“There’s a phone call for you!” a voice from the front of the shop yelled.

“Take a number, I’ll call ‘em back.”

“I think you need to take this one.”

He poked his head out from under the limousine he was working on. “Who is it?”

“The Yuma Arroyos.”

“The what?”

“Your old team, dad. Yuma.”

“I played for the Bulldozers, not … whatever you said.”

“They changed their name.”

“Did they?”

His son nodded.

“Okay, I’m coming.”

He crawled out from beneath the limo, wiping his hands on the towel he always carried in his back pocket, and walked across the shop floor to where his son was holding the phone.

“Yeah? This is Rod Johnson.”

“Hot Rod Johnson?” a female voice asked.

He laughed. “Ain’t been called that in, oh, twenty years.”

“Eighteen, to be precise. You retired in 2023.”

“Who is this?”

“Roberta Tipitina, I’m the—”

“Roberta?!? The sexy secretary for the Bulldozers?”

The voice on the other end seemed to chuckle, or gasp for air maybe, before saying, “I don’t know how sexy, but, yes, I was—”

“Oh, you were plenty sexy back then. I remember. Whoa! So what’re you … you’re not still the Bulldozer secretary, surely?”

“Hell no—and we’re the Arroyos now.”

“The what?”

“Arroyos, it’s Spanish for a dry riverbed or ravine, and—”

“Dry riverbed! What kinda name is that for a ball club?”

“Perhaps one befitting our success, or lack thereof.”

“Yeah, I saw, I mean, I heard or … So what happened?”

“Oh, you know, some bad draft picks and worse trades combined with terrible luck and miserable finances. We sort of slipped south and never recovered.”

“I meant, what happened with the name? What was wrong with Bulldozers?”

“Besides its association with a losing team? Nothing.”

“So who—I mean, why the change?”

“New owner wanted a new image so he ran a contest, came up with Arroyos.”

“You’re kidding. The fans chose Arroyos? That’s hard to believe.”

“Well, that’s not the whole story, of course. But the rest of it will have to wait. We’ll have plenty of time reminisce if you accept our offer.”

“Offer?”

“Yes, I’m calling, Rod, to offer you a position coaching in Yuma’s minor league system. And if you do as well as we expect you will, we will promote you as quickly as we can to the majors. We want to have you back in Yuma with us.”

There was silence from Rod’s end of the line.

“Rod? Did you hear me?”

“A coach, huh?”

“Hitting coach.”

“Hitting coach. Well, well, well. That’s something I’d always thought about.”

“We thought you might be interested.”

“But the years go by with no phone call, so you just sort of give up on that pipe dream.”

“No dream now. The offer is real. We want you back with the organization. Your experience, your joyous style of play, could be a real plus for our youngsters.”

“‘Joyous style of play!’” Rod laughed. “That’s a good one. Is that how you refer to my wild drinking days and crazy behavior on the field?”

“We recognize you were undisciplined, but we valued your enthusiasm.”

“Undisciplined, huh? That’s a fancy word for crazy, I guess.”

“Oh no, Rod, the real craziness in Yuma belonged to someone else. You might remember.”

“Oh yeah, he was kinda … How’s he doing? Still in the nut—that hospital?”

“No, he got out finally, came back here, still serves as an advisor, helps me out when I need it.”

“A secretary’s assistant? That’s a mighty fall for—”

“I’m not the secretary anymore, Rod.”

“Oh. So … what are you?”

“General Manager.”

Rod whistled. “Holy cow! I mean, that’s like … I don’t know. Maybe—”

“Rod! Whatever you say, just don’t say it’s not a woman’s job.”

“Oh. Well yeah, I mean … I wasn’t gonna say that. Ma’am.”

“Okay,” Roberta chuckled, “you can cut the ma’am crap, I’m still Roberta. And what I want to know is whether you’re interested in getting back into baseball, Rod.”

There was a long silence.

“Are you?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am—uh, Roberta. I dream about little else. When do you want me and where?”

“Good man. Welcome aboard. My secretary will send you all the details, but so you can make plans with your family and all, we’d like to see you in Yuma a few days before Spring Training. Just to go over the details and give you a proper welcome back. Sound okay?”

“Better than okay, ma’—Roberta.”

“If the contract the secretary mails you isn’t good enough, Rod, just say so. We’ll make it right. Welcome back, Rod.”

“Thank you … Roberta.”

When he hung up the phone, he just stood there, staring out the window at the front of the store. He didn’t see the traffic going by, he didn’t even notice the Baskin Robins opening up across the street. All he saw was the window itself, with his name spelled backwards across the glass, and all he could think was, What am I going to do with a body shop in New Jersey when I move back to Yuma … or wherever they post me?

Where will they post me?

“Heh, Robby,” he called to his son, “can you find the location of all the minor league teams in the Yuma Bull—uh, Arroyo organization on the internet?”

“Easy peasy,” his son said. “Why?”

“Oh, well,” Rod looked around for an excuse to avoid explaining this sudden change in life to his son before he even discussed it with his wife. “Baskin Robbins just opened, you want a shake?”

“Isn’t mom making lunch for us today?”

“Probably … very likely, but I’m gonna need a little something special to get through this morning. Want anything?”

Robby started to say no, but his dad was gone, jogging across the street, oblivious to traffic, with an energy his son hadn’t seen in his father’s step in years.