Steal Away Home

Praise for Billy Coffey

During the course of one fateful night—his first game in the Major League—Billy Coffey’s main character, Paul Owen, is confronted by his childhood love, aspirations, and regrets. Baseball fans will love the behind-the-scenes peek into a night game in the Major Leagues, but even non-baseball fans will be pulled into the beauty and tension of Coffey’s writing, the lovely and tragic Blue Ridge Mountain settings, and his compelling characters who make both selfless and heartbreaking choices. This is a powerful story of grief, love, forgiveness, and holy mystery, and I loved it. Billy Coffey is a master storyteller.

—LAUREN DENTON, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE HIDEAWAY

In one evening, a single baseball game, Coffey invites us into a lifetime. With lyrical prose and aching description, we join Owen Cross on a journey of love, loss, faith, the unexpected—and America’s favorite pastime.

—KATHERINE REAY, AUTHOR OF DEAR MR. KNIGHTLEY AND A PORTRAIT OF EMILY PRICE

"As a life-long baseball fan, I’ve always wondered if I’d rather pitch that perfect gem, or hit one out of the park. With lyrical heartfelt prose, plenty of well-timed curveballs, and a father-and-son passion for America’s favorite pastime, Billy Coffey manages to do both in Steal Away Home."

—JAMES MARKERT, AUTHOR OF THE ANGELS’ SHARE

"Poignant and moving, Some Small Magic is a beautiful tale of hope set against the backdrop of small-town Virginia, Tennessee, and finally the town of Fairhope. Coffey writes with purpose, each word set in just the right place, pulling readers into the novel with rich descriptions and full emotion."

—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4 STARS

"Some Small Magic is sweet, terrible, truthful, and breathtaking. Despite the absolutely hopeless conditions of his life and health, Abel believes magic can happen, and with a child’s belief he goes out on a dangerous journey to search for the most wonderful magic of all. In the end, he just might find it."

—BOOK REPORTER.COM

"Unforgettable. Evocative as memory, haunted as the South. Some Small Magic is big story magic written on the heart. Don’t read if you’re not prepared to be broken and awestruck at once."

—TOSCA LEE, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

"On one level, this novel continues a long line of appealing road books, as three adventurers hop trains, scrounge meals, and sleep in barns as they cross the rural South. But Some Small Magic is also a tale of a journey from doubt to faith, and from hardscrabble despair to the highest form of hope. It’s a vivid and compelling read, with characters so alive you expect them to step out of the pages and say hello. The final pages are so beautiful they hurt a little."

—STEPHEN KIERNAN, AUTHOR OF THE CURIOSITY AND THE BAKER’S SECRET

"Rich, vivid language and description make up Coffey’s latest. Bobby’s voice is intense and rich. His flaws cause him to stand out against the colorful characters who surround him. An inventive, intricate plot, cleverly written and filled with humor, There Will Be Stars is a truly engaging, entertaining read."

—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4 STARS

In the first line of the book, Coffey’s hillbilly narrator invites his accidental guest (that would be us, the readers) to ‘come on out of that sun’ and set a spell. The spell is immediate. We are altogether bewitched by the teller, by his lyrical telling, and by the tale itself, whose darkness is infernal . . . Everything is at stake in this battle between good and evil—including the identity of the narrator, revealed at last. To Christians and non-Christians alike, this roaring tale will leave a powerful mark.

—BOOKPAGE ON THE CURSE OF CROW HOLLOW

"Coffey spins a wicked tale . . . [The Curse of Crow Hollow] blends folklore, superstition, and subconscious dread in the vein of Shirley Jackson’s ‘The Lottery.’"

—KIRKUS REVIEWS

An edge-of-your-seat, don’t-read-in-the-dark book with amazing characters . . . Coffey takes readers on a wild roller-coaster ride without ever going over the top.

—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4½ STARS, TOP PICK! ON THE CURSE OF CROW HOLLOW

"Conjures a sense of genteel Southern charm . . . This creepy tale will delight enthusiasts of Tosca Lee’s Demon and other horror stories."

—LIBRARY JOURNAL ON THE CURSE OF CROW HOLLOW

"With lyrical writing and a rich narrative voice, Billy Coffey effortlessly weaves a coming-of-age story into a suspenseful, page-turning novel. In the Heart of the Dark Wood is a beautiful journey that takes the reader down a road filled with Southern gothic characters and settings, perfectly balanced with redemption and triumph of the human spirit."

