The Field of Love - 1. Chapter 1

The Field of Love

Chapter 1

As Sammy Day stepped up to the plate, he reviewed the baseball game situation in his mind. The score was 3-1 in favor of the Bulldogs of Hazard, the reigning District Champions. Hazard had another good team this year with just about every player returning. Sammy’s teammates were on base—Robby Nelson on third, just ninety feet from tying the game, and Steve Goodman on first after a gutsy bunt. There were two outs and it was the top of the last inning.

Robby, the Cougars’ right fielder and ninth batter in the line-up, led off the inning and reached second base on a two base error by the Bulldogs’ right fielder. Robby moved to third when Taylor Eagleton, the leadoff hitter, grounded out to second. Nate Bell popped-up to the catcher before Steve reached first on a bunt. Robby’s fake at coming home on the bunt distracted the Bulldogs’ first baseman enough to allow Steve to reach first.

Before Sammy stepped into the batter’s box, he looked down at third Robby gave him a nod and two thumbs up, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Steve, ever the joker, flashed a grin and winked, as if to say, 'We’ve got this’. Sammy took a couple of practice swings and then slowly, but confidently placed his back foot into the batter’s box, eyed the six foot three inch tall all-state pitcher, Tommy Sutton, and settled himself in for the first pitch. He could hear the crowd behind him, a low hum of anticipation. This was the moment he’d imagined every night before falling asleep, the chance to prove himself against the best.

Sammy blocked the crowd out. He focused on the mound, turning out the roar like static. Sutton, tall and broad-shouldered, chose the windup instead of the stretch, a curious decision with runners on base. Sammy didn’t question it. He just saw Steve take off.

The pitch came in low and outside, a fastball just off the plate. Ball one.

Steve slid into second without a throw. The catcher faked it, snapping the ball lazily back to Sutton. Robby stayed anchored at third. Down by two, his run alone wouldn’t change the outcome. He knew it. Sammy knew it.

The next pitch buzzed high and tight—another fastball. Ball two.

Sammy stepped out of the box, dragging the bat behind him as he stared down the third-base line. Two balls, one strike. A hitter’s count. Most pitchers go with a fastball here—something they can control. But Sutton had options. First base was open. Brent Sloan, the Cougars’ cleanup hitter, was on deck. If Sutton missed, he’d face Brent with the bases loaded.

Sammy exhaled slowly. They wanted to end it with him. That meant Sutton would throw his best pitch—and Sammy knew exactly what that was. The all-state pitcher’s curveball was legendary, the kind that started high and broke like a falling axe. With two fastballs already missing out of the zone, Sammy was sitting on it.

Sutton rocked into his windup, long and deliberate. The ball left his hand like a bullet aimed at Sammy’s head.

But the Cougar’s heart and soul didn’t flinch.

He stayed back, eyes locked on the spin, waiting for the break he knew was coming.

About ten feet from the plate, the pitch began to break—sharp and sudden, just as Sammy expected.

He shifted his weight to his back foot, then drove forward, textbook form meeting perfect timing. The crack of the bat split the air, a sound that needed no explanation. Everyone who knew baseball knew what it meant.

The left fielder didn’t move.

He just stood there, eyes lifted, watching the ball sail over his head and out of reach. It soared—three hundred and fifty feet over the left field fence—before landing with a distant thud in the middle of the parking lot.

A three-run homer.

And just like that, the Cougars were ahead.

Sammy rounded third and stepped on home plate to a wall of cheers. His teammates swarmed him—shouts, slaps on the back, arms thrown around his shoulders. For a moment, he was the center of everything.

Well, almost everything.

Brent Sloan stood alone in the on-deck circle, but resting on his shoulder, eyes fixed on Sammy. He didn’t move. Didn’t smile.

Still, Sammy felt something shift inside him. Like the pieces of his life were finally starting to fit. For once, he wasn’t just tolerated—he was celebrated. Growing up in Pine Hills hadn’t been easy. Being half Indian in a small Southern town meant hearing names he’d never asked for—half-breed, little squaw—words that cut deep, no matter how often they were thrown. But Sammy never stopped being proud of who he was. His heritage wasn’t a burden. It was his backbone. And now, standing at home plate with his team around him, he felt it: pride, belonging, and the quiet hope that maybe things were changing.

