By ten o’clock our last lingering co-worker was Shannon, who had hooked up with one of Burt’s business school buddies. Roderick Paterson apparently found the bulimic hipster look a turn-on. Jenna panicked when it was time to go and she couldn’t locate her assistant, but a search of the premises turned up Crack Whore Girl sucking face on the picnic table in the back yard. Her sarcastic tongue was so worn out from wrestling with Roderick’s that she was actually pleasant as we chatted on the front porch. They were the last two guests to leave, shortly after twelve-thirty. Jenny and Burt went up an hour later, leaving me and Rich alone in the gathering dampness. I reached into the cooler and pulled the last two bottles of beer from the lukewarm bath that had once been four bags of ice.

“Guess this’ll have to do it,” I said, handing one to Rich.

“That was a hell of a party, man. Cole and them were great. That worked out perfect.”

“Yeah. Well, except …”

“Okay, except for her. Good riddance. You put up with that shit way too long already.”

“Oh, she’ll be alright. She just needs a couple days to cool off.”

“You really think so?”

“Why not? It’s not like it’s our first fight.”

“Dude, I think it was your last fight. There’s no way you salvage that. Why would you want to?”

I had no answer beyond a weak shrug. Nothing came to me as I twisted the cap off my beer, which held little of the seductive appeal of its predecessors.

“Hate to say it, but I think it’s over,” he said. “If you have even an ounce of manhood left don’t call her again.”

She probably wouldn’t even answer if I did. I’d tried to imagine the call several times already and never got past her machine. Even if she picked up, what the hell could I say? It wasn’t up to me to apologize. And she never would.

“I won’t.”

“You better not. She’s worn your pants long enough.”

“She didn’t ride over me near as much as you make it out.”

“Whatever. Look, if there’s anything there to save, let her make the first move. If she doesn’t, there’s your answer.”

“I know.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that. Don’t make me break your dialing finger.”

“I won’t call her. I promise.”

“Good. Now what was with Emma’s friend there?”

“Who knows? He was kind of a wiener.”

“She grew up with him?”

“Guess so. She said their parents went to college together or something like that. Kid probably doesn’t have any other friends.”

My mind drifted as fatigue set in and our conversation eroded into disjointed one- or two-line exchanges before finally halting altogether. I woke up around four leaning against the porch railing, a half-finished beer pinned between my outstretched legs. I nudged Rich, who had passed out in a rickety papasan chair Burt had rescued from the curb down the street a couple weeks earlier.

“I’m headin’ up, dude.”

“Night,” he mumbled.

When I got up at seven-thirty to use the bathroom his door was closed. I slammed four Advil and went back to bed. Another two hours of sleep was all I could muster. Unwilling to concede, I lingered in bed breathing slowly through my cotton-dry mouth, trying to trick my body into dozing off again. It hurt to open my eyes, move my head, or even think. I gave up on falling back to sleep after forty-five minutes and moved down to the porch. Misery had company in that house Monday. We all moved gingerly, practically tiptoeing about until well after noon, when the collective pain began to subside. It was a short and unproductive day off, and I was relieved when it ended.

It felt so good to wake up sober Tuesday I got up half an hour early. I read the paper and enjoyed a glass of orange juice on the front porch as I waited for Rich. We had an easy week on tap, with a three-game homestand starting Friday. This was payback for the hellish fourteen games in seventeen days that we’d survived earlier in the month. Or so I thought.

Lest we relax too much, Mother Nature opened the skies at irregular intervals. Sonny didn’t mind the rain Tuesday, saying the field could stand a good watering. But by Wednesday afternoon he wasn’t so appreciative when the showers rolled in. We got the call to cover the field shortly after lunch. With six of us and no wind it didn’t take long.

I had just returned to the office trailer when Sonny radioed a second time.

“Guys, hate to say it, but the rain’s passin’ by. I can see a rainbow off in the distance.”

We couldn’t leave the tarp on when the sun came out or it would burn the field, so we filed back down to the diamond. Sonny, Gray, Blake, Carson, Rich, and I went through this drill half a dozen times by Friday night. As we trudged up the hill following one such exercise Friday afternoon I asked Rich why Don never joined in the fun.

He turned toward me, squinting through his left eye, mouth open wide enough I could see a strand of barbecue wedged in the gap created when he chipped his second tooth on my elbow back in junior high. “You’re serious?”

“Well, I know he’s GM, so maybe—”

“Dude, you never noticed anything about the way he walks?”

“Hunh? Not really.”

“He’s got a wooden leg, dumbass.”

“Oh.”