—MICHAEL MORRIS, AUTHOR OF SLOW WAY HOME AND MAN IN THE BLUE MOON

Coffey pens a coming-of-age story about the tribulations of the heart that is profoundly believable. The dialogues between characters are intensely rewarding to follow, and readers will anticipate the danger ahead; they will not pull away from the novel until it is finished. Suspense and mysteries of spirit make for a winning combination for any reader.

—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4½ STARS, ON IN THE HEART OF THE DARK WOOD

"In Billy Coffey’s The Devil Walks in Mattingly, past misdeeds haunt a husband and wife in a way that blurs the line between the real world and something beyond. The sleepy town of Mattingly, Virginia, recalls Flannery O’Conner with its glimpses of the grotesque and supernatural."

—BOOKPAGE

"Hailing from a small town in the Blue Ridge Mountains, author Billy Coffey has become quite the captivating storyteller, penning three books filled with rich prose and relatable characters. His fourth novel, The Devil Walks in Mattingly, tackles the themes of redemption, guilt, and sin as three people live with the knowledge of what really happen to a young man two decades earlier. The truth threatens to come out as the characters are confronted with consequences and haunted by their memories in a story that will hold your attention until the last page."

—SOUTHERN LIVING

"Billy Coffey is one of the most lyrical writers of our time. His latest work, The Devil Walks in Mattingly, is not a page-turner to be devoured in a one-night frenzy. Instead, it should be valued as a literary delicacy, with each savory syllable sipped slowly. By allowing ourselves to steep in this story, readers are treated to a delightful sensory escape one delicious word at a time. Even then, we leave his imaginary world hungry for more, eager for another serving of Coffey’s tremendous talent."

—JULIE CANTRELL, NEW YORK TIMES AND USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF INTO THE FREE AND WHEN MOUNTAINS MOVE

This inspirational novel of sin and redemption is set in Mattingly, Va., a back-country village where the supernatural is as real as any reality. Coffey has a profound sense of Southern spirituality. His narrative moves the reader from Jake and Kate’s false heaven to a terrible hell, then back again to a glorious grace.

—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY ON THE DEVIL WALKS IN MATTINGLY

[A]n inspirational and atmospheric tale.

—LIBRARY JOURNAL, STARRED REVIEW OF WHEN MOCKINGBIRDS SING

This intriguing read challenges mainstream religious ideas of how God might be revealed to both the devout and the doubtful.

—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY REVIEW OF WHEN MOCKINGBIRDS SING

Readers will appreciate how slim the line is between belief and unbelief, faith and fiction, and love and hate as supplied through this telling story of the human heart always in need of rescue.

—CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES REVIEW OF WHEN MOCKINGBIRDS SING

"Billy Coffey is a minstrel who writes with intense depth of feeling and vibrant, rich description. The characters who live in this book face challenges that stretch the deepest fabric of their beings. You will remember When Mockingbirds Sing long after you finish it."

—ROBERT WHITLOW, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE CHOICE

"When Mockingbirds Sing by Billy Coffey made me realize how often we think we know how God works, when in reality we don’t have a clue. God’s ways are so much more mysterious than we can imagine. Billy Coffey is an author we’re going to be hearing more about. I’ll be looking for his next book!"

—COLLEEN COBLE, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE INN AT OCEAN’S EDGE AND THE HOPE BEACH SERIES

"When Mockingbirds Sing is a mesmerizing tale about believing in the unseen. From the vividly etched small town to the compelling characters—torn between fear and faith—there is much to savor in Coffey’s story."

—BETH WEBB HART, AUTHOR OF MOON OVER EDISTO

"When Mockingbirds Sing is a lovely, dark, fervent tale that grips and won’t let go. At some point, I entered its pages so fully, the sky opened up and gale winds blew outside. It’s that good."

—NICOLE SEITZ, AUTHOR OF SAVING CICADAS AND THE INHERITANCE OF BEAUTY

"Some stories invite you in, but Billy Coffey’s When Mockingbirds Sing grabs you by the collar and embraces you flat out. Beautifully written with characters made of flesh and bone, Coffey haunts you with truth, compelling you to turn the page. His best book yet."

—MARY DEMUTH, AUTHOR OF DAISY CHAIN

An engrossing novel on so many levels. A story of mystery, hope, opening our ears in a way we can truly hear, and the choice of belief. Coffey has penned a captivating tale that will linger with you long after the final page is turned.

—JAMES L. RUBART, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF ROOMS AND THE LONG JOURNEY TO JAKE PALMER ON WHEN MOCKINGBIRDS SING

A modern-day parable featuring a cast of colorful characters, this story begs us all to step into the Maybe and have the faith of a child.

