The beginning of Billy's Victory...
Chapter 1
Billy Ray Reynolds sat on the bank's edge, his knees pulled up under his chin.
He spotted a dozen quail exploding from the high grass at the east end of the pond. The birds flew away in search of a safer haven. They had heard the sudden sound and reacted quickly.
The young boy remained in a trance for a split second longer, and then he heard the voice from beyond the meadow.
The voice startled him, but Billy welcomed the familiar sound. It brought him back to reality.
Being in a daze was nothing new to Billy. Sometimes, he found himself caught in a time machine. It was like the film in a projector...rewinding...rewinding.
He would see fragments of his young past weave in and out of his thoughts.
His mind was cluttered. Too cluttered for an 11-year-old boy.
“Come on, Billy; it’s time to go!”
It was his mother’s voice. He loved her voice. Although it was sometimes soft and stern, it made him feel safe.
He needed her more than ever before.
Dad was gone, and Billy couldn’t openly explain his feelings. The words wouldn’t flow freely. Instead, he was left with a big lump in his throat, as if the words were stuck behind a closed door with no way out.
The other day, it seemed like his mother had accused him of talking too much.
But it wasn’t just the other day; it was two months ago — the last Sunday in February, to be exact.
Billy remembers sitting next to his dad in the den. The family collie, Chipper, was sprawled out in front of the fireplace. His mother was busy in the kitchen making pancakes for breakfast.
It was a cold morning, and the frost was beginning to soften on the windows, allowing icy trails to run down into the window sills.
The wood in the fireplace was crackling, and the aroma of fresh bacon had finally made its way through the hallway and into the den.
Billy’s mother exited the kitchen and walked over to her two boys. She put her hand on her son’s shoulder and said jokingly. “You’re a regular little chatterbox this morning. Give your dad a break. Let him finish the sports page.”
John Reynolds just smiled. He was used to sharing the sports page with his son. John had taught his son how to read a box score from top to bottom, calculate batting averages, and use basic math skills to calculate a pitcher’s earned run average.
Billy had no problem keeping up with the statistics of his favorite baseball players. His father had taken care of that.
A moment later, the phone rang, and Billy watched his mother untie her apron and rush back into the kitchen to answer it.
Joan Reynolds was so excited she could hardly contain herself.
“John, I think it’s someone from the Yankee organization,” she said proudly.
John put down the paper, ruffled his hand over Billy’s head, and walked down the hallway and into the kitchen to answer the call.
After five minutes of “yes, sir,” and “no, sir,” John hung up the phone and opened his arms to his wife and Billy. Even Chipper tried to get into the act as he stood up on all fours, barked, and wagged his tail.
The Reynolds family’s dream of John making it to the major leagues was near.
“Billy, the Yankees want me in St. Petersburg in two weeks for spring training,” John said, grinning from ear to ear.
Billy heard his mother’s voice once again. And then he heard the rattling of the old cowbell coming from the back porch of the main house. For years, that sound meant dinner was ready. This time, it meant something else.
Billy took one last look at the pond. It had been a special place for him and his dad. Billy had caught his first fish at Oak Hollow, barely a hop, skip, and a jump from the main house.
Sometimes, Billy and his dad would sit quietly on the shore and watch the Texas sun disappear below the far horizon. Other times, they would use a couple of old bamboo poles, sit and wait for a bobble, and maybe latch on to a catfish or a nice perch for dinner.
It was time to go. His mother was calling him.
Billy began the short trek back to the house. The winding path took him through a marigold field. Then, it was just a quick jog around the barn and up to the main house.
His mother was waiting patiently.
“The station wagon is packed. We have to hurry, or we’ll miss the train,” she said.
She knew her son was hurting.
Billy hadn’t spoken a word since the funeral. The family doctor had said, “It will take time, just be patient...there’s nothing physically wrong with your son. Give him some time. He’ll sort things out.”
And now, it would be tough for Billy to finally leave the ranch, Reynolds’ home for the past five years.
Joan Reynolds gave Billy a soft slap on his backside as the young boy dove into the back seat of the station wagon. Chipper followed, and Joan closed the rear door of the vehicle.
She looked back at the ranch house, the barn, the field, and the trees that surrounded the southern edge of Oak Hollow.
Everlasting memories.
It had taken a lot of hard work and all their savings—including John’s bonus—to buy the place, but they worked it out, and they had their ranch house and the two hundred and fifty acres that went with it.