I spied on Don whenever possible that afternoon, searching for any sign of his handicap. His limp was so minor I never would have spotted it if Rich hadn’t said something. There was just a slight shuffle in his right step, because his knee didn’t have much bend to it. As he worked his way back toward his office after opening the gates, he paused briefly to look up beyond the tobacco warehouses across the street. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. We laid the tarp down to a smattering of applause as the rain began to fall. The early-arriving fans congregated under the grandstand roof, speculating whether the storm would pass. It did, momentarily dropping the heat index, which was high for late May, and the game went off without incident. The Bulls topped Frederick 5-2 on Del Kolb’s complete-game gem. We didn’t see many nine-inning efforts out of our starters, but he was so efficient he threw just 102 pitches on the night. His only mistake was a hanging slider that Keys third baseman Eddie Newsome deposited over the left-field fence in the fifth inning.

We took the precaution of covering the field after the game and hit the keg. As he departed, Sonny advised us to head home, because he wanted us back by seven to pull the tarp. That was the first downside I found to living two minutes from the park. We were convenient. My strength sapped from the frequent field maneuvers, I heeded his counsel and left after a couple of wind-down beers. Rich, however, stuck around, taunting me that I had to train my body to handle the rigors of a three-game stand. I heard him come in around two-thirty, after I’d already logged two hours of sleep.

The humidity hung so thick Saturday morning you could feel it brush past your lips when you opened your mouth. There was no breeze, no movement of any kind. My shirt clung to my skin as I sat out on Burt’s ratty chair, waiting while Rich finished in the bathroom. He pushed the screen door open wearing only a pair of running shorts.

“Fuckin’ A, dude.” He pulled a mud-spattered t-shirt over his head. “It’s too early for this shit.”

“Should’a split sooner last night.”

He ignored me and sat down on the top step to pull his sneakers on, having not bothered to unlace them when he kicked them off the night before. When he was dressed we climbed into my truck and headed for the DAP.

The concourse was still a mess from Friday night’s game. Usually the city workers started cleaning before we arrived, but I guess they slept late on the weekends. What a concept. We shuffled down the ramp and onto the field, where Sonny and Spanky leaned up against the rail waiting.

“This it?” Rich asked.

“Yup,” Sonny said. “Gray hadda take his wife to the doctor.”

“What about Fowler or Blake?”

“I ain’t makin’ em drive in for this.”

“Son of a bitch,” Rich said. “Three and a half fucking guys?”

“Hey!” Spanky piped in. “Who you callin’ a half a guy?”

“Cool it, you two,” Sonny chided.

We’d had plenty of practice getting the cover on and off the field all week, but we’d also had at least five guys every time, which was a comfortable minimum for a dry tarp pull. Silently, we fanned out, each grabbing a portion of the edge, slowly trudging across the diamond as we folded the monstrous sheet in half. In the middle, twelve-year-old Spanky lagged behind. Considering we’d have been even worse off without him, everyone remained patient as we waited for him to catch up. Back we walked to grab the crease and pull again, folding it into quarters this time. It got heavier with each pass, but the walk got shorter so it kind of evened out. When the tarp was folded in eighths, we pushed the twenty-five foot corrugated aluminum center pipe into place and began wrapping the plastic cover around it. Rich and I, on the left side, got up a good head of steam, hoping our momentum would make the job easier, but Sonny took a slow-and-steady approach and the roll was uneven almost immediately.

“Slow down,” he barked. “Y’all are messin’ the durn thin’ up.”

We pulled back on our end as Sonny and Spanky pushed forward to straighten their half of the pipe up. See-sawing back and forth, the tarp wound up bloated and unbalanced by the time it was pushed into place against the fence.

“Good enough,” Sonny growled. He was pissed we’d gotten off kilter, but without starting over there wasn’t much that could be done for it now.

I sank to the ground with my back against the tarp, wishing I’d brought something to drink. Rich slumped down next to me. Neither of us spoke for two full minutes.

“I hope it fucking pours tonight,” he said at last, pushing himself up. “At least it’d be worth the trouble then.”

I was in and out of the main office all afternoon, radar watching. You’d think ESPN would be the network of choice in most ballparks, but the TV in Don’s office almost never came off The Weather Channel. It looked like we might be in line for some fireworks. Heavy showers were sweeping up through South Carolina, putting them on track to hit us sometime after opening pitch. Each time I snuck in the office the green blobs on the screen moved a little closer.

Sonny stalked through the concourse around six, hunting for warm bodies to help pull the tarp. No experience required. But the concession stands were down to a skeleton staff already.

“Where in hell is everyone?” he demanded.

