was the middle of the fifth inning, and the players cleared the field. I pulled open the rip in the net, twisted through, and then snuck right up to home plate. I caught Ferdie’s eye from the dugout, and he nodded at me, telling me in one swift motion that he’d told the real skipper and that nobody was going to run after me and haul me off the field.
Above Ferdie, it was Betsy and Lollie’s turn. The two of them scrambled up and down the first two rows, pointing out the posters and bossing people around just enough to make sure everything was in order.
And then, just like every other evening in the middle of the fifth inning, Marcus’s cart drove onto the field. But this time, the Skipper had a passenger.
June.
When Marcus approached second base, Miss Houston’s booth exploded with sounds of life and love, and it didn’t matter if every other plunk was a wrong one. Marcus stopped the cart, offered his hand to June, and pulled her out for a dance. Where he was lanky and short, she was round and sure. He was no Franklin, but he was doing his best.
The stadium hummed and the crowd hushed and all of Ridge Creek watched Marcus and June, watched a tradition they didn’t know they’d been waiting for.
The plan was to wait at home plate for Marcus to drive June around the bases to me, but I couldn’t help it. I ran to third, wanting to hurry up those moments. Wanting to bring June home.
I wish I could’ve heard what he whispered to her at second, what made her throw back her head in laughter, and what made her clutch her cheeks and touch her heart. I bet it had something to do with how much he loved raking the dirt and how pretty her face paint was. Instead, I got to be a part of the stadium’s sighs and Oohs and Aahs. Maybe even a sniffle or two leaked out, but at least I wasn’t the only one.
And even though I wasn’t waiting in the right spot, Marcus drove June to me. Any good skipper knows how to change his mind in the middle of a game. The James Edward Allen Gibbs Stadium was on its feet, cheering from the bullpen to the nosebleeds. It was the kind of crescendo that echoes in your ears and rattles around in your rib cage. When June saw me waiting at home plate, when she really saw me, it felt like looking into a mirror. We had the same broken heart, sewn up and weaved back together.
“Well, Sugar Sue. Fancy meeting you here.”
My hello was muted by her arms wrapping around me and the One, two, three, NOW of Betsy and Lollie far behind us.
“Oh my,” June said, and I turned to see.
And there they were, Betsy and Lollie, who each waved a W up high. Plus a whole bunch of folks who had become the real-live marquee.
WE LOVE YOU’ JUNE
WE˥COME HOME
Turns out that the lady holding the squiggle thought it was an apostrophe instead of a comma and one of the Ls was upside down, but it didn’t stop the letters from shouting loud and clear.
“I know you didn’t want me on the front porch that first morning because of all those weeds and overgrown grasses and vines that wanted to strangle your house itself,” I said. “Franklin wouldn’t like me to see that.”
“Derby.” June looked over my shoulder at Ferdie’s letters, rearranged just for her.
“And I know it’s hot in there and that’s why you made tomato‑and‑cucumber sandwiches without the stove and that’s why the puddles of candle wax were stuck to your kitchen table, ’cause they’d melted under the blazes.”
She squeezed my shoulder with her big hands and shook her head in that Let me tell you something way. “You think I would have wanted to cook anyway? It’s been hotter than a sweater stitched with lava threads and buttons made of coal.”
“I wish I could have fixed that part, but wait until you see everything else,” I said. “We skipped the Rally to steal your home back for you.”
Then June and I walked that well-worn path down the third baseline, where years and years of Rockskippers had run before us. And together, we tagged home.
After that, we gave the field back to the Rockskippers, who saluted her in formation. June waved to everybody—from Betsy and Lollie behind the dugout all the way up to the nosebleeds, where Garland and Triple weren’t. Even Ferdie stood on the steps of the dugout and tipped his hat.
All of Ridge Creek loved June. But I would be the one to walk her home to the sweet peas and the best pink door and the wreath of garland and lights. And maybe Betsy, too.