Manny Ruiz, 52, minor league baseball scout for the Houston Astros farm system, pulls into the gravel lot of a bar called The Spitball off I-37 outside Corpus Christi at 8:47 PM, boots caked in red dirt from the high school ball fields he’d tramped all day. He’s got a cramp in his right shoulder from jotting pitch velocity numbers, a half-empty bag of dill sunflower seeds in his jacket pocket, and a 12-year rule he hasn’t broken once: no talking to women in bars, not unless they’re the mom of a prospect asking about their kid’s chances. His ex-wife cleaned out his bank account, his mint-condition 1987 Nolan Ryan rookie card, and his restored 1998 F-150 when she left, and he’s never bothered shaking the cold cynicism that stuck to him like pine sap after that.
He grabs the third stool from the door, signals the bartender for a cold Shiner Bock, tucks his scuffed leather scout notebook under his arm so no one can see the scribbled notes inside. Ten minutes later, a woman slides into the stool two down from him, close enough that he catches the faint scent of lavender hand lotion over the bar’s usual mix of fried pickle grease, stale lager, and menthol cigarette smoke drifting from the back patio. He glances over out of habit: dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a low ponytail, scuffed white New Balances, faded UT Austin hoodie, no flashy jewelry, a chipped ceramic travel mug in her hand that she brought with her instead of ordering a cocktail first.
She reaches for the stack of paper napkins on the bar at the same time he does, their knuckles brushing when they both grab for the top one. He feels the rough calluses on her index and middle finger, the kind you get from gripping a syringe through 12-hour hospital shifts, not from posing with gardening tools for Instagram reels. She holds his eye contact for three full beats, no quick shy look away, no over-the-top flirty smile, just a half-smirk that says she knows he was checking her out and she doesn’t mind. “Sorry,” she says, voice low and rough, like she’s used to talking over beeping patient monitors and loud emergency room chatter. “Forgot napkins for my barbecue chips.” He nods, pushes the whole stack toward her, goes back to staring at the condensation dripping down his beer bottle, tells himself to stop noticing how the neon Coors sign glows gold on the side of her face.
She nods at the notebook peeking out from under his arm. “You the scout that’s been hanging around the West Oso High field all week? My nephew plays second base there, said a guy with a beat-up Astros hat was taking notes on the lefty starter yesterday.” Manny blinks. He’s used to people cornering him to ask for free game tickets, or if he can get their uncoordinated kid a tryout even if they can’t throw a strike to save their life. He’s not used to someone knowing exactly which prospect he was watching. “That’s me,” he says, cautious, already tensed for the inevitable ask for a favor. Instead she leans forward, elbows on the bar, and asks if the lefty’s slider break is as consistent as it looked from the stands last Friday, when she’d come to watch her nephew’s playoff game. He answers before he can stop himself, launches into a tangent about how the kid tilts his wrist just a hair too far when he’s throwing with runners on base, and she nods along, asks follow-up questions that make it clear she knows what she’s talking about, not just faking interest to get a free drink.
Thunder hits out of nowhere, loud enough that the bar’s front windows rattle, and the power cuts out for 10 seconds, the only light coming from the glowing red emergency exit sign above the door. She laughs, leans in closer so he can hear her over the sudden chatter from the other patrons, her shoulder pressing firm against his upper arm, warm through his thin faded hoodie. “My dad used to bring me to Round Rock Express games all the time when I was a kid,” she says, voice right next to his ear, he can feel her warm breath on the side of his neck. “He died last month, left me his old season ticket seats, I’ve been driving down here on my days off to watch the high school games, it’s the first thing that’s felt like him in weeks.” Manny doesn’t pull away. He’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone sit that close without him feeling like they were sizing him up to take something from him. For a second he forgets his 12-year rule, forgets the Nolan Ryan card he still looks for on eBay once a month, forgets the truck he’d spent three years restoring before his ex took it. He tells her he hasn’t talked to anyone about baseball for fun, not just for work, since his own dad died 11 years prior.
The power cuts back on, the jukebox blares a deep cut George Strait track, and she leans back, still smiling, no pity in her eyes, no awkward silence after the quiet confession. He signals the bartender, points to the homemade pecan pie in the glass display case by the register, holds up two fingers. “Only if you bring me to the showcase tomorrow,” she says before he can offer to split the slice. “I want to see if that lefty fixes his wrist tilt when he’s under pressure.” Manny pulls the extra event lanyard out of his jacket pocket, slides it across the worn wood bar to her, their fingers brushing again when she takes it. He notices the beat-up 2018 Round Rock Express championship ring on her left index finger, the exact same model his dad had bought him the year before he died.
