Scott Honea, TX
A native Texan, Scott Honea has worked as a journalist, screenwriter, filmmaker and novelist. His films have premiered at festivals like Sundance and SXSW, and his debut novel “Devil in a Sleeping Bag” was called “rich with humor, pathos, excitement, and mystery.” He loves meeting new people and helping them find the voice in their own stories. He lives in Arlington, Texas with his wife and son.
As a StoryTerrace writer, Scott interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know him better by reading his autobiographical anecdote below.
Take Me Out to the Ballgame
It was August of 1988 and it felt like 102 degrees in the back seat of my parents’ minivan. I didn’t mind the heat because we were going to the ballpark, the place where dreams come true. Like the odd duck I had always been (and much to my father’s chagrin), I was wearing the hat and t-shirt for the visiting team.
“You’re probably going to hear some words you haven’t heard before,” my dad joked from the driver’s seat. “Why can’t you just root for the Rangers?”
“Because I like the Tigers,” nine-year-old me responded. “Besides, I think I’ve heard you say most of those words already.”
Dad chuckled, mom leaned into the hot wind rushing through the open passenger window, and on we chugged down a scorching Texas highway.
Somehow, dad snagged first row seats directly behind the visitor’s bullpen. It was magical, the closest I had ever been to the field, but it also left us as sitting ducks for rowdy Rangers fans none too amused by my attire. It didn’t help that the Tigers were getting absolutely destroyed.
As the innings wore on, the beer flowed, and the verbal jabs got worse. Dad chain-smoked Winston cigarettes to ease his nerves, and mom ate ice cream out of a tiny helmet. I couldn’t take my eyes off the field.
Around the 7th inning and with the game well out of hand, Detroit relief pitcher Frank Tanana poked his head out of the bullpen and spotted the only kid wearing a Tigers hat and t-shirt.
“Hey,” he shouted at me. Yes, me. “Give me that ball in your glove.”
A deer in headlights, I somehow managed to retrieve the Rawlings ball out of my freshly-oiled Wilson mitt. I handed it to Frank, who disappeared into the bullpen. Five minutes later he emerged, smiling. “Hey kid, here you go!” He tossed the ball back to me. It was signed — by the entire bullpen!
The Tigers lost badly and I definitely learned some new words on the way back to the parking lot. As the ballpark loomed giant behind us, I gripped the ball in my glove and held it tightly against my chest.
“Let’s do this again sometime.”
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