When I arrived to take a flight to New York for the All-Star game, the airport in San Antonio was filled with reporters waiting for me. I didn’t know why they wanted to talk to me. I read the newspaper articles about Chase coming out. It sounded like he made a brief comment by accident. I read the original article, and I knew that other reporters embellished the initial report and were starting to spin stories out of control.

The night before, Chase called me on the phone from his New York hotel in a panic and said, “I didn’t mean to. It just came out. Now they’re all acting crazy. I know now why some people call the media vultures. Some of them are just waiting to pick at my bones. It’s ugly.”

I reassured him that the buzzing was only temporary. I said, “You’re out now in every way. Isn’t there part of it that feels like a relief? It has to be a good thing in the long run.”

“I suppose it might when it stops feeling like they’re watching everything that I do except when I go to the bathroom. I’m a little worried someone has cameras planted in there, too. I had Mo help me pile both chairs from our hotel room in front of the door. I know that it’s overkill, but it made me feel a little safer. I had to get away from them.”

I said, “I’ll be there tomorrow. I love you, Chase, and I’m proud of you. You might have made the statement by accident, but this needed to happen.”

He grumbled, “I love you, too, but I wish we were on the tropical island with all of the coconuts.”

It didn’t take long for me to figure out why the reporters were hounding me in San Antonio. One of them said, “There’s a rumor spreading that you were Chase O’Rourke’s boyfriend in Charlotte. Is that true? Is that why the Yellowjackets fired you?”

I didn’t want to answer the question, and I couldn’t give a complete answer if I tried. I thought about saying, “Yes, we dated,” but I knew that would only make the reporters dig deeper into the firing question.

I suspected our relationship might have had something to do with losing my job in Charlotte, but I didn’t know for sure. Fanning the fires of speculation sounded a lot like whacking a hornet’s nest with a broomstick. I also thought that it could lead to me earning a negative reputation with the front offices across the league. I wasn’t ready to deal with that kind of fallout.

I did my best to give a non-answer. I said, “Chase and I were colleagues and friends in Charlotte. He’s an outstanding baseball player, and I was happy to be his coach.” My statement didn’t deny our relationship, and it didn’t confirm it either. I added, “That’s all the information I have for you. Now I need to get to my plane.”

The reporters’ voices became more shrill as they asked, “But were you his lover?”

Security personnel butted into the standoff and cleared a path for me to proceed to the security check at the San Antonio airport. I was never more relieved to wait in a long security line.

An older woman standing near me asked, “Were all those reporters after you?”

I said, “Yes, I think they were.”

“Who are you? Are you somebody famous?”

“I’m just a baseball coach. I’m no more important than you are. They think they have a story connected with me, but there is no story there.”

She whispered in my ear, and I found out that she was likely much more important than me. She was a multi-millionaire and the CEO of a well-known local corporation. She said, “I always try to travel on commercial flights in coach. I think it removes some of the barriers between my employees and me.”

I escaped the crush of the press by taking a taxi to the Bronx. They could harass the next arrival at LaGuardia, and meanwhile, I planned to hang out in the neighborhood of Yankee stadium until the game later that night. I tried to call Chase. A few minutes after he failed to answer, he sent me a text message. It read:

I smiled when I read the message and then sighed heavily. I sent a message back asking about getting together.

I groaned at his response.

I decided to bury my frustrations in a massive New York City pastrami sandwich. I finished slathering the rye bread with spicy mustard, and I was ready to take the first bite when my cell phone rang. It was Harv on the other end. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I answered and said, “This better be good. You’re making my pastrami sandwich wait.”

Harv laughed. He said, “I wouldn’t bug you, but one of my favorite reporters here in San Antonio called me. He wants to do a quick interview with you if that’s at all possible.”

“Damn, Harv, no. I just escaped the journalistic mob at LaGuardia. I need some me time before the game tonight.”

Harv wouldn’t take no for an answer. He asked, “Do you trust me, Aaron? This guy is great. He’s sympathetic, and he knows how to cast the best light on his interview subjects. He garners a lot of respect here, and it’s likely in your best interest and the team’s to let him get out ahead of the rest.”

I stared at the pastrami sandwich. I wanted to enjoy food that was bad for me in silence with no judgment and no questions. Unfortunately, that wasn’t my fate. Harv pushed all of the right buttons. I said, “Okay, I can give him twenty minutes on the phone. That’s all, and I get to eat my lunch first.”

“I’ll owe you a big Texas-style steak dinner when you get back to San Antonio,” said Harv. “Can I give him this number? Or do you want to place the call?”

“I’ll trust you on this one. Give him my number, and give me ninety minutes before placing the call. I’ll find somewhere comfortable, and then I’ll talk.”

I finished up my sandwich, and I found a taxi for a ride down to Brooklyn Bridge Park. If I had to talk to a reporter, at least I could see an iconic view of Manhattan at the same time. I stared at the majesty of the Brooklyn Bridge and took three long, deep breaths. I started to run all of the events of the past few days through my head and then stopped myself. I focused on the bridge again to distract my thoughts. It was a tremendous feat of engineering. I looked at the river and then concentrated on the skyscraping buildings of Manhattan. My nerves began to calm down.

The call was punctual. My phone rang precisely ninety minutes after I hung up from the call with Harv.

The reporter’s name was Landis, and before I could ask the question, he said, “Yep, my parents are baseball fanatics, and they named me after the judge. Without the great Kenesaw Mountain Landis, we would likely have missed major league baseball as we know it. They named my sister Melissa, and I’ll let you figure that one out on your own.”

Harv was right about talking to Landis. It was like talking to an old friend. He had encyclopedic knowledge about the game, and he quickly zeroed in on what he wanted to know from me.

I found myself saying, “I am gay. That part is true, but I’m keeping the details of my personal life to myself. I hope you will respect that.”

Landis asked, “Why didn’t you come out earlier? There are other out gay players.”

“I’m not a player. I’m a coach.”

“Does that make a difference?” asked Landis.

“I think it does. We’re in a different power position from the players. There have been plenty of closeted players, coaches, and even umpires in the past, but now we’re in a different ballgame. No one knows what the new rules are. What are the rules of engagement between gay coaches and gay players?”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

I said, “I don’t have a choice. I can’t pretend I’m like a straight man who can walk onto the baseball field and have more than a hundred years of precedent cover my behavior.”

“Can we talk about your age for a moment?” asked Landis.

“Of course we can. In fact, I would be happy to change the topic. Age is an easy one for me.”

“Well, I’ll dispense with the biggest question first. Do you think you’re old enough to have enough life and baseball experience to be a top-level coach? It’s an unprecedented situation. We usually look to guys who have been around the game for decades.”

I rehearsed various answers to the age question in my head almost every day. I said, “I’ve lived baseball from as early as I can remember. My grandfather managed a team to a World Series victory. My uncle has more than a decade of experience managing a minor league team, and my dad had a short minor league playing career, too. I don’t think many men in the game understand baseball better than I do.”

“Are there any advantages to being the same age as and even younger than many of your players?”

“Empathy, Landis. I think far too many people forget about the value of empathy when guiding baseball players or athletes in any sport. I know what they’re going through in their life in general in addition to what’s happening in the stadium. My understanding of the life of someone who is 25 isn’t rooted in what happened to me decades ago. I was 25 just three years back. I know what it’s like.”

As he ended the interview, Landis said, “I want to share a compliment. You’re one of the wisest men I’ve ever spoken to in baseball. I say that with complete honesty and respect.”