—MARYBETH WHALEN, AUTHOR OF THE GUEST BOOK AND FOUNDER OF SHEREADS.ORG

"Billy Coffey’s When Mockingbirds Sing will touch your heart and stir your soul."

—RICHARD L. MABRY, MD, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF STRESS TEST AND THE PRESCRIPTION FOR TROUBLE SERIES

Other Novels by Billy Coffey

Some Small Magic

There Will Be Stars

The Curse of Crow Hollow

In the Heart of the Dark Wood

The Devil Walks in Mattingly

When Mockingbirds Sing

Paper Angels

Snow Day

Steal Away Home

© 2018 by Billy Coffey

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible. Public domain.

Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

Epub Edition November 2017 ISBN 9780718084455

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Coffey, Billy, author.

Title: Steal away home / Billy Coffey.

Description: Nashville, Tennessee: Thomas Nelson, 2018.

Identifiers: LCCN 2017029802 | ISBN 9780718084448 (softcover)

Subjects: LCSH: Baseball stories. | GSAFD: Christian fiction. | Love stories.

Classification: LCC PS3603.O3165 S74 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017029802

Printed in the United States of America

18  19  20  21  22    LSC    6  5  4  3  2  1

For Dad, who taught me the love of the game.

Contents

Praise for Billy Coffey

Other Novels by Billy Coffey

Author’s Note

Pregame

Top 1

Bottom 1

Top 2

Bottom 2

Top 3

Bottom 3

Top 4

Bottom 4

Top 5

Bottom 5

Top 6

Bottom 6

Top 7

Stretch

Bottom 7

Top 8

Bottom 8

Top 9

Bottom 9

Postgame

Acknowledgments

Discussion Questions

About the Author

Author’s Note

The great thing about writing fiction is that very often you don’t need to make anything up at all, or that whatever needs to be made up can be fit neatly within the folds of reality. There was indeed a baseball game played between the Baltimore Orioles and the New York Yankees on June 5, 2001, followed the next night by a strawberry moon. While certain players and personnel of the Baltimore Orioles have been dramatized, the actual play-by-play is a matter of record.

I can well imagine myself sitting down that night seventeen years ago to watch Jason Johnson and Mike Mussina duel it out under the Yankee Stadium lights, just as I’m sure I stood on my porch the next night to watch that moon rise. Maybe that’s when Owen Cross stood up and began waving in some corner of my subconscious.

But there are times when I’m certain he’s been with me for much longer than that. No writer works from a blank slate. Every character and setting is in some way a reflection of the person who crafts them. That’s been true for all the characters in all of my books. Owen most of all.

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone . . . Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times. They grow out of sports. And there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.

—A. BARTLETT GIAMATTI

What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to feel that they are joined for life . . . to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting?

—GEORGE ELIOT

Pregame

-1-

June 5, 2001

We cross the river when I see in the rearview that the cabbie has something to say to me. His voice carries over the traffic and jackhammering and the bustle of the city: You ain’t got a chance, you know that. Right? My guys, they’ll murder ya.

I meet the old man’s eyes with my own.

Always got your number, he says, spinning the last word in that peculiar northeastern way—numbah. Know why that is?

Luck?

He grins.

The cab trundles on. Across the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge and an East River that seems at rest, its skin a brackish and polluted russet. Onward sits a mass of ball fields laid out in clover patterns. Infields more sand than dirt, grass the color of dying wheat. I think, Nothing can grow here but concrete.

I tip my head at the thin glaze of grime over the window. How far’s it?

Forget about it—Fahgetaboutit—I’ll get you there.

A tangle of brown walls and roofs rises to our right. The cabbie calls it Mott Haven. I see the Harlem River winding like a dirty thread past the maze of cars to our left.

Where’d you get the call from?

Bowie, I tell him.

Yeah? For good?

Only tonight. Cup a coffee, then I’m back.

Well, enjoy it, mister, he says. He’s got me by thirty years at least, but I let it go. Greatest place to be in the greatest city in the world, that’s where we’re headed. I coulda made it. You know? Could be you. He shakes his head. At the memory or the traffic, I cannot know. Then he adds, Knees.

The road dips into what looks like a tunnel, plunging the cab into dim evening. Exhaust trickles through unseen cracks. I wonder how anybody can breathe here. There are no woods. No hills. The only mountains are made of concrete and windows.

Here, coming up on the right. End of the tunnel.

The cab lurches upward toward sunlight. I press my head against the glass and the residue of a hundred hands. Through a copse of trees rises a curved façade of fading stone like a hand reaching heavenward. The size of it. I have never felt so far from home and so close.

