of North Carolina high school baseball said, “I believe that’s the first, or maybe the second, time when neither team got a hit!” Roy’s memory was confirmed the next day when the Wilkes-Journal Patriot reported the only other time in state high school history a game ended with no hits by either team was back in 1957 when Clayton beat Apex 1–0.
Ham would always remember Opening Day, 1976, as the no-hitter he lost. Ham walked off the field, disgusted. “Figures,” Ham muttered to himself. “The day I throw a no-hitter; Skeeter throws a perfect game.” Ham walked silently toward the locker room to shower and change. He sure would like another shot at Bobby Skeeter and Sylva High. But Ham knew that could only happen if both teams got deep into the playoffs, and nobody expected Wilkes Central to do that.
When Ham came out of the locker room, Nora was waiting. She knew better than to approach him immediately after the game, especially a game like that. He leaned down and gave her a kiss. She smiled up at him and said simply, “Sorry, Ham.” MacPoochie, the MacPherson dog, was with Nora. Nora brought him to every game since Ham won his first game pitching as a sophomore and MackieP, as they called him, was there. Ham was no more or less superstitious than any other baseball player, but clearly MackieP was a good luck charm. He leaned down and rubbed the German Shepherd’s head. MackieP wagged his tail and licked Ham’s hand.
As he raised up, Ham felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Helluva game, kid.” Ham turned to see Walter Rabb, head coach of the University of North Carolina baseball team. They had met last summer, and Coach Rabb had appeared interested in Ham but did not make him a scholarship offer.
“Thanks Coach. That’s a tough one to take.”
Ignoring Ham for the moment, Rabb turned to Nora and stuck out his hand. “Hello, ma’am. Walter Rabb, University of North Carolina.”
Nora nodded shyly. “I’m Nora.”
Rabb turned back to Ham and smiled. “You had what we call a ‘quality start.’ Hell, it was more than that. You threw a no-hitter!”
Ham shrugged, “Yeah, but we lost the game.”
“I know. I know.” Rabb had a soothing manner. “I’m over here because we’ve got a game tomorrow against Appalachian State, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to watch the marquis Opening Day game in the state of North Carolina.”
Ham knew Rabb was trying to convince Skeeter to play baseball once he got to Chapel Hill; it had been in the papers. He glanced over to the other side of the field and saw Skeeter still surrounded by scouts and fans; his teammates and coaches were waiting patiently for him on the bus.
“Just gettin’ tired of losin’ these Openin’ Day games, Coach.”
“Say, I think you’ve grown a bit since I saw you last summer!” Rabb eyed Ham up and down.
“Yes sir. I grew four inches and gained thirty-five pounds. Mama says Grandpa Dubya did the same thing when he was young,” Ham said.
Rabb whistled. “That a fact? And I think your fastball has picked up a lot of velocity, too.”
“Yes sir. My cousin, Leo Jr., is a highway patrolman. He brung his radar gun over couple of weeks ago and clocked me at ninety-two.”
Rabb smiled. “What were you throwing last year, about eighty-five?”
“Yes sir, at least accordin’ to Leo Jr..”
Coach Rabb also glanced toward the other dugout.
“Look Ham. We’re very interested in you. You’ve grown. You’ve gotten bigger. You’re throwing harder. We just don’t have any scholarship money left; I’ve committed everything for next year. But things change. Kids get drafted out of high school and pass up their scholarships. So if something opens up, you’re going to the top of our list after tonight. You keep pitching like this and you’re going see the offers start pouring in. I’ll stay in touch.”
“Thanks Coach.”
Rabb turned away and began sauntering toward Skeeter. Ham liked Coach Rabb. It seemed like he had been the coach at UNC forever. Ham quickly replayed the brief conversation with Rabb in his head. Would he get college offers to play baseball? Why did he have to wait til his senior year to start growing and throwing harder? He knew a scholarship was probably the only way he could go to college. Not that Thom Jeff couldn’t afford tuition and fees, which at the state school was less than $500 a year—expensive, but certainly doable. But Thom Jeff couldn’t really see the benefit of college for making a living. If Ham had a scholarship—even a partial one—perhaps he (and his mother) could convince his father to shell out the difference.
Ham felt a tug on his sleeve.
He turned to Nora and said, “Let’s get out of here.” They walked over to the Studebaker. Ham had taken it Moore’s garage and had the starter replaced. Ham opened the door for Nora, then folded his large frame into the seat behind the wheel. He coaxed the car to start. He, Nora, and MackieP took off into the chilly evening of the North Carolina Brushy Mountains.
Chapter 4
Ham woke up on the morning after Opening Day to the smell and sound of bacon frying. His left arm was throbbing. It was Saturday. Some Saturdays Ham had to go to the sawmill with Thom Jeff, to “catch up” on sawing logs. Most Saturdays, though, his dad was out looking for the next tract of timber for his sawmill. Even after a night of heavy drinking—which was most Friday and Saturday nights—Thom Jeff was up and out of the house. Ham loved those Saturday mornings when Thom Jeff left early. He got to sleep in til 8:00 a.m. Some mornings he would go fishing or hunting with JC. Some mornings he would lie in bed and listen to Casey Kasem’s “America’s Top Forty” on his transistor radio. Some mornings he would just lie in the bed “simmering,” as Grandma Cornelia called it, thinking about the game the night before or plans for the weekend. This morning he simmered, thinking about the game the night before, but then, in a more reflective mood for some reason, he started thinking about his name.
Thomas Hamilton MacPherson. Ham had asked his mother when he was about eight years old where his name came from. She had a simple answer.
“Hammie, your daddy’s family is a proud family, so the MacPhersons have a tradition of namin’ the first born male after presidents of the United States. Your daddy’s name is Thomas Jefferson, and Grandpa Dubya’s name is George Washington. And you are Thomas Hamilton.”
“What was Grandpa Dubya’s daddy’s name?” the young Ham asked.
“Nobody knows.”
“Grandpa Dubya doesn’t know his own daddy’s name?”
“Well, I reckon he knows it, but he ain’t never told nobody. Dubya’s daddy died right after he was born, so I ‘spect nobody much remembers him anymore,” his mom replied. Then she added, “And if anybody else does know, he’s sworn them to secrecy too. There was, I believe, a Benjamin Franklin MacPherson sometime before that.”
Ham thought how that answer satisfied him for several years, though the mystery of his great-grandfather remained. Then Ham thought about the seventh grade, when he took U.S. history and was required to memorize the presidents’ names up to Teddy Roosevelt. He confronted his mother one morning at breakfast. “Mama, you said we first born MacPhersons was all named after presidents, right?”
“Yes, that’s right Hammie.”
“Well, I’ve been studyin’ up on the presidents.” He then reeled off the names he knew:
“George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, James Monroe, John Quincy Adams, Andrew Jackson, Martin Van Buren, William Henry Harrison, John Tyler, James K. Polk, Zachary Taylor, Millard Fillmore, Franklin Pierce, James Buchanan, Abraham Lincoln, Andrew Johnson, Ulysses S. Grant, Rutherford B. Hayes, James Garfield, Chester A. Arthur, Grover Cleveland, Benjamin Harrison, Grover Cleveland, and William McKinley.”
“Why, Hammie, that’s