Moe Sorrento, 52, spent 16 years as a minor league scout for the Cleveland Guardians, crisscrossing Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia in a beat-up 2017 Ford F-150 with a root beer cooler in the back and scouting notebooks stacked on the passenger seat. His biggest flaw, per the few friends he still had, was that he’d walled off every part of his life that didn’t involve radar guns, exit velocity readings, and tracking left-handed pitchers with weird, unteachable arm slots. He’d walked away from dating entirely after his ex-wife left him for a college pitching coach he’d flown out to evaluate in 2007, convinced he preferred the quiet, the lack of expectation, the way the only judgment he faced came from the front office when he missed on a prospect.
He was perched on a sticky vinyl bar stool at The Dugout, a dive two blocks from the high school field where he’d spent the day at a showcase, scribbling notes in a water-stained notebook, when the stool next to him scraped against linoleum. He didn’t look up at first, focused on crossing out a note about a shortstop who couldn’t hit a curveball to save his life, until a cold Yuengling slid across the bar in front of him. He looked up, and recognized her immediately: the woman who’d sat three rows behind the dugout all day, wearing a faded Ohio State hoodie and jeans caked with infield clay, cheering so loud for her left-handed pitcher son that Moe had glanced over three separate times.
She was close enough that he could smell lavender hand lotion mixed with the stale peanut and cut grass scent clinging to both of them from the field, her knee brushing his denim-clad thigh when she shifted to prop her elbow on the bar. “Saw you spill your earlier when that kid fouled a ball into the stands,” she said, nodding at the beer, her voice rough from yelling all day, a half-smile playing on her lips that crinkled the corners of her eyes. Moe’s first instinct was to pull back, mumble a thank you and go back to his notes, avoid the kind of small talk that always led to questions he didn’t want to answer. He stared at her for a beat, noticing the smudge of dirt on her left cheek, chipped navy blue nail polish on her fingers, the way she kept her gaze locked on his like she wasn’t scared off by his usual gruff silence.
He told himself he was being stupid, that getting involved with a prospect’s mom was the kind of unprofessional mistake that could get him benched, that he didn’t need the hassle, that he was better off alone. But when she laughed at his dry joke about the umpire who’d missed three straight strike calls in the third inning, the sound warm and loud over the Johnny Cash playing low on the jukebox, he felt something he hadn’t felt in 16 years unfurl in his chest, soft and unsteady. She told him her name was Lena, that her son Jax had just gotten a full ride to Ohio State, that she’d been showing up to his games since he was 7, that she’d seen Moe at half a dozen games across the state over the last two years, always alone, always scribbling in that same beat-up notebook.
Moe’s throat went dry when she leaned in a little closer to point at a name in his notebook, her shoulder pressing against his, her hair brushing his cheek for half a second. He felt a jolt go down his spine when her hand brushed his as she reached for her own beer, and he didn’t pull away. He was torn between the part of him that wanted to bolt, get in his truck and drive back to his empty Akron apartment, stick to the safe, predictable life he’d built, and the part of him that wanted to stay, listen to her talk about Jax’s obsession with 90s hip hop, about her job as a veterinary tech outside Columbus, about how she’d been single for 10 years after her husband died in a construction accident.
The turning point came when she noticed the fleck of infield clay stuck to the sleeve of his gray flannel, and reached out to brush it off, her palm lingering on his forearm for three slow beats, her thumb brushing the scar he’d gotten when he was a minor league catcher himself, hit in the arm by a wild pitch in 1994. “I know you think this is crossing some line,” she said, quiet enough that only he could hear it, her eyes still locked on his, “but Jax is already locked in for college. You don’t owe anyone a thing. You just look like you haven’t had anyone to talk to in a long time.”
Moe didn’t say anything for a long minute, staring at her, the hum of the bar fading into the background, the cold of the beer bottle in his hand, the weight of her hand on his arm, the faint smell of lavender. He’d spent so long convincing himself that loneliness was a choice, that it was safer than getting hurt again, that he’d forgotten what it felt like to be seen, to have someone notice the small things: the scar on his arm, the way he always drank Yuengling, the way he scribbled so hard he tore pages out of his notebook sometimes.
They talked until the bartender banged a rag on the bar and yelled last call, neon signs flickering overhead, the parking lot outside dark except for a few streetlights. Moe walked her to her beat-up silver pickup, his boots crunching on gravel, their hands brushing every few steps. She leaned against the driver’s side door when they got there, and asked him if he was coming to Jax’s semi-final game the next afternoon. Moe nodded, told her he’d be there, and that he wasn’t just showing up for the scouting report. He reached out, slow, like he was scared she’d pull away, and brushed the smudge of dirt off her cheek, his thumb lingering on her skin for a beat. She smiled, leaned into his touch, then pulled open the truck door and climbed in. He stood in the gravel parking lot until her taillights faded around the corner, his notebook tucked under his arm, the cold night air on his face, a small smile he couldn’t wipe off playing on his lips.