His mother—a full-blooded Lakota princess—had died giving birth to him. No one ever blamed him. His father loved him fiercely, with pride that never wavered. But Sammy still carried the weight. A quiet guilt that settled in his bones, not because of anything said, but because of what was missing.

He’d grown up with stories of her strength, her grace, her spirit. And yet, he’d never heard her voice. Never felt her arms around him. There was a part of him that felt unfinished, like a thread left untied. Being half Lakota in Pine Hills meant walking a tightrope. He was proud of his heritage—proud of the blood that ran through him—but the names they called him made it hard to hold his head high. Half-breed. Little squaw. Words meant to cut, and they did. But today, standing at home plate with the cheers still echoing, Sammy felt something shift. For the first time, he didn’t feel broken. He felt whole.

As Sammy headed towards the dugout, Tony Thompson, grinning from ear to ear, threw his arm around his shoulder. “Way to crush the ball, Sammy.”

Sammy smiled a shy smile, not used to compliments from anyone other than his father. “Thanks Tony, it was like I knew what pitch was coming.” Sammy and Tony had been getting closer since baseball season started and he had begun developing feelings for Tony that left him a little confused. Both were sophomores, Tony was both physically bigger and lighter skinned than Sammy, with naturally darker skin and five foot eight inch frame, often felt like he stood out in ways he couldn’t always name.

But right now, with Tony’s arm around him and the crowd still buzzing, Sammy didn’t feel so different. He felt close—to someone who saw him, maybe even liked him. And that feeling, whatever it was, made his heart beat just a little faster.

After the homer, Hazard’s coach called timeout and strode to the mound, trying to settle his shaken ace. Tommy Sutton stood stiff, jaw clenched, as his teammates gathered around him.

Brent Sloan stepped into the batter’s box, took a few hard practice swings, and stared down the pitcher. His eyes burned—not just with competitive fire, but something darker. He wasn’t about to let Sammy Day show him up.

The first pitch broke late, starting on the outside corner before drifting out of the zone. Brent had already committed. He swung hard and missed badly.

Expecting another outside pitch, Brent froze as the next one came in tight—a fastball on the inside corner at the knees. Strike two.

Now he was angry. At the pitcher. At himself. At Sammy.

He gritted his teeth and swung with everything he had at the next pitch, a fastball right down the middle. But Sutton had fooled him. The changeup dropped in slow, and Brent was way out in front—missing it by a country mile.

Furious, Brent flung his bat toward the dugout fence, the metal clanging against chain-link. Without a word, he grabbed his glove and stalked off toward the field.

As long as Sammy could remember, he loved this time of year.

It was as if the mountains and valleys stretched wide, shaking off a long, deep winter’s sleep. The days grew warmer and longer. Blossoms burst from bare limbs, flowers bloomed in brilliant color, and honeybees returned to sample their essence. The scent of freshly cut grass hung in the air—quickly followed by the call of “Play ball!”

That springtime rite, heard across America, called out to all who were young at heart.

Even those who couldn’t take the field could still be part of the game—coaching, scoring, and umpiring. There was room for everyone in baseball’s embrace.

Every year, millions take part in the timeless traditions of baseball and softball. Fathers and sons, fathers and daughters, even mothers and daughters—step onto the field together, bound by the game. And then there are the volunteers: those with no personal ties to the players, drawn back each season by a simple, enduring love for the sport.

From T-ball fields where four-year-olds take their first swings, to community leagues where men in their forties and fifties still chase grounders and swing for the fences, the game lives on. Young men who’ve aged out of organized baseball find new life in softball leagues scattered across the country.

Baseball is more than a sport. It’s a rite of spring, a rhythm of summer, and a thread woven through generations. It is, and always has been, America’s pastime.

Baseball has been the one constant through American history—stretching back to at least 1791, when an ordinance in Pittsfield, Massachusetts banned playing the game within eighty yards of the town meeting house.

Over two centuries later, the rules have changed little. Sure, the American League adopted the designated hitter rule—something Sammy hated with a quiet passion—and free agency has transformed the game, giving players salaries their early 1900s counterparts could only dream of. The height of the pitcher’s mound has shifted, and the game has evolved in subtle ways.

But the heart of it remains.

A hit is still a hit. A strikeout is still a strikeout. Records are kept, passed down, and compared across generations. Today’s players can measure themselves against legends from the 1920s—against Babe Ruth himself. The numbers may change, but the game’s soul endures.

