My mom’s screams over the phone still rang in my ears when I boarded the plane for Charlotte. My dream finally came true after six long years in the minors, but I wasn’t sure it was worth losing my hearing.

I heard the news from Coach at 2:00 p.m., and three hours later Mom gathered the family together to celebrate the first big league appearance by anyone from the baseball-loving Donaldson clan.

Grandpa played for a minor league team in St. Louis, and Dad was a high school all-star, but none of my extended family approached the pinnacle of the sport. After four years in the minor leagues, Grandpa managed a hardware store, and Dad worked in the quarries after graduating from high school. Neither had a bad life, but I wanted a lot more.

After I heard the news about the call from Charlotte, I immediately remembered my Grandpa’s words when he saw me catch a long ball while I was on the run in center field facing away from home plate, “You’ve got it, Harley. I knew that sooner or later the genes were going to fit together in one of our grandchildren. Go out there and get it for the rest of us!”

I’m the oldest of three kids in the Donaldson family. I’m ten years older than my sister, the next sibling in line. I grew up in a tiny town in the deep southern hills of Indiana. A famous basketball player with a name starting with “B” came from three or four towns over depending on which route you take. Basketball is the state game, but I aimed to put baseball on the Indiana map.

I talked with my family via video chat on the cell phone. Mom gathered everybody together. At first, I thought my phone was too old to work out the technical stuff, but with my brother Sam’s help, we got it going.

They all looked like a crazy Indiana family portrait. Mom, Dad, and Grandpa sat on the couch with Sam and my sister Lily at their feet. Tex, the best dog who ever lived, sprawled on the floor at Lily’s feet. I asked, “Did you call the photographer? Now would be a perfect time.”

Mom shook her head. “It’s not a family picture without you, Harley, but maybe we can do that at Christmas. You do get to come home for Christmas, don’t you?”

I nodded. “That’s almost three months after the season ends, Mom.”

I frowned at my 15-year-old brother Sam’s first question, “Are you going to wear that dorky backward cap. When you wear it, you’re advertising that we’re from South Nowhere, Indiana.”

I reached up behind my head and tugged on the bill of my favorite cap. My cap was a cherished trademark, but I’d already thought about leaving it behind. The guys razzed me over it in Chattanooga. I had it on when I hit a grand slam over the center-field fence the first time I came up to bat as a freshman on the varsity high school baseball team. It had rarely left my head in the more than ten years since.

Sure, I’m superstitious, but why mess with success? I never wash it. I always wear it backwards on my head from the time I get up in the morning until I suit up for a game. I had it on when Coach told me the big news.

I growled at Sam. “Now I want to keep wearing it to spite you. Sadly, I already decided to finally leave the good luck charm behind. I want to look like I belong in the big leagues.”

Sam said, “That’s good news big brother. I was worried I might have to pretend I don’t know you when I go to school.”

I liked to needle my little brother, and as a teenager, he was good at returning the fire. When he entered high school, he took on the role of a self-appointed fashion maven. I would have ignored all of his comments about the clothes I wore if he hadn’t picked out a suit for me when I was invited to speak at a chamber of commerce event in the off-season near our home in Indiana. I got compliments all evening long from both men and women. Sam knew what looked good. It was almost a sixth sense for him.

I wondered what planet Mom lived on when she said, “Now, don’t be nervous when you get there, hun. It’s just a game.”

My jitters had jitters. It was the big time. It was probably my last chance. This was do or die. I’d been in the minors for six years. Most guys that far in without making it to the big time were thinking of hanging up their cleats. It wasn’t just a game.

I asked, “Are any of you going to come and see me play? School doesn’t start for what? Another month at least?”

Dad started to say, “It’s an expensive trip.”

My 16-year-old sister Lily leaned forward toward the camera until her face was four times as big as the rest of the family. She said, “I bet ‘Hog’ can pay.”

There it was. Lily pulled out my childhood nickname and the one my brother and sister still used when they wanted to be cute and dig at their older brother. It was the nickname lumped onto me as the unfortunate recipient of a name memorializing my dad’s love for his motorcycle.

I leaned in closer to the camera on my end until my face filled the entire screen. “And if you use that nickname with any reporters, Lily Donaldson, you’re out of my will forever.”