“Prom,” said Carson, who leaned against the door to the ticket tower downing his traditional pre-game slice of pizza. “The high school kids are all off.”

I hadn’t realized it, but he was right. The only food workers were the middle-aged women who didn’t miss a game for anything short of a funeral. It had to be a social thing. They only made about fifteen bucks a night.

“So no Peanut?” I asked.

“Nope. Even he got a date.” Carson chomped on his pizza crust. “Mike’s at a wedding. And Aaron—” He started to laugh, triggering a coughing fit. After hacking up a chunk of dough he continued. “That dork Aaron went to the prom with some girl from his church.”

“Isn’t he like twenty-eight?”

“Twenty-nine, actually. He said he never went to his.”

“Dammit,” Sonny cried, recalling us to the crisis at hand. “Lane, see if y’all can line up some volunteers.”

“Where?” I didn’t see anyone idly standing around looking for work.

“I dunno. Work the crowd.”

He stomped away down the hill, leaving me in charge of recruiting. For some reason the first idea that popped into my head was the season-ticket holders. I headed into the stands and scanned the box seats. Give me your aged, your infirm, your suckling babes, and your whatever else it says on the Statue of Liberty. They were all represented. Anyone capable of pulling a tarp, however, was miles away. I rounded up a grand total of one guy, Eric Weeder, an intern at Baseball America who came to the park a couple times a week. Everyone knew it was going to pour so the bleachers were nearly empty. I gave up after twenty minutes and reported to Sonny, who was prepping the mound.

“Dadgummit!” He furiously raked the red clay, his cowboy hat bobbing with each stroke.

“We’ll be all right,” I said. “We’ve got nine, maybe ten guys.”

“T’ain’t enough.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt. “Y’all’ve only seen routine, easy tarp duty. That’s nothin’. This win’ tonight’ll blow your ass right off the field.”

By gametime the southwest sky had darkened to a deep purple, ripe cloud formations stretching up into the heavens like inverted bunches of grapes. Matt Acres was on the hill, and he was dealing. The Keys barely sniffed a pitch in the first, going down quietly, 1-2-3. The Bulls were slightly more successful. Rabbit Waterson beat out a bunt to open the frame, and reached third on a single by Martin Harcourt. But Frederick pitcher Joey Blasingame dug down and got the next three guys on a popup and two strikeouts. The sky grew darker with each passing out, casting an ominous shadow over the game. Frederick finally broke through in the top of the sixth, on back-to-back doubles by Jeremy Tyler and Hector Ulloa. The Bulls trailed 1-0 in the bottom of the inning, with left fielder Luther Hudson at the plate when the rain started falling, popping like cap gun blasts against the dirt on the warning track. The drops were sporadic at first, but huge and hard to ignore.

“Come on, come on,” Sonny muttered, as Hudson stepped out of the box to wipe his bat under his arm pit. “Call the durn game.”

The base umpire split his time between watching the sky and tracking the action on the field. You could tell he wanted to get the game in, but it became increasingly evident it wasn’t going to happen. Blasingame enticed Hudson to ground out and had worked the count to 2-and-2 on shortstop Dain Gregson, when he slipped throwing the next pitch. I figured the plate ump would call time then for sure and usher everyone into the dugouts, but he just ignored it. Frederick’s manager rode him from the top step of the visitor’s dugout, yelling, “Come on, someone’s going to get hurt!” Gordy McNulty gave it to him in stereo from our side of the field.

When Gregson swung through the next pitch he darted off the field looking almost glad he hadn’t gotten on base. By the time Roger Gale stepped up to bat you could barely see him. The first pitch from Blasingame sailed ten feet over everyone, into the screen, finally prompting the umpire to call time. As the Keys cleared off the field, we rushed on pell-mell. Gray and Rich hustled a small cover to the pitcher’s mound, while Spanky and Batboy Eddie battled to get the plate protected. The rest of us began tugging on the big tarp, pulling it back far enough from the fence to drop in behind it. There were only four of us at first, and Weeder had no idea what he was doing, making him almost more of a hindrance. A couple of latecomers straggled into place as we lowered our shoulders and planted our muddy sneakers against the base of the wall.

“Hey, y’all,” a female voice called from my right. “What do I do?”

It was Emma. God love her for picking the worst possible night for tarp initiation.

“Just do what I do,” I yelled above the roar of the storm, as she lined up next to me, leaning into the roll.