Sammy loved the game of baseball.

It wasn’t just the strategy within the strategy—the hidden layers, the stats, the chess match between pitcher and batter. It wasn’t even the smell of freshly cut grass or the warm sun and gentle breeze on his face, though those things made him feel alive.

What Sammy loved most were the trials. The moments that tested you. The chance to improve.

You had to hone your reflexes to handle a hard grounder that took a wicked bounce at the last second. You had to move as one with your teammates to turn an inning-ending double play. At the plate, it was just you and the pitcher—but even then, you weren’t alone. You had to think like a teammate: move the runner, protect the lead, look for that outside pitch and drive it into right for a textbook hit-and-run.

Baseball demanded everything. And gave everything back.

Yes, Sammy loved this game. Every piece of it.

Sammy took his place at shortstop, tossing the ball a couple of times to first base—loose, focused, ready. The umpire called for the next batter, and the field settled into position.

He glanced around. The crowd was bigger than usual for a high school game—several dozen, maybe more. Parents, classmates, locals. The hum of voices and the occasional cheer gave the field a pulse.

At second base, Tony was all smiles, slapping his glove with excitement. He called out encouragement to Eric Peterson, a senior now on the mound for the Cougars. Coach Parker had pulled Brent after the bat-throw incident, replacing him with Eric’s steady arm.

Sammy felt the shift. The game had changed—not just on the scoreboard, but in the air. And he was right in the middle of it.

Eric Peterson was tall and thin, a redhead with limbs so long he looked like a stickman drawn in a cartoon. At six-foot-one, he wasn’t towering, but his arms gave him a whip-like delivery that made his fastball deceptively quick.

Endurance wasn’t his strength—he could only pitch an inning or two before fading. That’s why Coach Parker had made him the Cougars’ go-to relief pitcher: short bursts, high velocity, no frills.

Eric wasn’t fancy. No curveballs, no sliders, no tricks. He threw hard, and he threw strikes.

The first batter tapped a weak grounder back to the mound. Eric fielded it cleanly and tossed to first for the out.

The second batter stood like a house by the road—solid, unmoving—as three straight strikes zipped past him. The Bulldog’s coach was beside himself, pacing and muttering under his breath.

With two outs, the Bulldogs returned to the top of their lineup—Tommy Sutton, their leadoff hitter and star pitcher. He’d given up the three-run homer to Sammy and was hungry for payback.

The first pitch came in fast. Tommy swung hard and fouled it straight back into the crowd behind home plate—just missing it square.

The second pitch was nearly perfect too, but he caught the top of the ball, sending a sharp grounder slicing between third and short.

Sammy reacted instantly.

He raced into the hole, backhanded the ball cleanly, and—without hesitation—launched himself off his right foot. His throw to first was all instinct and muscle, skipping once about five feet in front of the bag.

The first baseman stretched as far as he could, glove outstretched.

The ball hit leather a split second before Tommy’s foot touched the base.

Out.

With the final out recorded, Sammy’s three-run homer proved enough to seal the season opener for the Pine Hills Cougars. The Bulldogs went down one-two-three in the bottom half of the inning, their momentum gone.

The thirty-mile bus ride back to Pine Hills was loud and full of laughter—teammates shouting, teasing, replaying the game in bursts of excitement. The coaches didn’t mind. They let the noise roll, knowing it was the sound of a team coming together.

Sammy was one of the last to step off the bus.

He spotted Tony and his older brother Evan standing apart from the rest of the team, locked in a heated argument. Sammy slowed, unsure whether to approach. But Evan saw him first.

He shoved Tony aside and stormed toward Sammy.

“I don’t ever want to see you talking to my little brother again,” Evan shouted, his voice sharp and venomous. “You hear me, you half-breed Indian—”

The words hit harder than the fist.

Sammy froze. Evan’s eyes were wide, wild, and full of something Sammy couldn’t name. He didn’t even know what he’d done wrong.

“But… but Ev—” he started.

That was all he got out before Evan’s fist crashed into his chin. Sammy’s head snapped back, dizziness flooding his senses. He stumbled, lost his footing, and fell hard.

The last thing he remembered was the sharp crack of his skull against something solid—and the stars that burst behind his eyes before everything went black.

When Sammy came to, a crowd had gathered around him.

