I was recently down in Virginia Beach on vacation and stopped into a diner one morning for breakfast. It was a fairly typical diner in terms of décor – padded booths, nostalgic posters and photos on the walls (some of them autographed), 3 or 4 middle to older women waitresses, grill sizzling with potatoes and bacon cooking, actual menus instead of QR codes. Rachel and I found a comfortable booth with a window view of Old Virginia Beach Blvd and began the process of choosing our breakfast items. Our waitress, Monica, came by with coffee and to take our order. After she wrote down our eggs and French toast order, she noticed my Island Baseball League hat. “You a baseball player, Mister?” Rachel laughed and awaited my typical speech about baseball and what it meant to me. I obliged her “please don’t be 45 minutes” and gave Monica the short version. “Yes, I mean I was. I played down here in the 1990s. Now I am a baseball writer.” “Mmmm,” said Monica “have you ever heard the story of the Riverwalk Home Run? The ball is in that case right over there.”

Rachel shook her head no, then asked “can we wait until we eat first, then you can play writer?” I nodded and tried not to stare over at the Riverwalk Home Run ball just teasing me right over there on that shelf. It was so close I could almost…no I will wait until after breakfast to read the case inscription and start my mind racing about who hit it, where is the Riverwalk, when was it hit, you know that sort of stuff. Monica didn’t help my anticipation because when the omelets and French toast came out, she chimed in with her version of the story. “Rumor has it that ball was hit into Crawford Creek out of Riverwalk Park. A leftie hit it. Clear out the park. A man was fishing there at the Creek and fished it out. Threw it to a boy riding his bike by the creek, probably coming from the rope swing where the kids hung out. The boy rode the ball and the bike home to his grandpa. They kept it…Ooops I got to help these folks, y’all enjoy now.” I looked at Rachel who reminded me with her eyes that breakfast was first, then baseball stories could happen. I nodded and began to eat.

The food was greasy and delicious and very satisfying. Monica came over to fill our coffee cups one more time and continued her story, without even being prompted by the 1 million questions I potentially had for her. “So they kept it thinking that they would read about someone famous in the paper who played in a game that day. Maybe find the player, present the baseball to him. Get an autograph, that kind of stuff.” I asked Monica one quick question, seeing as though we were technically done with eating. “What year are we talking about?” I asked. Monica thought for a moment, “I think 1923, from what I’ve been told. Anyway, the boy and the grandpa kept the ball, they tried to find who hit it, they were unsuccessful. The boy’s grandpa died but willed the ball to the boy, who kept it on his mantle for decades.” Monica stopped for a moment to look around the diner to see if anyone else needed something. “Then one day, nearly 60 or so years later, when the boy was a grandpa himself, he read a story in the Virginia Beach Breeze about a famous player, a barnstorming player, who hit a mammoth home run into Crawford Creek way, way back in the 1900s and he got very…” Monica left the table and left me hanging.

“Go ahead, I’ll check in with home,” laughed Rachel as she could see I was nearly sweating with anticipation to check out this baseball. I went over to the case, took a look at a baseball that was quite possibly about a century old. Someone had put it in a case from a local little league, maybe the original case was broken or dilapidated from age. There was a small piece of paper next to the baseball case, which read “Riverwalk Home Run Ball, May 12th, 1923. Ernie Branson.” Monica walked by me with a pot of coffee. “Is Ernie Branson the owner of this ball?” I asked. “He was the boy, who became the grandpa. His grandkids still live in Virginia Beach and they donate the ball to us. Ernie used to eat here a lot.” “You wouldn’t happen to know how I can get in contact with them?” I asked hoping for the best. Monica laughed, “turn around and see for yourself.” On the wall leading out of the diner was a huge poster for Ernest Branson Landscaping Services. “Thanks Monica, you have been great.” I said. “No problem, say hi to my nephew for me.”