It had all been worth it until that fateful night.
Joan opened the driver’s side of the station wagon. She watched a sudden gust of wind force a stubborn bush to bounce along the side of the house.
The tumbleweed seemed to pick up steam as it rolled past the corral and finally stopped at the base of the backstop.
Joan then noticed the backstop and the black-and-white sign twirling in the wind. The sign had lost one of its two hooks, and the constant breeze had forced it to turn over and over, banging against the very top of the backstop.
She knew she must rescue the sign. “Wait a minute, Billy. I’ll be right back.”
She ran over, unhooked the sign, and returned to the station wagon.
Billy’s mother put her right hand on her forehead and wiped a strand of her blond hair from her eyes. Then she closed the car door and started the engine.
She handed Billy the sign and took a deep breath. “Get comfy, Billy. We’re off to Grandma’s.”
Joan looked through the rearview mirror and watched her son rub his hands over the sign. She knew her son would find a special place for it.
She smiled as she eyed Billy’s hat.
The hat, with the famous Yankee emblem stenciled on the front, was turned to its side, and the locks of Billy’s wavy hair extended out from under it.
She thought her son was the spitting image of John. They were alike in so many ways, except for their height, of course. Joan remembered her husband’s recent comment: “Just wait, Joan, he’ll sprout up. I picked up a foot-and-a-half in junior high school alone.”
She remembered John being 6 feet 4 inches tall and weighing 240 pounds in college. His college chums nicknamed him Big John. She shook her head and tried to picture how Billy would look in ten years.
Manny Hernandez waited patiently at the gate. He could see the dust swirling behind the rear tires of the Reynolds Country Squire station wagon as the vehicle grew larger and larger as it approached the ranch's north entrance.
While John traveled from one minor league ballpark to another, Manny was the ranch foreman and all-around caretaker.
His workload was at its heaviest during the spring and summer months. However, during winter, Manny could spend most of his time at home with his family in Rancho Cordova, a small community 10 miles south of the Reynolds’ ranch.
But this day would be a sad day for Manny. With hammer and nails in hand, his final chore for the Reynolds family would be to nail a sold sign on the gate.
Manny was short, but his heart was as big as a Texas T-bone. Billy always enjoyed Manny’s company, and the aging Hispanic cowboy enjoyed being around Billy as well.
Manny taught Billy to rope a calf, ride the horses, and care for all the ranch animals.
Billy waved to his friend as the vehicle rolled through the gate in a cloud of dust. He wanted to tell Manny goodbye, but the words remained caught in his throat and deep in his young heart.
Instead, he continued to wave as the station wagon rolled on — the muscular figure becoming smaller and smaller as the dust settled over the road, blocking out the gate, the ranch, and Manny.
Billy looked down at the dirty sign and began cleaning it with a handkerchief he had found in his left coat pocket.
He thought back. It was two summers ago, and his dad had been home, nursing a knee injury that would eventually keep him out of fifty games that season.
His dad worked on the field day after day for a month. With the help of the ranch hands and Manny, they transformed the pasture into a miniature ball field and put up a curved-shaped wire fence behind the home plate area.
When the job was done, his dad lifted him and had him hook the sign into the backstop's webbing. “It’s official,” his dad said. “We’ll call it Billy‘s Field.”
That summer, Billy remembered his dad introducing him to Iron Mike.
Iron Mike had been a work in progress for close to a year. John used the engineering skills he had picked up in college to assemble an electronic pitching machine.
Somehow, his dad rigged up a machine using two car tires and a motor, allowing baseballs to spin out between the rotating tires and sail toward the plate.
Billy recalled the balls weren’t always strikes. He had to do a lot of ducking now and then, but surprisingly, more than not, the balls would fly across the plate at a high rate of speed.
Billy looked out the window of the station wagon. They were pulling into the train station. Soon, they would leave Texas and head for his mother’s hometown, Johnsonville.
Chapter 2
The clown had gone through the ritual millions of times.
It always took George Thomas much longer to put on the costumes, shoes, and makeup. Still, when the performances were over, it didn’t take him very long to change from “Roscoe the Baseball Clown” to a face more recognizable to his family and friends.
However, tonight was different.
Roscoe had just given his final performance. For twenty-five years, he had ignited the emotions of small crowds at minor league baseball parks.
Now, it was time to give it up. It was time to return the clown suit to the old green footlocker and return to his hometown, Johnsonville.
