jobs when money gets
tight.
“What’s the local gossip?” the man asks.
He’s speaking and I didn’t even make eye
contact. That’s bold for a tourist. I fold my arms across my chest. “Baseball.”
“No kidding.” There’s a drop in his tone that catches my attention.
I turn my head and feel my eyes widen in
slow motion. No way. “You’re Scott Risk.”
Everyone in this town knows who Scott Risk is. His face is one of the few to peer at the student population from the Wall of Fame at Bullitt County High. As a shortstop, he led his high school team to state championships twice.
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 HC TITLE-AUTHOR
95
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 HC TITLE-AUTHOR
96
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 HC
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