The tarp came unrolled kind of wrinkled and crooked, on account of the shitty job we’d done that morning, and you had to watch your step or you could easily trip where it was bunched up. Once the pipe was clear we spaced out, waiting for Rich and the others to get in place. I grabbed a fistful of slippery polyethylene and on Sonny’s command we surged forward. Emma kept up with me pretty well on the first trip. The only casualty was Blake, who lost his footing near first base. We sprinted back across the slick cover for the second pass. The wind picked up and swirled through the bowl of the stadium, drowning out Sonny’s voice though he stood less than twenty yards away.

I lowered my head and dug my fingernails into the tarp as I waited for the line to move. Progress was slow and by the time we got the second section unfolded the infield was so swampy you could have piloted an airboat across it. On the dash back for the last pull, Emma slipped and fell. When I heard her scream I turned, but my feet kept going, the soles of my shoes so caked with infield clay I might as well have been on roller skates. My legs went up, my head went down, and I landed hard on the walkie-talkie in my back pocket. My first thought was I’d broken my right ass cheek. My second was I couldn’t breathe. The rain streaking through the stadium lights mesmerized me as I lay there fighting to catch my wind. I was so wet already it didn’t matter that it was pelting me in the face, falling into my open mouth. It actually felt refreshing. Had Spanky and Emma not begun tugging on my hands I’d have been content to lay there a moment longer. The three of us were the last to reach our places in line for the final run.

“Keep it low!” Sonny yelled. The wind had let up momentarily and I could hear him again. “Don’ let the wind get under it!”

I held the tarp barely off the ground, just behind my knees, and motioned for Emma to do the same. Sonny dropped his arm like a flag at a stock car race and we all bolted forward, making good progress for the first thirty feet. I turned my face away from the driving rain and trained my eyes on the grass, which moved under me at a slower and slower pace until we stopped altogether. Down the line Batboy Eddie had fallen. The tarp soared overhead, filled like the sail on a clipper ship.

“Stop! Stop!” Rich bellowed. But half the crew didn’t hear him until Eddie had been buried.

I left my spot in line to run down and help control the other end. Blake crawled under the tarp and pulled a dazed Eddie out. Of course, he always looked dazed.

“Coño motherfucker,” Rich roared. “Stay on your damn feet.”

Eddie howled as Rich swore at him while trying to corral the flyaway tarp. Once the air got under it like that your best hope was prayer. We overloaded to that half to regain control, and my original side, now manned only by Sonny, Spanky, and Emma, lofted up. It was getting to be a lost cause and we were barely to the pitcher’s mound. Laughter carried up from the Bulls bench, where a handful of players hooted and hollered in the relative shelter of the dugout. Rich unleashed a torrent of obscenities, shaming three of them into helping out. It wasn’t enough. We got the tarp as far as the third base cutout, but it was so heavy with rainwater we couldn’t pull it over the line. Without the players we’d never have even gotten that far. Rich was all for giving it another shot until a flash of lightning lit up the sky overhead, followed almost immediately by a tremendous clap of thunder.

“Everybody off!” Sonny waved his hands toward the side of the field. We scampered across the diamond, ducking into the tunnel, muddy and defeated. Eddie passed around towels borrowed from the Bulls clubhouse, and the guys peeled off their sopping shirts, wringing them out and hanging them over whatever was handy.

“What about me, y’all?” Emma asked. “I need a new shirt.”

I summoned Spanky, whose bangs were so matted against his face he could barely see.

“Spank, I got a job for you. Run up to the souvenir stand and get Emma a dry shirt.”

He clicked his heels together and gave me a salute, then took off into the rain. I knew he’d do it. He’d had a crush on Emma since the day she started.

“He’s so cute,” she cooed.

“The feeling’s mutual. If he were old enough to drive he’d be cruising by your house every night.”

“Ohhhh. Don’t tease him.”

“He likes it.”

“You guys are so mean to him,” Emma whined.

“He loves the attention. He wants to be razzed. He mopes if you ignore him.”

Spanky returned a moment later, holding a rolled up Bulls t-shirt, which he handed over with a smile.

“He’ll help you change, too, if you want,” I said.

Emma blushed, and Spanky kept smiling, like a fourth-grader in love with his teacher. He would have.

“Shut up, Lane,” Emma said. “Where am I gonna change?”

I nodded toward the storage shed. She was in and out of there in fifteen seconds, probably afraid if she took too long someone would pull the door open on her.

The damp radio in my pocket hissed and popped and I heard Don’s static-laced voice. “The umpires have suspended the game. I need some bodies up here before I make the announcement.”

“This is Lane. I’m on my way.”

“Is Carson down there? The ticket office could get hit. He needs to be there. How about Emma?”

“We’re coming.”

I pulled my soaked shirt on and stepped back into the rain, which showed no sign of letting up. Outside of a couple of kids splashing around in the downpour, the crowd was packed into the grandstand or under the awnings in the concourse. When we were in place, Don radioed Nick, who made the announcement.

