Chapter Text
I've been fleeing the Midwest for seventeen years. I can't truly say that I was born and raised in North Dakota, but it makes the most sense geographically. I realized these feelings at a young age, and from then on, I rejected all that the Midwest stood for.
The people who raised me were farmers: Shiftless, aimless farmers. I was always set on improving myself, not out of a desire to be better, but out of contempt for their life. It was unfathomable to me that anybody would accept that way of living.
On August 12th, 1906, my father explained with careful detail that our family would be moving out of state. I took it upon myself to mark that as the start of something new. After our conversation had drawn out, I checked under my mattress to retrieve a stolen book. I wrote down a plan that I promised myself I'd follow.
I was always thinking of advancing myself and my mind. That was one of my only natural talents—wanting to be something. I knew that one day, I'd pick a place to start anew and reinvent myself as the man I saw myself as in my dreams—those tumultuous dreams that haunted me at night, grabbed me by the collar, and whispered, "Come find me."
We took a train the following week, destined for St. Paul, Minnesota. I hardly knew about the place, so it was an interesting adventure to travel slightly east. Of course, I couldn't truly call it 'The East,’ but it was a refreshing reminder of what was to come. A gentle reminder that, one day far in the future, I would leave it all behind. All the memories of empty days and freezing nights would be abandoned, along with my association with them.
My father implored me to go spend time with the other children of the neighborhood. He tried to mask it as a genuine concern, but I'd known him long enough to know he was just trying to get rid of me. Regardless, I wanted to get to know who I'd be surrounding myself with if this were in fact a permanent move.
I wandered aimlessly until I found a decently sized group of children around my age. They yelled at each other, swung bats against the backdrop of the cloudless sky, and ran until their clothes were stained with dirt. I watched from afar. I was usually confident in meeting others, but something about this felt different. I recalled what my mother once told me: "Boys can be so cruel." The players rotated from swinging and catching, but one boy refused to indulge. Rather, he stood on the sidelines, writing down plays.
As soon as I gained the courage to—it didn't take very long—I went and stood beside him. He hadn't paid any mind to the people, instead focusing intently on the ball as it exchanged hands.
"What are you so focused on?" I asked innocently. I tried to make conversation, but he seemed to be lost within the game. He hummed, lifted his pencil, then added a new sentence. He seemed to take his writing very seriously.
"Hold on, let me— Oh, come on, you had that!" He barely looked at me. I looked down at his journal, trying to read what he wrote. I made out some of the words, 'run' and 'home', and 'away'.
I tilted my head. He went quiet again, this time for much longer. I decided not to say anything, as I didn't want to embarrass myself further.
"I'm keeping a record," he said after a moment of hesitation.
"What for?"
"So we can get better, obviously," he said carelessly.
I leaned in attentively. I didn't entirely get the premise, but it sounded like a smart thing to do.
"Does it help?"
He stared at me and mumbled, "They don't really read it." He shifted his stance uncomfortably. I didn't understand what he was getting at, but I let it drift by me.
"I'm James," I said suddenly. In my effort to understand the privy activities of normal teenage boys, I forgot my manners entirely.
"Nick," he replied, not looking up. He scribbled out a few words in his journal and replaced them. "Thought he had it," he said lowly.
"Sorry?"
"I said my name is Nick."
While his brevity irritated me, his demeanor intrigued me. I refused to respond any further, unless he had spoken to me, which he didn't. Instead, I decided to sit with him for the rest of the game and watched him continue to write, though I didn't really understand what he was writing.
The sun set and the other children began to disperse, but he stayed for a while even when there was no one left. He continued to write, and why I continued to watch him, I don't know. Something was enticing about his intense focus.
He left without another word that night, but I knew he'd be there again, soon. There was this mysterious quality about him, something that went unspoken. It was this inexplicable way of being that made him stand out from the rest.
I visited the field as often as I could. The next day I went, Nick wasn't there, but I was determined to see him again.
The day after that, a Wednesday, I came around the same time he did the two previous days, and to my satisfaction, I saw the dark-haired boy, notebook in hand, silently jotting down each yell, run, or catch. Sometimes, he whispered a slight, "That's it," or "You can do better than that."
I didn't say anything. As if he were a stray farm cat, I kept my distance, for I didn't want to startle him. It was awkward for a while. The silence grew uncomfortable; I could tell, or, at least, I'd hoped he wanted to greet me, but it had been far too long since I initially sat next to him and it hung in the air.
"Hey, James." He finally said. It caught me off guard, especially the use of my name. I didn't expect him to recognize me, let alone remember something as trivial as my name.
"Didn't see you there," he added after a small pause.
"Are you writing about the game again?"
"Sorta, yeah. I keep track for our team."
"How does it work?"
"The- The record-keeping?"
I gestured vaguely to the field. "All of it," I laughed.
"Well, I can't just explain it to you. You just have to watch. It'll come to you."
"Sure," I nodded. I squinted and looked towards the field. A boy slid and caught the ball, to which Nick responded with a loud, "Right!"
"Is that good?"
"We're winning," he smiled.