A boy he didn’t recognize knelt beside him, blond hair tousled, grey eyes filled with concern. He was holding Sammy’s hand—firm but gentle—and Sammy realized his head was resting in the boy’s lap.

For a moment, everything else faded. Sammy looked into those grey eyes and felt something strange and quiet stir inside him. Like their spirits had brushed against each other.

He tried to shake his head, but the pain made him wince.

“I think so,” he murmured, managing a faint smile. “What happened?”

“You fell and hit your head,” the boy said softly. “It’s bleeding. Your coach went to get the medical kit.”

Sammy blinked, trying to focus. He scanned the crowd but didn’t see Tony or Evan.

“Where’s Evan and Tony?”

The boy hesitated. “They, uh—”

Before he could finish, another voice jumped in.

“Mike tackled Evan before Coach Parker broke everything up,” said Tad Sherman, breathless and wide-eyed. “Then Coach told Evan he’d call the cops. Evan grabbed Tony and they took off like a bat outta hell. They were still arguing when they got to Evan’s car.”

Sammy glanced at Mike, who was blushing and looking away. Sammy’s own cheeks flushed as he spoke.

“Thank you… for, well, everything.”

Mike gave a small nod, still avoiding eye contact, but his grip on Sammy’s hand didn’t loosen.

“Okay, guys—break it up,” Coach Parker said, pushing through the crowd. “Let me take care of Sammy.”

He’d already called 911 when he grabbed the medical kit, and the paramedics were enroute before he even began tending to Sammy. The coach managed to slow the bleeding at the back of Sammy’s head but couldn’t stop it entirely.

When the paramedics arrived, they gave Sammy a quick examination and decided to transport him to the hospital for a possible concussion.

Most of Sammy’s teammates lingered, watching as the ambulance doors closed and the siren began to wail. Their faces were solemn, quiet.

But Sammy noticed who wasn’t there.

The Thompson brothers were gone. So was Brent Sloan.

Coach Parker phoned Sammy’s father at work, explaining the incident and Sammy’s trip to the emergency room.

William Day—known to most as Billy—didn’t hesitate. He turned to his assistant manager, already grabbing his keys.

“I need to get to the hospital. Sammy’s been hurt.”

Terry looked up, surprised. “Okay, boss. But Sammy’s never been sick a day in his life. What happened?”

Billy paused. “Now that you mention it, no, he hasn’t. I’m not too clear on the details—just that there was a fight, and Sammy hit his head on a rock. He was knocked out.”

He glanced at the clock. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’ll let you know if I’ll be in tomorrow.”

Billy loved his son fiercely. He would do anything for him.

He knew Sammy carried a quiet guilt over Mary’s death, even though no one had ever blamed him. Billy certainly hadn’t. And he knew Mary wouldn’t have either.

Her choice had been clear. She’d told the doctors to prioritize her son’s life over her own. She understood the risks. And she accepted them—willingly, bravely.

Billy carried that truth with him. And now, as he drove toward the hospital, he carried something else: the quiet ache of a father who knew his son was hurting in more ways than one.

This was the first real crisis Billy had ever faced with Sammy—and he was scared.

Coach Parker had assured him Sammy would be okay, but Billy didn’t take anyone’s word when it came to his son. He needed to see for himself.

When he arrived at the hospital, he was surprised to find so many kids Sammy’s age in the waiting room. Some sat quietly, others whispered in clusters. The air buzzed with concern.

Billy approached the reception desk and spoke to the young woman behind it.

“I’m William Day. My son, Sammy—he was brought in a little while ago.”

She handed him a clipboard. “Mr. Day, if you could start on the paperwork, I’ll find out where your son is and when you can go back to see him.”

Billy sat down and began filling out the insurance forms. He skipped the medical history—Sammy had none, aside from the standard vaccinations. But it was hard to focus. The what-ifs swirled in his mind, each one heavier than the last.

He wasn’t sure how he’d go on if something truly bad happened to Sammy. Not after losing Mary—his one true love, the woman who had given everything for their son. Billy knew Sammy blamed himself, but he also knew the truth: Mary had made her choice. She’d told the doctors to save Sammy, no matter the cost. She’d known the risks. And she’d accepted them with grace.

Billy’s leg bounced uncontrollably beneath the clipboard. His hand shook as he tried to write. He was about to give up when a voice broke through the fog.

“Mr. Day, you may see your son now. Please follow me, sir.”

