The mural overhead would have made the 18th Century artist Gainsborough proud with its blue backdrop. The pair of puffy clouds, ship-like in shape, made their way across the canvas sky very slowly. The cumulus appeared to intentionally stall over the stadium below as if they were pausing to take in the activity. Perhaps they had mischievously stolen their way into a game without a ticket to view the minor league teams battle each other. They had perfect seats. And this was a very special day for one player in particular. What they were witnessing was the very first game for a young man who had struggled many years to grab hold of this rung on the ladder. The professional game of baseball was littered with ‘almost made its’ from the college ranks to the major leagues. It’s been said that for a youngster to become a professional baseball player, the odds are one in ten thousand. There were many reasons for failure. Maybe it was the freak injury during a play in the game, or the off-season motor vehicle accident. Perhaps it was the batting slump when all the right people were watching at the worst possible time. The list was endless. It wasn’t just athletic skill for these baseball players. It takes a great deal of fortune, too. For every player that did receive their share of good luck, there are nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine that will suffer disappointment. Under the mostly clear summer sky, Rusty Timmons was still in the midst of finding out which side of the ledger he would find himself. Timmons waited for his turn to bat armed with a thirty-eight ounce piece of lumber made by the Louisville Slugger company. His custom made bats had arrived timely for his initial Triple-A baseball game. He knelt in the dirt on-deck circle, lightly staining the new cloth uniform he’d been issued.

He was chewing ferociously on bubble gum that filled his cheeks. “C’mon Richie,” he yelled from his waiting spot to the right of the player up to bat. His cheering was in part to support his new teammate. But it was also an effort at easing his case of nerves. His father, sister and friends were in the front row to watch his debut. Their seats were even better than the clouds residing above. The manager of the Utica Tigers had inserted Russ Timmons into the lineup to measure his talent against a fiery pitcher. Timmons had spent a lifetime getting to this point. Everyone knew his baseball clock was ticking. At the age of twenty-seven it was no secret in the professional athlete ranks, his real opponent was time in his fight to reach the major leagues. His manager, himself a perennial minor leaguer who never once played in major league parks, had been sympathetic to his efforts. Maybe he could help this young man with his opportunity, perhaps pass the torch to someone that could fulfill the same dream he had had. The player before Timmons lofted a lazy fly ball to the outfield for the second out of the inning. It was easily caught. As the fielder returned the ball to the infield, Timmons took a couple more phantom swings in the on-deck circle before making his way to the batters box.