Preston T. Kirby, 57, sat in the shade of a weary willow oak, no longer attempting to fan himself with a crumpled program featuring old the Iron Horse, Ivy Maw. The fading sun set the apex of Libby Hill in a scarlet shroud, nearly matching the sagging Rifles banners that loomed like gallows over the distant grandstands.
“I’m glad you’re home,” Preston told his son, who sat uncomfortably on the old bench that had seen perhaps fifty such summers at Libby Hill, beyond the stadium, on the promenade that encircled a war monument to the First Army of Virginia. Preston studied the moss creeping up the granite edifice from the uneven pavement underneath. He patted his son on the knee.
James Kirby, a tall and hawkish young man with a dash of dark curls set upon an even and troubled face, nodded to his father, retrieving a silver pocket watch from his neatly-ironed vest and shifting his weight.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay long,” James answered, setting his features into an apologetic smile and sitting up in the bench.
“One can do worse than taking some time to watch the sun set over Libby Hill,” Preston answered distantly with his own smile, rubbing his cheek and watching a pair of ravens fight over a scrap of tin beyond the monument. “Stay a while.”
“I mean in Richmond,” James answered, snapping the watch shut and returning it to his pocket. He straightened his jacket. “We’re off to the coast, by train. I’m told Virginia Beach is a proper resort these days. Fellows at the Firm claim it’s the next Richmond, with the Norfolk line there now.”
Preston smiled. “There’s only one Richmond.” He looked around with a warm look on his aging face. “Ironic, I know—considering they named the whole place after a hill in England. But I like that. It’s a new England. A new kingdom.”
James sighed softly, seeming not to hear his father. “To be honest, an escape from the city was badly needed. I believe Mira would divorce me on cruelty grounds if I finally agreed to leave Washington only to summer under the only smoke cloud greater than ours.” He nodded to the industrial district, now expanded nearly to the northeastern foot of Libby Hill.
Preston did not answer.
“You should come with us,” James said with a sidelong glance, his polished shoes tapping on the stones. “You could even join us, at the end of the season. It’s weeks away, now.”
“The season ends in September,” Preston replied softly, pressing both of his hands onto the worn brass of his cane and lifting himself. James stood quickly to help his father up, studying him with a thoughtful expression.
“You’re down thirteen games, pop.”
“Twelve and a half.” James handed Preston his hat. “Come, we’ll walk home.”
With a deep inhalation, James shook his head. “For god’s sake, pop, take the damned trolley. Or let me get a cab.”
Preston frowned. “Why?”
“Because you’ve aged twenty years since I visited last June.”
“I marched two hundred miles in a week when I was older than you.” Preston rapped his cane on the monument. “My name’s not on this stone yet.”
James chuckled, despite himself. He touched the tip of his hat with a broad smile as a pair of women in think, white dresses passed.
“I admire your spirit. I really do. But there are some on the Board who are beginning to question if you are fit for the burden of leadership. Let’s not give them anymore excuses.”
Preston frowned and waved his hand in the air. “Tobacco-hawking idiots and coattail-jockey lawyers.”
“I’m a coattail jockey lawyer. And one in your dwindling circle of friends there.”
The pair strolled down the greenery of the promenade, pausing at the southwestern corner of the outfield. Preston lifted his hand and graced the edges of the faded, white paint, a soft smile on his lips as his eyes drifted over the ballpark.
“I remember when you boys played on this field with hardly a patch of green grass to be found. Holes in the outfield the size of craters. Holes in your pants, too.”
“I beg you to hear me,” James answered, a solemnity in his tone. “You’re my father, and I hate those fob-thumping old barons as much as you do. But it’s their money, pop. It’s their team, and it’s their votes. And you don’t even go to the Board meetings anymore.”
“What can I learn in a dim-shaded office downtown that isn’t already here, where the grass grows?”
“The franchise is going to lose one hundred thousand dollars this season. Twice as much as last year. Monroe got seventeen more Democrats in the State House in when you won the Cup, and three Senators. This whole place is just a money factory to him. He’s shut down entire railroads for less than this.”