She quickly sat back, said, “We love you, Harley,” and mimed the zipping of her lips. Tex barked to punctuate her comment.

I said, “Damn, I miss Tex so much. I’ve got to get a dog again one of these days. I think I’ll get involved with a shelter down here. I wish Tex could come to Charlotte. He could help me relax.”

Baseball was in my blood, but I grew up in the land of basketball. One of my first Little League coaches said, “Baseball is a great game, but we know it’s only summer training for the king of all sports played with a net and a hardwood court.”

I looked at all of the men in my family, none taller than five feet ten inches, and I knew that I wasn’t destined to spend precious time on the basketball court. The state fixation on its basketball legacy made it easier to excel in the national pastime. I had less competition. My potential rivals were too busy bouncing that big orange ball up and down the court.

I had speed and upper body strength combined. My high school coach put me in the outfield and said, “You might have something there, Harley. We haven’t seen a player like you in southern Indiana since the days of Don Mattingly, and that was down on the river. I don’t think the hills have ever seen a boy hit the baseball like you do.”

I was razzed by the basketball jocks who said I should play, “the real game,” but I got my revenge when the local newspaper filled half the front page with my story following my first minor league contract signing in Appleton, Wisconsin. I wondered what they would do for my call from Charlotte.

It didn’t take long to find out. Fifteen minutes after I said goodbye to the Donaldson clan and hung up the phone, a reporter from the local Indiana paper called and said, “The editor wants to run a special edition on you, Harley. Would you be up for an exclusive interview?”

I agreed, and we set it up for late morning the next day. I couldn’t turn down the reporters who supported me all the way through my career.

An hour after dinner, I finally had to turn the phone off. I needed to pack for Charlotte. My plane was scheduled to leave during game time, so I said goodbye to my three Chattanooga apartment mates, all teammates as well, and they vowed to send me the rest of my stuff when I got settled.

It wasn’t a massive undertaking. After six years of bouncing from team to team, I’d learned how to live lightly. If I had a car to drive to Charlotte, all of my stuff would have fit in the trunk. The rest of my treasured belongings were stuffed in boxes in my parents’ attic back in Indiana.

Hitch Reynolds, one of our assistant coaches and a former player with two months of big league playing time, volunteered to drive me to the airport. I tried to argue with him. “They need you in the game. I can call a cab,” but he wouldn’t back down.

“You’ve been a great asset for the team, Harley, and I owe you a lot. This is the least I can do.”

“What did I do? I just go out there and play the game.”

He said, “You told Aaron when he was the manager that I was one of the best coaches you’d ever met. I think I might have gotten canned when Aaron went to Charlotte if it wasn’t for you.”

I’d almost forgotten. Aaron Beck was the manager at Chattanooga when I arrived from Memphis. He was now the hitting coach in Charlotte. I said, “Oh, man, I didn’t think about seeing Coach Beck again. He’s still there in Charlotte, isn’t he? And Chase, too? It will be a fun reunion.”

Hitch nodded as he kept both hands on the wheel. “Yep, Aaron is there, but remember, Chase had to quit. I think he’s still in Charlotte, though. He’s announcing now for the team on the radio.” Hitch laughed softly. “Remember when he played here in Chattanooga? I never knew if he was the announcer or the center fielder.”

Hitch adopted the sound of a sports announcer’s voice and said, “He slides into home plate, and it’s…it’s…it’s close, but he dropped the ball!” Then Chase would throw his arms up like he was signaling a touchdown and laugh so hard.

I said, “Damn, Chase is the best player I’ve ever known personally. He could do everything, and he always made it look easy. I can’t believe his playing days are already over, but the shattered shoulder…and damn, somebody did it on purpose. I’ll never forget what Chase called me while he was here.”

Hitch asked, “What was that? I don’t know if I know about that.”

“No, it was only in private, but Chase used to call me ‘Mickey.’ He said I could be as good as the best player of all time, and for him, that was Mr. Mantle.”

“Do you agree?”

“Well, hell, I think if I were that good, I’d be in the majors a little earlier than now, don’t you think?”

Hitch shrugged. “Some guys are late bloomers.” He added, “There’s another Ramblers alum there, too, but I think you got to Chattanooga the year after he left.”