“Folks, we’re not going to be able to complete tonight’s ballgame. The Bulls will pick up tonight’s game where it left off in the bottom of the sixth, starting at one o’clock tomorrow. That will be followed by a full nine-inning game against these same Frederick Keys. Drive safe and thanks for coming.”

If I had a dollar for every fan who listened closely to his entire message, I might have been able to buy lunch. We were barraged with questions from fans, some irate they hadn’t seen a full game, as if we had any control over the weather. I’d never been so relieved to see the park empty out.

Sunday morning was another early affair, but this time pulling the tarp off the diamond was only an appetizer. The third-base line, which had never been covered, was underwater. The rest of the infield dirt was so soft and muddy my feet sank in up to my socks. I had to lift my knees high on every step just to keep my shoes from getting sucked under. Even the pitcher’s mound and home-plate area begged for attention, because the umpire had waited so long to halt the game. We had six hours to get the field playable, and it was an all-hands-on-duty chore.

There were eight of us out there, marinating in our own sweat as the morning sun turned the waterlogged diamond into a sauna. Normally lazy Blake was the only one with any energy, running around the infield barking orders when Sonny went up to the office to take a call from his wife. In an effort to avoid him I grabbed a squeegee and helped Peanut push water away from the infield. Next we leveled the deep spots in the outfield so the excess would evaporate more quickly. The others dumped bag after bag of dusty Diamond Dry on the field, raking furiously, tamping down earth until the clay firmed up again. In between a few showy tamps, hyperactive Blake was offering tips to everyone. I thought Rich was going to swing a rake at him.

When Emma arrived from church shortly after ten she hauled down a tray of ice-cold Cheerwine that disappeared in a matter of seconds.

“This looks good, y’all,” she said. “I thought it would be worse.”

“You should have seen it three hours ago,” Spanky said. “It was a mess. We’ve been out here—”

“Spanky,” Emma cried as Rich yanked the twelve-year-old’s shorts to the ground from behind. Spanky’s pint-sized unit had sprung to attention in his Fruit of the Looms, betraying his affection for the intern. Emma covered her eyes and turned away as he scrambled to pull up his shorts.

“Asshole,” Spanky screamed, turning to find Rich rolling on the damp ground, his arms wrapped tight over his belly as he laughed. The junior field hand flung himself at his mentor, flailing away blindly as the rest of us cheered like prisoners watching a fight in the yard. Within moments Rich pinned him and made him cry for mercy.

“Oh, let him up,” Emma pleaded. “Y’all are so cruel to him.”

Rich pulled him to his feet and insincerely apologized and we all got back to work.

Neither manager complained when Sonny informed them batting practice was canceled due to field conditions. Half the time they didn’t take it for a day game anyway. By one o’clock the only substandard area remaining was the third-base line, which had been dramatically improved. There’s only so much drying agent you can mix into that surface. It passed the umpires’ inspection and the Keys were waved onto the field for the continuation of Saturday night’s game.

The Bulls trailed 1-0 as Roger Gale stepped into the box, with a one ball, no strike count, and only a few hundred spectators in the stands. The original scheduled time for Sunday’s game was two o’clock, so only fans that knew about the makeup game were there to see Roger slam the first pitch he saw off the center-field wall for a leadoff double. He advanced to third on a passed ball and scored the tying run a minute later when William Durante grounded a single past the second baseman. And that was it. Neither team scored again through the end of regulation. On the plus side, the game moved along quickly. But we were facing a doubleheader and extra innings were the last thing anyone wanted on this steamy ninety-degree day. Mercifully, Dain Gregson ended the affair with a solo homer to lead off the bottom of the tenth, kicking off a thirty-minute intermission.

Outs in the second game came as precious as runs had in the first. The two teams combined to push across nine runs in the first inning, and the floodgates never closed. After storming to a 12-6 lead, Frederick held on for a 14-11 victory in a contest that featured two grand slams, four hit batters, and nine stolen bases, including a swipe of home. But the most impressive statistic of the homestand was the nine tarp pulls, dating back to Wednesday. It wasn’t a record, at least not according to Johnny Layne, who boasted his Gastonia crew had pulled the tarp thirteen times in a four-game series back in July of 1972. Of course, he was known to stretch the truth beyond recognition from time to time, so we might have been within our rights to brag a little.

If you’re interested in reading more, The Greatest Show on Dirt is available in both paperback and ebook formats. Still not sure what it’s all about? Read Ben Hill’s review on MiLB.com.

