Doc and Samson

My Rawlings baseball glove had a piece of loose cloth inside the liner. It annoyed me, but when I pitched in Little League, it gave me something to fiddle with.

I couldn’t pitch with velocity, but I had a mean change-up. Then again, is it really a change-up if your fastball is slow too?

I remember a June night when I was on the mound. The lights were on full blast, buzzing like a swarm of bees and casting a purple haze across Joy-Rutherford Field.

It’s summer, baseball, and boyhood — when time is eternal or close to it because the sun sets past 9. Even then, the last light lingers baby blue above the third-base dugout, which is dug into the grassy hill they dug to build Memorial Stadium on the other side.

I’m pitching the game of my life in the 6th and final inning, and our team, Scott’s Farms (sponsored by my family), was beating Johnson City Federal Credit Union 6-2.

There was a runner on 3rd, 2 outs — I’m 1 batter away from throwing a complete game.

Doc Whitmore, our coach, is perched on an upside-down bucket of David Sunflower Seeds he uses to haul baseballs to the field in his Volvo. Doc signals pitches to the catcher while leaning on his elbow, pushing his glasses up his wrinkled face, and adjusting his old, dusty cap I’m almost sure they buried him in.

He’s coached me for 3 years, like he coached both my brothers, and is the reason our family business sponsors the team.

To my understanding, time travel is impossible. But if it were possible and I could go back 1,000 years or so, I bet you’d find Doc here sitting on his bucket or standing in the third-base coach’s box, wiggling his hat to signal a bunt.

Doc sees me looking at the runner on third. The cocky jerk is taking a lead and doing that jumpy dance like he might steal home.

Doc and I make eye contact. I don’t think he can telepathically send messages, but I hear him in my head: “Samson (that’s what he called me), focus on the hitter.”

He’s right, of course.

I threw over to third.

It’s 2026. Doc has been dead for 13 years, yet I can still hear the volume, tone, and exact pitch of his voice yelling “SAMSON!” as the ball soared over the third baseman’s head and got lost in the grass on the hill beyond the foul line.

The runner scored.

I struck out the next guy with a change-up fastball, and Doc gave me the game ball.

“Heck of a game, Samson. Heck of a game.”

I rode home with my glove on my hand, popping the ball into the pocket and smiling while fidgeting with the little piece of cloth inside.