He had thrilled youngsters all over the country with his antics. He had made thousands of strangers laugh. He knew exactly what needed to be done to jump-start a crowd and get them into the game — the game he loved: baseball.
The clown used his special oil to remove makeup from his aging face. He started in his early 30s, traveling with a small-time circus, moving from town to town.
It seemed so long ago. It was at a time when his young body could tackle anything. No matter the routine, he could handle it all gracefully, without aches or pains.
But now, as he glanced into the makeshift mirror on the visitors’ locker room wall, the wrinkles were signaling otherwise.
He remembered those lonely days on the road, sitting in a truck cab as the convoy rolled down the highway en route to another town, another circus...another performance.
The clown remembered the early days as he rubbed the soap off his forehead.
Jack Vincent, the owner of a double-A franchise in Toledo, had helped launch Roscoe’s career.
Vincent was having trouble filling up his ballpark. He tried everything from dancing girls to shooting some poor man out of a cannon. Nothing seemed to work until Vincent decided to bring “Roscoe” to the park.
Not only did the idea work for Vincent, whose attendance soared, but it also turned out to be the best thing for George Thomas.
The one phone call from Vincent marked the beginning of a career for “Roscoe” that would last for three decades.
.
More importantly, it allowed George to combine “clowning around” with his number-one passion, baseball.
But it was over now. His family needed him. Billy needed him. It was the end of April. It was the beginning of the season for the Stockton Bison, and a new clown had been hired to replace George.
George had heard the new “mascot” would be wearing antlers, and he was supposed to roam around the stadium and “snort” at the fans.
George wished he could stick around for a week to see the new clown in action.
“George, the taxi is here,” said Jimmy Slater, a jack-of-all-trades around Stockton Stadium. “I’ll be back in a minute to give you a hand with that old trunk of yours.”
George was glad for the help, but he also knew Jimmy had his hands full closing down the park. The Stockton Bison had just won a 6-3 game over the visiting Edmonton Trackers. George, as usual, had thrilled 3,000 fans during the pre-game festivities.
But this time, George would wait for Jimmy’s help. The trunk was packed, and it was a long walk up the stairs, out the turnstiles, and to the street where the cab was waiting.
Jimmy Slater had found two stadium workers to help haul George’s belongings curbside, much to the delight of the cab driver, who had been waiting patiently for his next customer.
“We will miss you,” said Slater. “You were certainly a fixture around here, and I’m pretty sure there are many more owners of these old ballparks around the country who would say the same.”
George thought it was nice to hear those kind words. That, of course, had been George’s intention all along. After all, that’s what clowns are supposed to do — leave a lasting impression.
With Jimmy at his side, George stopped and peeked through the walkway. George’s eyes focused on the beautiful, well-manicured infield, surrounded by the plush green carpet-like outfield.
George always thought there was a slight resemblance between Stockton Stadium and Chicago’s Wrigley Field. Well, in a miniature sort of way, that is.
Maybe it was those old rafters, or perhaps it was just those old-time bleachers behind home plate. There was something about the old ballpark that made him think of Wrigley.
But, then again, after one look at the sign in center field, it wouldn‘t take George long to discount those thoughts. Painted across the sign were the words: Eat at Joe’s Bar and Grill.
George shook hands with Jimmy for the final time and climbed into the cab. “Airport, please, I’m going home.”
George settled into his window seat on the twin-engine prop job.
The fifty-passenger propeller aircraft was one of his favorite rides. Leave those new-fangled, fast-moving jets to the “jet-setters.” The old clown was quite content with the lower-to-the-ground flying machines.
It would be a while before the plane would reach southern Colorado and the regional airport, just a few miles north of Johnsonville.
George would have plenty of time to get some sleep. It had been a long, emotional day, and the weeks ahead would undoubtedly be more of the same.
The old clown placed the pillow next to the window. He found a comfortable position and fell fast asleep.
Within minutes, the recurring dream materialized...
Smoke, or were they clouds swirling? The dream would always start the same way. In the distance, a huge figure moved forward ever so slowly. Where was the figure coming from, and, more importantly, where was it going? Close by, another figure would appear, smaller in stature but just as intriguing. And the voices, not just one or two, but a group, cheered in unison.
“Sir, would you like some coffee?”
George awoke. It was the redheaded stewardess who had so kindly offered him the pillow moments ago. Or was it hours ago?
“We will be landing in Johnsonville in an hour,” she said.
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