Here’s some of what he had to say:

The Greatest Show on Dirt chronicles the personal and professional confusion of 20-something protagonist Lane Hamilton as he goes through (some might say “endures”) his first season as a member of the Bulls’ front-office staff. In many respects, it’s a predictable coming-of-age tale, but Bailey’s love for and knowledge of the no-frills and oft-absurd Minor League existence makes The Greatest Show on Dirt a must-read for those interested in (or already familiar with) what life is like at the lower rungs of the professional baseball ladder.

And Bailey certainly knows what he’s writing about. He worked for the Bulls for three seasons (1990-92), and, though a work of fiction, The Greatest Show on Dirt draws heavily on these experiences.

He also has a Q&A there that we did via email about the book and my experiences.

I’ve been fortunate with the coverage the book has gotten to this point. In fact, I’d go as far as saying I’m a lot happier with the press it’s gotten than with the sales figures, which only underscores how challenging marketing is for an indie author, particularly on a first book.

As an enticement to anyone who may be on the fence, I’m offering The Greatest Show on Dirt for just $1.99 in all ebook formats through August 5. All you need to do is go to Smashwords and use the coupon code GU52K. You can then download it for whatever device you have, Kindle, Nook, Kobo, you name it. Feel free to pass it along to anyone you think might enjoy the book, but remember, it’s a limited time offer.

My stresses don’t really rate in comparison to what our troops deployed overseas face every day. I don’t have anyone shooting at me or trying to blow me up on the way in to work every morning. I can hug my son fifty times a day and kiss my wife good night every evening. I’ve got it good. I’ve got it easy. I can’t imagine the stress soldiers face every day, and what it would be like to try to distance oneself from that just to catch some shuteye.

Like me, many service members like to unwind with a good book, something to take them oh so temporarily away from the war zone. As you might imagine, reading material can be tough to come by in Afghanistan, though thanks to a handful of organizations, books and even ereaders are regularly shipped out to appreciative soldiers.

Books for Troops, Inc., is one such group that collects and sends books to troops stationed in Afghanistan. Their primary expense is postage, as anyone who has ever shipped books might expect. The volunteer organization based in Clifton Park, N.Y., has tried promotions such as “adopt-a-box-of-books,” where donors are asked to send $12.50 to help ship a box of 30 books out, and a Kindle raffle to raise money for the cause.

I’m going to put my figurative shoulder to the wheel this month and pledge $1 for every copy of The Greatest Show on Dirt sold in July. That goes the same for paperbacks or ebooks, so even on a $2.99 Kindle copy (or Nook), $1 goes to Books for Troops. Sky’s the limit. If a thousand readers are inspired to buy my book, I’ll have a mighty big check to send Books for Troops, and I’ll be glad to do it.

How you can help: Buy the book. Spread the word. And, of course, if you feel like doing more, go on over to Books for Troops’s website or Facebook page and learn how you can send a donation yourself.

Will it help?

There’s the million- (okay, maybe thousand-) dollar question. Part of my reasoning in initially going with Kindle only was that most other ereaders have apps that will read Kindle ebooks. Anyone with an iPad who wanted to read the book could easily have done so. But … wider distribution means the book will show up in the iApple store, the Kobo store, the Sony store, your local super market, etc.

It can’t hurt and it might help. And at this point I’m also planning for the future, for the next book. It’s time to experiment a little and see what works and what doesn’t.

What hasn’t worked so far? While I’ve had success interacting with readers on Goodreads, I am not impressed with the results of my Goodreads Giveaway, where I offered up eight paper copies of the book to people who would hopefully read and review it. So far of the eight, three have read it, which isn’t horrible until I add that one guy dropped off Goodreads, taking his 5-star ranking with him.

The other five? Well, I’m not holding my breath. I had a feeling almost as soon as it started that many people would put their name in for any giveaway, regardless of their interest in the book. Many of them didn’t have any other baseball or sports books on their shelves. If someone has 500 romance books and no sports books, I’m guessing they’re not really my target audience. I apparently guessed right, because two months later, they’ve not shown any indication that they’ll be reading or reviewing it. Maybe they’re just busy with all the other books they’ve won, but somehow I doubt it.

I’m also not too impressed with my advertising campaign at Goodreads thus far. It’s a week in and I’ve had only 13 clicks, which generated possibly two sales, though I think one of those may have been coincidental timing. I can’t seem to figure out what makes the ad get run and what doesn’t. One day last week it was displayed 19,029 times. Coincidentally, I had nine clicks that day. The other seven days combined it’s only been displayed 17,000 times, with a high of 8,271 and a low of 288. I’m tired already of trying to figure out what impact any changes I make have. Let’s just say I doubt there will be a second campaign for me there.