Yeah. The cabbie laughs a smoker’s chuckle and tilts the cap back on his head. Watching me while maneuvering among cars. You rubes. Crack me up. Haunted. You know? Whole place. Them ghosts rise up. Seen it a thousand times. October rolls ’round, they come. It’s our year.

The façade winks from sight amid a jumble of buildings and roads and comes once more as we approach the exit ramp. Two words are writ large along the ring of its top, each letter dark blue and capped and spelling a dream. The green sign above the overpass says E 161 St Yankee Stadium Macombs Dam Br Next Right. The cab wheels rightward into the lane. At the curve, the building rises. Here trees and shrubs bloom in the June warmth.

I ask him, You got any idea where I go?

’Round the side, that’s where I’ll take you. You ain’t the first rook I hauled up here. Won’t be the last.

At Ruppert Place he throws the gear to park and nods toward a mass of barricades. Players’ lot’s over there, and that’s their entrance. Should be a guy for you.

I pay him and add a tip. He lays a finger to the bill of his cap. Only the one bag is beside me, a change of clothes and my mitt. I open the door to a heat that steals my breath. The cabbie calls to me from a window he opens halfway.

Good luck. Coulda been me, but you enjoy it. Just watch those ghosts, you hear? They always watching—Dey awlways wahchin.

I’ll do that. Appreciate the ride.

I shut the door and the cab is gone in a yellow blur, the man back to somewhere in the city or back to LaGuardia, another fare and one more dollar made. The sun is high over the stadium. I sling the bag over my shoulder and realize I didn’t pack a toothbrush. Skip, he’d understand. Mom would kill me for it if she were here. Mom’d moider me. But as I take in this place of hallowed ghosts and gods, it is neither Skip nor my mother who fills my thoughts. It is a girl I fear has followed me and a man I know is close.

We made it. I tilt my face to the sun and the blue around it reaching higher and higher. I say, You and me, we’re finally here, but do not know to which one I speak, the girl or the man or both. I settle on both.

-2-

Where the barricades end I am greeted by a grinning man dressed in khaki pants and a white shirt. A lanyard badge bearing the Orioles logo dangles above a blue tie stained with a dollop of yellow mustard.

He shields his eyes from the sun. Owen Cross?

Yessir.

Rick Mills, assistant to the traveling secretary. Welcome. He reaches out a hand that is swallowed to the wrist in my own. Any problems getting here?

Nosir.

Good. Know it’s short notice. He winks at me. Let’s get you settled. Clubhouse is this way, then I’ll take you to see Mike and get your uniform. Flying back tomorrow?

That’s what they told me.

Well, cup of coffee in the Show’s still a cup, he says.

I nod. Sure is.

He leads me down the tunnel and through a door set into the wall that opens into a sprawling carpeted room. Sofas and chairs are set into the center. Lockers ring the sides, each wide enough to fit two people or even three inside. Dangling from wooden hangers affixed to the corners are jerseys bearing the names of players spoken of in the bush leagues with the hushed tones used for royalty. I spot Bobby Kitchen’s jersey hanging near where two wide-screen televisions are set into the wall. The sight of that jersey sends a shiver from my toes to my head. It births an image of home and a childhood now long past, me and Travis Clements and Jeffrey Davis riding our bikes down to the 7–11 and sorting through the Topps and Donruss baseball cards we’d bought, me squealing when I came across one of Country Kitchen himself.

Though a little before noon on the day of a night game, already a few Orioles players are there. They mill about, joking and shuffling a deck of cards before shaking my hand.

Here, Rick says, finger pointing to the last locker in the row. Put you here since it’s just for tonight. You can leave your stuff. Mike wants to see you first off.

I drop my bag onto the metal chair and follow him through the clubhouse to a narrow hallway where a door stands. Manager is stamped on the frosted glass. Rick knuckles the frame and enters, motioning me forward. The man behind a battered metal desk stands to welcome me. Mike Singleton has been the Orioles’ manager five years now, a journeyman outfielder in the seventies whose claim to fame is a ’79 World Series ring and the fact that he collected home runs off four Hall of Fame pitchers during his career.

Thanks for making the trip up, he says.

Thanks for the call.

He sits but doesn’t tell me to join him. Wish I didn’t have to. Hate calling up guys for one game, least of all in June. Hate it more against the Yankees. But our backup catcher’s on bereavement down in Tallahassee with a sick daddy until tomorrow, and, well. He studies me. How old are you, son?