“Who’s that?”

“Have you ever heard of Eric Hinsdale?”

“Well, yeah, he’s got my job in Charlotte. When I got the word about being called up, Coach said I’d likely play right field, because Hinsdale was doing such a bang-up job in center. What do you know about him?”

“He’s a good player, and he’s the nicest guy I’ve ever met in baseball.”

Harley raised an eyebrow. “Nice? Is that a good thing?”

“Yeah, he’s like the guy you’d want to date your sister. You know, the one who shows up fifteen minutes early for the date, gives her the sweetest of kisses at the end of the night, and insists they won’t go to bed together until after the wedding. He’s nice.”

I laughed. “Well, hopefully, Eric’s a little more exciting than that. I’ll be tossing the ball back and forth with him for hours if he’s the center fielder. Maybe I can loosen him up a little.”

Hitch said, “Not too loose, buddy. You’ve still got a game to win.”

It was a short flight over the mountains from Chattanooga to Charlotte. It barely lasted an hour. The plane was only half full of passengers, and the flight attendant yawned as I stepped onto the plane. She said, “Oh, excuse me! It’s been a long day. Don’t worry. I’ll be wide awake for the flight.”

“I’m only concerned that the pilot is wide awake.”

I ambled down the center aisle shaking my head. I had a window seat behind the wing. I felt sorry for making an older woman stand so that I could slide into the assigned seat. I thought I heard her knees crack as she rose to her feet.

Leaning my head back, I closed my eyes and hoped I might catch a wink of sleep before the plane hit the ground in Charlotte. Unfortunately, all of my nerves were still firing on full alert.

Five minutes after the plane left the ground, the woman sitting in my row pulled earbuds out of her ears and said, “I hate to bother you, young man, but I know that I’ve seen you somewhere before. I know it’s not the historical society, and you definitely don’t play in my weekly bridge game. Do I look familiar to you?”

I opened one eye. She was leaning across the empty seat between us. I opened the other eye and scanned her weathered face. She was attractive despite the deep wrinkles. She wore a subdued navy blue dress, and her blue-framed glasses matched the deep blue color of the stones in her necklace. She’d obviously lived a long life and had many more years to go.

I said, “I don’t think so. Do you go to baseball games? That’s about the only place you would have seen me hanging out in Chattanooga.”

Her face brightened instantly, and she pointed her index finger at me. “That’s it! You play for the Ramblers, don’t you?”

I felt a flush of red spread across my face. I said, “Guilty. Actually, I ‘m on my way to Charlotte. I got called up by the Yellowjackets.”

She held her hand to her mouth and said, “Oh my! You’re that Donaldson boy, aren’t you? I go to games with my best friend, Eileen. We must see at least half of the Ramblers’ home games every season.”

I smiled. I forgot about sleeping. “Wow, this is excellent. It’s always great to meet our fans. Who’s your favorite player.”

Without hesitation, she said, “Mickey Mantle,” and then she laughed at her own comment. “Oh, I suppose you were asking about the current team. Mr. Mantle always comes up automatically, because I was just a little girl when I went to my first major league game at Yankee Stadium, and Mr. Mantle hit a home run to win the game.”

It was like a ghost hung over my first trip to the big leagues, and it was, “The Mick.” I wondered if I would run into Chase, and he would still call me “Mickey.” I hoped that the ghost of Mickey Mantle would be there when I came up to bat and tell me when to swing. I said, “You’re right, but he was a great player. One of my friends on the team used to…”

She interrupted my comments. “He signed a baseball for me when I went to a game with my girlfriend Juline. It’s sitting on the fireplace mantel at home.” Turning back to me, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m inflicting on you the random musings of an old woman. Congratulations! I’m confident you’ll have a brilliant career, Mr. Donaldson. Please say hello to Mr. O’Rourke when you get there. Eileen still misses him. She said he had the most adorable…”

As her words faded off, she blushed slightly. She was far from the first woman mesmerized by Chase’s body. Unfortunately, he was off limits for them. Rumors flew every which way in the Ramblers locker room when the news arrived from Charlotte that Chase came out as gay.

I said, “Honestly, I’m nervous. I don’t know what to expect. You get used to the minor league grind. It will be a whole new ballgame in Charlotte.”