Durham Bulls Athletic Park

So, I’m back from Durham and still trying to process all of the people I met and places I visited in an action-packed three days. Normally even a long weekend feels like mere moments when I walk back into work the next day, but today at work it actually felt like a week since I’d been there. (That’s a good thing, except for the part where I missed my wife and little boy so much that three days felt like forever.)

The very first thing I did after getting my rental car was drive over to Raleigh to meet the nice folks at Quail Ridge Books & Music. They were the first independent book store to stock The Greatest Show on Dirt, and I definitely wanted to thank them personally. I thanked them financially as well, loading up on a few new books. As fortune would have it, right next door to them in the shopping plaza sits the Go Pack store, so I stocked up on Wolfpack gear for me and my son.

Then it was off to Durham, to visit the Regulator Bookshop, where they’ve sold several copies of the book already and asked me to bring a second batch in. Again, I bought a couple of books (see how this all works out well for the book stores), then I was on my way down Ninth Street and around the corner to the Cosmic Cantina, which hasn’t changed a whit since I moved from Durham in 2001. Okay, the chairs and tables out on the roof were newer, but nothing else.

Friday night I met up with a college buddy, his wife, and a friend of his at the Bulls game at Durham Bulls Athletic Park (a.k.a. the new stadium, even though it opened 17 years ago). Had a great time catching up, while paying next to no attention to what was actually happening on the field. Just happy I didn’t get nailed in the head by a foul ball. Took off during the seventh-inning stretch to meet up with some old friends (and former co-workers with the Bulls) at Satisfaction, where we powered through pizza, beer, and lots of laughs. Was dismayed to see that they had finally painted over the graffiti in the men’s room. It no longer says “King Rice still sucks” on the wall. I was very tempted to find a marker and fix that, but maybe next time. Wound up staying up talking until 3 in the a.m.

Despite the late bedtime, it was up and at ‘em Saturday morning, meeting a friend—and the main reason for the trip, as he was the groom in the wedding I was attending Saturday night—for breakfast. Barely an hour later it was time to meet some friends for lunch (back at Satisfaction), where I was so full I only managed a piece and a half of pizza. Went back to my friend’s house and crashed for a little while, then got all spiffed up for the wedding, where I was reunited with some old friends from Baseball America.

The wedding was at the Museum of Life and Science in north Durham, a really wonderful spot for an outdoor ceremony. We got to tour through the butterfly exhibit and ride on the little train and the weather was absolutely perfect. Left there around 11:15, then went back to my home base and mentioned how hungry I was. Next thing I know, we’re on the way to the Cook Out! up on Hillsborough Road. A cheeseburger, onion rings and a Cheerwine later, my tummy was happy and ready for bed.

Sunday morning started with a post-wedding brunch over at the home of the bride and groom in Durham. At 2:00 I met a writer and photographer for the Technician, the NC State student newspaper, at Durham Athletic Park (the old park) and we talked about my book and the history of the park. We even got a tour of the refurbished clubhouses underneath the stands. From there it was back to the Cosmic Cantina for another quick soft taco and Negra Modelo, then off to the new park for the Bulls game against Charlotte.

View from center field

I bought a ticket in the second level up behind home plate, but moved out to center field when I tracked down Aaron Schoonmaker from WRALSportsFan.com and sat with him and his wife for the rest of the game. We talked about the book, Durham, bad jobs, good jobs, and all kinds of stuff while the game flew past. Really quick game. Ended in two hours and three minutes, which is almost unheard of. Aaron wrote up a review/story today, which is tremendously positive about the book. (Here I must emphasize that we had never met before Sunday, so I think he actually liked the book that much.)

After the game I made a quick stop at Devine’s, the favorite hangout of the main characters in The Greatest Show on Dirt. I wanted to sit outside on the patio, but it started raining, so instead I watched a little more baseball and had some dinner, then headed back to base camp.

Monday morning it was up and out, back to the airport and back home for a happy reunion with my little guy, and later my wife when she got home from work. As much as I love Durham, I’m very happy to be home again. And next time I go, I hope to take the whole family so I’m not shadowed all weekend by the feeling it would be more fun with them there.

Frankly, the free promo days haven’t done much for me. I’ve given away a lot of free downloads, but the Holy Grail of seeing the free promo spin into a jackpot once the book reverts to paid status hasn’t happened. I’ve heard from enough other authors that have ridden the wave to believe it exists, but in mid-April my two-day free trial saw 5,115 copies of The Greatest Show on Dirt downloaded. Once it went back to full price, the bounce was almost nonexistent.