Twenty-nine, I say. Thirty next month, I don’t.

Mike shakes his head.

Rick’ll get you suited up. We got Johnson throwing tonight. Pitchers’ meeting’s in an hour. Doubt you’ll see any action tonight, Carter—

Cross, I tell him.

Mike waves that off as though my name doesn’t matter. You’re insurance, nothing more. Brooksie’s our catcher, and God willin’ he’ll keep in one piece until Lopez gets back tomorrow. You just do what needs done. Meet the guys, enjoy yourself. Get a taste of the Show.

Yessir.

Skip or Mike’ll do.

Yessir.

Rick leads me out and farther down the hall, past the video rooms and where the trainers are already at work on the players who need them. The equipment room is on the end. Scooter, he says. Been with us forever.

I am greeted by an elderly man with a face of white stubble who asks my sizes. Scooter repeats my last name back to me slow, letter by letter, as if Cross could be spelled a dozen ways.

You come back, I’ll have you ready. Take this for now.

He hands me a hat. The fit is good.

Welcome to the Show, he says. You a preference for a number?

Nineteen, if you got it.

Scooter says Nineteen the way he spelled my name to me. Nawp, ain’t anybody using it. That your uni down in Bowie?

Nosir. I swallow hard. Was my daddy’s.

-3-

I get settled and greet a few of the players before sitting in on the pitchers’ meeting. Jason Johnson is there. He is quiet and does not acknowledge me, too focused on the game. Brook Fordyce, our catcher, runs through the strengths and weaknesses of the Yankee hitters. Brooksie lets me sit near the front as he takes over the meeting. It is a mass of numbers and formulas and computer charts mixed with what can only be called superstition—according to the pitching coach, tonight’s moon is near full.

Pitch’m off the plate, he says to Brooksie and Johnson. Keep’m off balance, but make sure to pitch’m low. Full moon makes the balls fly.

A new uniform and a fresh pair of spikes are waiting at my locker when I’m done. Number 19 across the back, Cross in a slow arc above. I change and follow a group of guys down the tunnel toward the dugout. They make fun of my accent, call me Hillbilly. I am informed of the best restaurants close to the hotel and where I can find the best women after the game. It does not matter I’m a seven-year busher. None care I’m here for a cup of coffee. They hold their own memories of sorry hotels and buses stinking with sweat and grime, truck stop food and showers that would leave you howling each time someone flushed a toilet. For this night, I am one of them.

The way is brightened by a wedge of blue sky framed by the tunnel’s end and a section of the right field stands. Sounds reach out like angels calling me home—laughter and shouting, ball meeting leather. I find a spot at the end of the bench as the players separate each unto their own kind, outfielders and infielders and pitchers last. Breathing deep the smell of dirt and grass, the aged wood and steel of a place that until this day existed in my dreams alone.

I stand and walk toward the dugout steps. The new spikes clack against concrete littered with tobacco spit and empty husks of sunflower seeds. Where the field meets the dugout I stop and rest my hand upon the railing. Below me is a straight line of groomed dirt to one side and the dugout to the other. I wonder how many steps I have taken to arrive at this place. Years of fear and doubt and trying flood me, the faces of those I’ve lost along the way, but as I move from dirt to grass so thick and soft my spikes sink to the ankles, I know I belong here.

I have always belonged here.

Most of the veterans along with Mike and the hitting coach are still around when my turn comes for batting practice. They gather with reporters or lean their arms against the netting. I grab a bat and enter the cage with that quiet murmur surrounding me. Taking my stance in the box, setting the bat to hover over my left shoulder.

I think, The Babe stood in this spot. Gehrig. The dirt behind this plate belonged to Yogi and Dickey and Howard and Munson. But where I should look for the pitch, my eyes instead wander to the third deck of stands in the far right. I see my father’s words scrawled on a long-ago note left next to his living room chair and a baseball for me to sign. My eyes pick up the pitch too late. I muscle the swing and catch the ball at the end of the barrel, sending it dribbling along the infield grass before it veers foul in a slow curve. Talk behind me falls to quiet. Heat builds at my back. I cannot bear to turn my head.

The BP pitcher reaches for another ball from a crate of dozens. I tap the plate and remember it’s seventeen inches like Dad said, seventeen whether at the high school field in Camden or at Yankee Stadium, and at the next toss I feel that bubble of eternity building and hear the bat connecting with an echoing crack, the ball arcing high and long out toward right, landing deep in the third deck with an echo against a seat I barely see. Another there, another, chased by early fans wearing the battered gloves of their youth. Now a voice behind me tinged with humor,