Ronny Marquez, 53, has spent most of his adult life driving rusted Ford F-150s through small midwestern towns, scouting left-handed pitchers for a low-A minor league affiliate out of Toledo. He’s got a scar across his left eyebrow from a 1998 dugout brawl, a habit of chewing peppermint gum when he’s nervous, and a flaw he’s never been able to shake: he runs from hard conversations before they even start. It’s why he hasn’t stepped foot in Lima, Ohio, his hometown, since the week after he graduated high school, when he bailed on his prom date, Linda, to drive to Florida for a last-minute tryout with the Marlins organization, never even leaving her a note.
He’s 20 miles outside Lima on a Tuesday in late August, coming off scouting a 19-year-old southpaw who throws 94 with a curveball that drops like a cinder block, when he sees the sign for the Auglaize County Rib Fest, strung between two oak trees just off the highway. He hasn’t had a decent rack of ribs since he was a kid, so he pulls in, pays the $10 entry fee, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his frayed 1989 high school baseball jacket as he walks past food trucks spewing hickory smoke, a cover band playing a wobbly version of John Mellencamp’s “Jack & Diane,” and clusters of people drinking cheap lager out of frosted plastic cups.
He’s waiting in line at the booth with the hand-painted sign that says “Mama June’s Ribs” when he smells lavender hand lotion, the exact same scent Linda used to wear to 3rd period math, and feels someone brush light against his elbow. He turns, and there she is. Her hair is streaked with silver now, cut short to her chin, she’s wearing faded high-waisted jeans and a denim shirt with a small Ohio State patch sewn on the chest, and she’s holding a plate of powdered funnel cake in one hand, a can of root beer in the other. Her eyes go wide for half a second, then she smirks, the same lopsided smirk she used to give him when she caught him staring at her in homeroom.
Ronny’s first instinct is to lie, say he’s someone else, turn and walk back to his truck and drive until he’s across the Indiana state line. But his feet are stuck to the crushed gravel, and he’s suddenly 18 again, sitting in his mom’s linoleum kitchen, staring at the crumpled tryout invitation, too much of a coward to call her and tell her he couldn’t make prom. He opens his mouth, but no words come out, and she laughs, soft and low, and leans in a little closer, so their shoulders are almost touching, the warmth from her arm seeping through the thin polyester of his jacket.
“Ronny Marquez. I’d know that stupid baseball jacket anywhere. You still have the stain on the sleeve from when you spilled chocolate milk on it at our senior picnic?” She nods at the dark brown splotch on his left cuff, and he looks down, surprised he never registered it before. He nods, and she gestures to an empty picnic table under a sugar maple a few feet away, and he follows her, his boots crunching loud on the gravel, his heart beating so hard he can hear it over the band’s twangy guitar.
They sit across from each other, and she tells him she retired from teaching 4th grade last year, she’s been volunteering at the local animal shelter, she never got married, her long-term partner died of a heart attack six years prior. He tells her he never made the Marlins team, blew out his rotator cuff in spring training, started scouting 25 years ago, he’s been married twice, both times ended because he was never home long enough to remember anniversaries or stepkids’ birthday parties. He finally apologizes for bailing on prom, his voice rough with old guilt, and she waves it off, says she knew he was chasing a dream, she was never mad, just sad he didn’t say goodbye.
The sun dips low, painting the sky streaky pink and tangerine, and the band switches to slower, syrupy love songs, and the crowd thins out a little as people head home for the night. She leans forward to brush a crumb of powdered sugar off his cheek, her fingers brushing his skin for a split second, soft and warm, and he feels a jolt go through his chest, the same jolt he felt when he first asked her out behind the gym in 10th grade. She doesn’t pull back right away, her eyes locked on his, and he can smell the lavender lotion, the sweet fried sugar from the funnel cake on her breath, the faint tang of hickory smoke from the rib trucks hanging heavy in the air.
He walks her to her car an hour later, a small silver hatchback parked near the fairground entrance, and when she stops at the driver’s side door, she turns to him, tilts her head a little, and asks if he’s busy the next day. He says he’s got nothing planned, that the pitcher he scouted is leaving for a tournament in Illinois at dawn, so his schedule is wide open. She smiles, and writes her phone number on a greasy napkin from the rib booth, shoves it deep in the pocket of his jacket, and leans in to kiss him on the cheek, her lips lingering for a beat longer than necessary.
He stands there until she drives out of the parking lot, the napkin crumpled tight in his fist, and for the first time in 30 years, he doesn’t feel the urge to run. He pulls out his beat-up iPhone, types her number in, and sends her a text asking if she wants to get breakfast at the diner on Main Street, the same one they used to go to after football games. She writes back 10 seconds later, says 8 a.m., don’t be late. He laughs, tucks his phone back in his pocket, and walks back to his truck, the smell of hickory smoke still clinging to his jacket, the ghost of her touch still warm on his cheek.