The Kindle lending program has been slightly more successful, with eight borrows so far this month. The payout there depends on how many books were borrowed overall for the month, but average payouts in recent months have ranged from $1.50 to $2 or higher. Not a great deal, but it can add up.

My 90 days ends next week. Now it’s time to decide whether to re-up or branch out. Specifically I’m considering using Barnes & Noble’s PubIt program to make the book available for the Nook. I figure anyone with an Apple tablet of any kind can read Kindle books without any trouble. My question is, what’s the market like for the Nook? I’ve heard conflicting stories from other authors. Some report negligible sales on the Nook, while others feel there is less competition for ebook dollars there, with so many other indie authors tied up in exclusive KDP Select commitments.

Help me sift through all this. Do you use a Kindle, a Nook, or another ereader? If so, which one, and how reliant are you on it? If a book you want to read isn’t available for your device, do you buy the old-fashioned paper version or just skip it?

I did interviews last week with both the N.C. State Technician (student newspaper) and the N.C. State Alumni Association blog Red & White For Life for upcoming stories. And Sunday, Chris Wise wrote about the book on his blog site Watching Durham Bulls Baseball, offering it up as a substitute for Bulls fans going through withdrawal due to the team’s rainout.

Up in my current hometown, Rochester, N.Y., The Greatest Show on Dirt was featured this past week in the Local Authors spotlight of the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle. That hit their web site last Tuesday and ran in the Living section of the paper Sunday.

Last week’s free Kindle download promo resulted in more than 5,000 downloads, putting the book in the Amazon’s Top 100 Free rankings for nearly 24 hours before it shifted back to paid status. With any luck a few of those people might even read the book and write a review.

I spent 40 minutes talking with Glenn McDonald, a correspondent for the N&O, last week. He spun our conversation into a Q&A covering everything from the inspiration for the book to my days working for the Bulls while in college. What ran was actually more about me and my experiences than the book itself, though here’s his summary of the book:

Bailey’s new novel, “The Greatest Show on Dirt,” is packed with fascinating details about life in the old D.A.P. Those were the heady years after the movie “Bull Durham” made the park a destination for baseball fans, and before the team moved to its new upscale digs. The novel depicts one crazy summer in the life of Lane Hamilton, an N.C. State grad who takes a job with the Bulls after getting fired from his going-nowhere sales job at a downtown bank.

Here’s a link to the story on the N&O’s site: N.C. State alum James Bailey’s novel revolves around Durham Bulls

The best baseball novels know how to straddle that line of realism and corny, and made it really about a human situation rather than a “baseball-themed” plot.

As Bailey digs deep into his baseball life here for the landscape, it’s not just believeable, but is easy to imagine as being the starting point for a movie script — even with “Bull Durham” already a classic. Bailey doesn’t use baseball locker-talk for shock value, but keeps the reader moving at the right pace, fully locked and loaded, trying to figure out how this crumbling old minor-league park will somehow expose the secret to life for at least one person who feels disconnected, but it willing to listen to see if if it’s speaking his language.

Be sure to check out the full review, called Rub a little Durham dirt on it, things might feel better. It’s another very positive take, coming a week after Bob D’Angelo of the Tampa Tribune posted his.

Author James Bailey pulls Hamilton and a diverse cast of characters together against the backdrop of historic Durham Athletic Park in his first novel, “The Greatest Show On Dirt,” (Paperback, $12.95, through Amazon.com, $2.99 via Kindle, 244 pages). Even though Bailey worked for the Bulls in Durham from 1990 to 1993, he says this book “is not a thinly disguised memoir.”

“Lane Hamilton is not me,” he writes.

It wouldn’t be a terrible thing if he was.

***

Baseball players (and people who work for baseball organizations), are like anyone else. They make mistakes, have moments of self-doubt and gloom, go to bars and have too much to drink, and have family issues that affect their work. They also have moments of laughter and fun.

Bailey captures all of that in “The Greatest Show on Dirt.” He writes smoothly and introduces the reader to each character through the eyes of Lane Hamilton. And there are some quirky ones, which should be expected from a minor-league baseball franchise.

***

On his website, Bailey writes that he got the idea for a baseball novel when he was coaching Little League baseball in Seattle during the late 1990s. After writing a few chapters, the book remained dormant until 2006, when he resumed working on it.

From what I read, it was worth the wait.

Bob did a lot of homework on this, hitting my web site for background information, picking up tidbits in the acknowledgments, and getting all the details on the characters right. I really appreciate his attention to detail and the review in general. Couldn’t be more pleased. I hope we see more like this.