Manny Ruiz, 52, has spent the last 11 years as a minor league scout for the Midwest League, logging 40,000 miles a year in his dented 2019 F-150, surviving on gas station coffee, fried cheese curds, and the quiet thrill of spotting a kid who’s got that unteachable spark. His biggest flaw? He’s avoided even casual dates since his wife left him for a pharmaceutical rep seven years prior, calling any attempt to meet someone “too much work for too little payoff” and turning down every blind setup his sister shoves at him over Christmas dinner.
He slides into the last open stool at The Sandlot Tap at 9:17 PM on a humid late August night, a smudge of infield clay still crusted on his left wrist, the laces of his scuffed work boots caked with the same red dirt from the high school showcase he’d just left. He flags the bartender, orders a Pabst Blue Ribbon and a side of curds, rests his elbows on the sticky linoleum bar top, and lets the hum of the crowd wrap around him. The first thing he notices about the woman next to him is the smell: coconut shampoo mixed with fresh cut grass, sharp and sweet over the stale beer and fried food scent of the bar. She’s wearing a faded travel softball hoodie, chipped navy nail polish on the hand that lifts her wine spritzer to her mouth, a small silver cross on a thin chain around her neck.
She knocks her elbow hard into his bicep when she twists to watch a replay of the Cubs game on the mounted TV above the bar, yelping a quiet apology. He waves it off, grinning, says he’s had worse hits from 16-year-old catchers who can’t control their swing. She laughs, a warm, throaty sound, and leans in a little, the knee of her jeans brushing his under the bar. Neither pulls away. She mentions she was at the showcase too, her son was the left-handed shortstop who hit the walk-off double in the seventh inning. Manny sits up straighter, pulls his scouting notebook out of his jacket pocket, flips to a page crammed with notes, says that kid’s got a cannon for an arm, he’s sending a report to the front office first thing tomorrow recommending they follow him through his senior year.
They talk for two hours, the bar crowd thinning out around them. She leans in closer when he tells stories about the prospect he scouted in 2019 who now starts at second base for the White Sox, her shoulder pressed to his, her breath warm against his cheek when she laughs at his dumb joke about an umpire who couldn’t call a strike if it hit him in the face. He’s hyper aware of every small touch: her hand brushing his when she passes him a napkin to wipe cheese curd crumbs off his chin, their knees knocking again when she shifts in her seat, the side of her wrist grazing his when they both reach for their drinks at the same time. He knows everyone in this tiny Iowa town assumes she’s still married—he heard a pair of old farmers at the next table mention her husband, the pipeline worker who’s been out of state for 18 months, ten minutes after he sat down. He’s got a strict rule against messing with local folks on the road, hates the idea of being the out-of-town drifter who stirs up small town gossip, feels a sharp twist of disgust at the thought of crossing that line. But the longer he talks to her, the quieter that voice gets, replaced by a warm buzz he hasn’t felt in seven years, the weird, soft feeling that someone’s actually listening to what he’s saying, not just waiting for their turn to talk.
The bartender yells that he’s locking up in ten minutes at 11:02, wiping down the last of the bar tops. She turns to him, her eyes glinting in the low neon light, asks if he wants to walk down to the riverfront with her, says the fireflies are still out this late in the month, and the view from the oak tree at the edge of the path is worth the five minute walk. He hesitates for half a second, flashes back to the last time he let someone get close, the empty closet and the note on the kitchen counter when he came home from a road trip. Then he nods, slips his notebook back into his jacket, stands up.
The gravel crunches under their boots as they walk, the humid night air soft against his face, crickets chirping loud in the grass on either side of the path. Her shoulder brushes his every third step, and by the time they reach the oak tree, they’re walking so close their arms brush with every movement. She stops, turns to face him, tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, says her husband filed for divorce last month, she hasn’t told anyone yet because she didn’t want the small town gossip to distract her son before the showcase. The tight knot of guilt in his chest loosens all at once. He reaches out, brushes a stray firefly that landed on the shoulder of her hoodie away with his index finger, his fingers lingering on the soft, worn fabric for a beat. She leans in, kisses him, tastes like peach seltzer and mint gum, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his face, calloused from years of pitching batting practice to her son.
They stay there for ten minutes, kissing slow, no rush, no unspoken pressure to go further. He pulls a crumpled receipt out of his pocket, scribbles his personal cell number on the back, not the work line he gives to coaches and parents, says he’ll be back in town in three weeks to watch her son play another showcase, he’d take her to that little diner off Main Street for rhubarb pie if she’s free. She grins, tucks the receipt into the front pocket of her hoodie, says she’ll save him a spot in the bleachers right next to her, bring extra sunflower seeds. He walks her to her front porch, doesn’t push to go inside, waves when she closes the front door behind her. He gets in his truck, turns the key, the radio cuts on to a 1998 Tim McGraw song he hasn’t heard since his wedding day, he smiles, turns up the volume, and pulls out of the driveway.