James gripped the outfield fence with frustration. “I say it with love, pop, the Rifles are a season away from the very bottom of this Division, and likely the league. Your players are too old. Just like you.”
“My intelligent, lawyer son.” Preston nodded and looked to James, a head taller. “So much like your mother.”
“I’m your lawyer. And you’re not taking my advice.”
“What is my lawyer’s advice?”
“Retire. Do it at the end of the season. You’re still the hero of Chancellorsville. Keep your shares and give speeches on First Avenue. Let the Rifles be born again.”
Silence fell upon the pair, and Preston looked to his son like a father might look upon a child bedridden with fever—sympathetic, and full of worried love.
“You’re right.”
James blinked. “I am?”
Preston nodded. “I’m an old man, James. I’m not sure when it happened—but it was slowly, and then all at once.”
“So you’ll retire?”
Preston nodded. “You know, I used to watch you and your brother toss the ball right here, in this spot, when the fence was an old sailing rope. I watched you laugh—watched the light in your eyes when I sent a ball from the bat, watched you reach out as far as your long arms could carry to catch the ball.” He smiled. “That’s how I feel, son. That moment—that joy when you reach for a flying baseball…that’s the Rifles.”
“It was Nate who loved the game,” James answered distantly. “I always felt…well, like I wasn’t made for it.”
“All men are made for baseball.”
James leaned forward on the fence, following his father’s gaze. “There are enough old-timers on the Board for us to influence your replacement. I’ve, ah—made some inquiries. There are several good candidates–”
“I already have my replacement.”
James furrowed, turning to face his father. “Who?”
“You.”
Staring for some time, James tilted his head, humor behind his eyes. When he discerned his father was not joking, his humor turned to disbelief.
“Pop—”
“A Kirby will always lead the Rifles, James. This is our kingdom, here.”
James shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“The Rifles, James—that’s our dream.”
“That’s your dream,” James answered hotly, squaring to his father with a scowl. “Your obsession. It was never mamma’s, it was never Nate’s, despite all the pressure you put on him, and it sure as hell was never mine.”
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“Listen to yourself!” James raised his voice to the point where the circling ravens forgot their quarrels and scattered for quieter ground. “I’m a prominent lawyer in the nation’s capitol. I have a good wife and three children—children who’s names you can’t keep straight, because you never leave this damn field!”
“You’re a good man, and a sharp administrator. It’s never about what we want.”
“No,” James replied, lowering his voice. “I’ve been to every Board meeting. Hours on trains to defend your name against these railroad lackeys—newspapers, politicians, players—meetings you haven’t even shown your face in for years—my own god-damned wife, for Christ’s sake. I’ve held the whole world off for your kingdom.”
James’s tone formed an accusatory hiss, and he pointed a finger at his father’s chest.
“Your coaches hate you. Your players don’t understand you. I’ve balanced your books and kept your decisions from disaster, without complaint. I’m your son, and I love you. But I will not become the next ghost of Libby Hill, sir. I will not do this for you.”
“Alright,” Preston answered softly with a shrug. He looked back toward the field. “I’m sorry.”
James closed his eyes and took a breath. He placed his hands on his hips, under his jacket, but words could not reach him, and he exhaled.
“I love you too, son.”
“What?”
“You said you love me. I love you, too.”
James’s eyes softened.
“Look, let’s just…let’s get the trolley back home. Come to Virginia Beach with us. Play with your grandkids. Get to know Mirabelle, before it’s too late.”
“I’ll stay here, a while.”
Later in his life, James Kirby would often ponder the moment of his father leaning on the outfield fence, watching the ballpark like a mother watches a baptism. The evening air was cool, and the first stars were unfurling above the James River down below.
“Alright, pop.”
Long after dark, Preston Kirby limped his way down the winding cobbles of Libby Hill—ignoring the trolley station altogether. The telegram station was closed, but Preston banged his cane on the window until the closing clerk was forced to open the door and let the old man in.
With a shaking hand, Preston took a silver pen from the half-confused, half-indignant young clerk and penned out an addressee.
LIEUTENANT NATHAN P. KIRBY
2nd REGIMENT, 1st EXPEDITIONARY BRIGADE
CAMP COLUMBIA, CUBA