A nurse stood nearby, smiling gently, her tone calm and reassuring.

Billy rose, heart pounding, and followed her down the hallway—toward the boy who meant everything to him.

As he was about to give up, “Mr. Day, you may see your son now. Please follow me, sir.” A smiling nurse beckoned for him to follow her.

Fearful of what he might find but determined to see his son, Billy handed the clipboard to the nurse and followed her down the hallway.

His heart nearly burst with relief when he saw Sammy sitting up in bed, dressed in a hospital gown, pale but alert.

Billy rushed to his side.

“Sammy, are you okay? What happened? Who did this to you?” The questions tumbled out, rapidly and breathlessly.

He didn’t wait for answers. He bent down and wrapped his arms around his son, holding him close—like he had when Sammy was just a baby. The fear he’d carried since the phone call poured out in that embrace. No matter what Coach Parker had said, Billy had needed to see it with his own eyes.

Sammy hugged his father back, letting the warmth and safety of his arms surround him. He nodded in response to the questions, not trusting his voice just yet.

“Mr. Day?”

Billy reluctantly released his son and turned toward the voice. A man in a white coat stood nearby.

“Sammy is fine,” said Doctor Mien. Billy recognized the name, though they’d never met.

“I’ve examined him from head to toe,” the doctor continued. “Aside from a bruised chin, a laceration on the back of his head, and a possible mild concussion, he’s in picture-perfect health.”

He paused, letting the words settle.

“We’d like to keep Sammy overnight for observation, just to make sure no complications arise from the hit he took when he fell.”

Billy nodded, wiping the tears from his face. Relief washed over him, but the protective instinct remained—stronger than ever. “That’s fine with me Doctor and thank you. My insurance will more than cover everything.” Billy said.

“If I’m not mistaken, the school’s insurance will cover it. So, no worries,” Doctor Mien said, patting Sammy’s shoulder and shaking Billy’s hand. “Sammy will be moved upstairs once a room is ready. I’ve got paperwork to finish, but we’ll update you tomorrow if he’s cleared for release.”

With that, the doctor left the room, and the quiet settled in.

Billy eased into the chair beside Sammy’s bed, his shoulders finally relaxing. Relief washed over him, Sammy wasn’t hurt as badly as he’d feared. And Coach Parker’s assessment had been spot-on, which raised Billy’s trust in the man more than he expected.

He turned to his son, voice gentle but steady.

“Want to explain what happened?”

Sammy looked down at the blanket, fingers curling into the fabric. He wasn’t sure where to start. The ache in his head was dull now, but the ache in his chest lingered—confusion, fear, and something else he couldn’t quite name.

Billy waited, patient, his presence a quiet anchor in the storm.

Billy leaned in, listening closely, his hand resting on Sammy’s arm.

Sammy’s voice was low, shaky. “I’m not really sure what happened, Dad.” He paused, gathering himself. “The game went great. Everyone was laughing on the bus ride back. It felt like—for once—I belonged.”

He swallowed hard.

“But when I got off the bus, I saw Tony and his brother Evan arguing. I didn’t think much of it… until Evan saw me. He shoved Tony and came straight at me and started yelling. Calling me names. Told me to stay away from his brother.”

Sammy blinked fast, trying to keep the tears from falling. He took a deep breath and pushed through.

“I think… I think he thought Tony and I were more than just friends. More than teammates.”

Billy’s heart clenched. He could see the confusion in Sammy’s eyes—the ache of being misunderstood, the fear of being punished for something he hadn’t even named yet.

He didn’t speak right away. He just reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from Sammy’s forehead, the way he used to when Sammy was small and scared.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Billy said softly. “Not one thing.”

“Why did he think that?” Billy asked.

“Well, besides calling me a half-breed, he also called me a faggot.” Sammy held his father’s eyes with his own watching for Billy’s reaction. “Dad, I don’t know if I’m gay or not. I’ve never thought about it much. Honestly, I don’t know.”

Billy reached out and took Sammy’s hand in his. “Son, your sexual orientation has no effect on my love for you. You will be what you were meant to be. Besides, you’re too young to know if you are or to be worried about it.”

Sammy smiled and nodded his head. Then he thought back to the blond hair boy named Mike. Sammy may not know if he was gay or not, but he did know Mike would definitely play a large role in his life. And he found comfort in the thought.