A Dusty Tires Short Story

By Dusty Tires

Ed Davis, the Rendville Sun weekly newspaper editor, was sitting at his desk at the office one Friday morning in June, sifting through the slush pile of story ideas on his desk.

It was the same pile of stories that every editor gathers – a collection of story ideas that were almost good enough to pursue, others that had just landed, and a few that were kept on hand just in case disaster struck and he was really desperate for a story.

He pulled out of the tattered Manila folder a news release from the city’s Double-A baseball affiliate, the Rendville Railroaders. They had named one of their players as the player of the month and invited media interviews.

Davis hmffphed at this and tugged at his mustache. The press release noted that the player was a resident of Rendville. Davis knew this was a stretch, since the team’s players came from all over the country, and even from outside the country.

But since the player was actually taking up residence in a rented apartment within the boundaries of the community covered by the paper, it was legitimate. And he needed a story, so he picked up the phone.

The following Monday, Davis – now a reporter, for he wore many hats at the little newspaper — pulled his green 1973 Chevy Nova up to the parking lot of the team’s somewhat rundown old stadium, dubbed The Train Station. It was located in a dingy neighborhood on the town’s west side.

The ballpark had been built in the 1930s and renovated in the 1970s, and it had a dusty, rumpled, comfortable atmosphere. The Train Station was definitely a place where someone could come in and feel at home spending an afternoon watching a baseball game with a box of popcorn, a couple of hot dogs and a cold beer.

He took some time before the interview to walk around the stadium and take in the field. Signs on the outfield fences for plumbing contractors, attorneys, and radial tires competed with advertisements for Kroger, Bob Evans, Pepsi and Bud Light on the scoreboard in center field. A huge American flag fluttered from its pole out past left field.

He watched the Railroaders take some batting and fielding practice and took some photos with his trusty Canon AE-1. Then a young man came over to the dugout bench. The player, named Enrique Simmons, was a center fielder who wore number 51.

Davis intended it to be a friendly interview – no hard questions. He started out with an easy one. “So, where you from?”

Simmons looked at Davis as if he had neglected to read his biographical sketch before the interview began. On that point, Simmons was correct.

“San Juan, Puerto Rico,” Simmons said.

“How long have you been here?”

“About three months,” the player replied.

“Um, how do you like our town?”

Simmons shrugged. “It’s pretty good, I guess.”

Davis suddenly realized he was in a quandary. He didn’t know who this guy was, and probably no one else outside the team’s organization did, either.

This Enrique Simmons was just another player on a minor league team’s roster, hoping for his chance to achieve his dream in the big leagues. He would probably be on another team next year. The interview – and the story – was going nowhere.

The editor thought briefly about calling it a day right there, but he really needed a story for the next week’s edition. A blank front page had never happened on his watch, and he vowed it never would. So Davis endeavored to find out more.

Davis found out that Simmons knew how to speak multiple languages, and that he was extremely intelligent and well educated. He was also an artist – Simmons showed him some of the sketches he had done of players and the ballpark, and they were very good. He just didn’t want to call too much attention to himself, since he was brand-new on the team.

Simmons struck Davis as a modest, polite, quiet young man who was much more than just a baseball player. Simmons shrugged his shoulders and smiled a lot as he answered questions.

The two talked for maybe 15 minutes at most. For Davis, it was almost like having a day off on a sunny day at the ballpark. He figured that for Simmons, it was most likely a mildly annoying experience that would be forgotten in a week or so.

Davis took a few more pictures, thanked him for the interview, and thanked the team’s public relations manager as he made his way out of the stadium. The PR guy gave Davis a couple of tickets to an upcoming game, which he gratefully pocketed as one of the perks of the trade.

He wrote the story, sent it to the team for a fact-check prior to publication, and it went on the front page of the little weekly newspaper the following Monday. The black-and-white photo chosen for the story showed a pose of Enrique Simmons with a bat in his hands and one knee on the bench in the dugout. Davis didn’t know why he chose that picture. He just liked it the most.

In the years that ensued, Davis moved on from the little newspaper and into a career at a large corporation, but he also followed the young baseball player’s career. In a few years, Simmons made it to the big leagues and was on television a lot.

Every time Davis saw Simmons on TV, he thought of that interview and smiled. He accepted the fact that probably all of about 17 people had read that article about the center fielder so many years ago. And of those 17, Davis himself was probably the only one who still remembered it, because he wrote it.

Then in the World Series, Simmons had a clutch homer in the ninth inning of Game 3 to lead his team to an eventual win in the series. Davis wasn’t a particular fan of that team, but he was happy for Simmons.

Simmons retired a few years later. Not long after that, he made the ballot but didn’t quite make the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y. However, his team retired his number and erected a plaque in his honor on the wall in center field. He had spent his entire 16-year big league career with that team. That was something of an accomplishment in itself, in these days of free agency.

One day, an envelope with a hand-written address that had been crossed out by some postal worker and forwarded landed in Davis’s mailbox at home. He opened the envelope and found a copy of the old newspaper article within, with a white sheet of paper that was headed with “From the Desk of Enrique Simmons” in elegant gold-leaf script on the top.

A hand-written note on the paper read,

“I was going through some things of mine the other day and found this newspaper clipping. It occurred to me that this article in your weekly newspaper resulted in the most recognition and encouragement from local fans that I had received up to that time.

“That meant a lot to me. At that time the team wasn’t sure if they would keep me on, and I didn’t really have any friends, and I was far away from home. But not long after that, I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started playing like I was meant to be in the big leagues. Eventually I made it.

“So I’d like to thank you. You put me on the front page before anyone else knew who I was.”

Editor’s Note: “Dusty Tires Short Stories” are temporarily on hold due to the rising workload of “Dusty Tires on the Road.” Rest assured that Dusty has more stories in the vault and will post them as time allows. If you’ve enjoyed these stories, let me know by liking, subscribing and commenting. Thanks!

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