Bagdad Strong

We wanted to live in a small town, somewhere with a higher quality of life.

An opportunity brought my wife, Hope, to Bagdad, Arizona for an Environmental Engineering job. On the drive up, the exit was missed and the road carried on into Nothing, AZ. That’s a real place, and it was my first moment of doubt.

After six years, it became impossible to ignore the concentration of talent here.

At first, Bagdad feels small. Isolated. Temporary. Like a place people pass through, not a place they stay.

But that isn’t how Bagdad works.

Bagdad lets everyone try, then quietly watches to see if you can make it here.

It sees more failures than successes, and that’s exactly why “Bagdad Strong” exists.
Nobody says “Phoenix Strong.”
Big cities cannot earn resilience this way. Only towns like this can.

You don’t have to dig deep to see it.

There are too many examples to name.

Everyone knows Wayne Overson’s Little League program, complete with a snack bar run by hardworking folks who feed half the town great food on game nights.

How Dalton Mills coaches high school baseball and football teams to more championship games than they miss. And neither of them stops when practice is over. They show up in their players’ lives for the celebrations, like graduations, and for all the difficult moments too. 

This is a town where Sheri Sandoval’s softball team hangs a championship pennant in the school gym, then she turns around after work to assemble a strong group of coaches, including Chico and Destiny, to help shape the next generation of Bagdadians in Little League. And when opposing coaches have to work late, she sends help from her own team. Winning matters, but this is her town, and all of these kids are part of her community.

That’s how strength takes root here. 

Bagdad is full of incredible talent, but it doesn’t announce itself. It shows up after long shifts. It stays late. It volunteers when it’s already tired.

This is a town where a neighbor like Angel Castro drives two houses over to help drag a 600-pound smoker uphill into your backyard unasked, then comes back later to give you oak wood he cut himself.

It’s a town where kids grow up watching all of these examples.

Where the granddaughters of Hall of Fame Coach Frank Castro, Trysta and Jennie, grow into accomplished bow hunters, and Jennie puts in the work to become the pitcher who wouldn’t quit, all while still making time to play with younger kids at the park.

Where a young Waylon Rockhill goes from Nerf guns at the park to bow hunting, then helps pull off two overtime youth football victories with teammates every bit as committed as he is.

Where people like Toby and Travis from Relic rake up the trash javelina scattered, not because they have to, but because this town is their home.

That same commitment shows up in all the places that keep Bagdad moving.

You’ll see it when you walk into the beautiful Saguaro Point Coffee Shop and someone asks if Zooey is working, because her warmth has become part of the place itself.

You’ll see it on the wall of The Stacked Enchilada, where Liz and Kat’s incredible hand painted mural lives alongside the impressive artwork of Dallas Johnson, turning an already delicious meal into something to be remembered.

You’ll see it Wednesday mornings at Priscilla Buckingham’s farm stand, where homemade sourdough and delicious desserts sit next to carnivore breakfast sandwiches.

You can’t miss it when Ying moves in and decides Bagdad needs a Chinese restaurant, so she opens one out of her kitchen three days a week.

You’ll hear it everytime Brian McBride breaks out his guitar.

That’s Bagdad.

Not loud.
Not polished.
Just steady, capable, and committed.

Bagdad doesn’t promise success. It offers you the chance.
And if you show up, keep showing up, and put the work in, it lets you stay.

That’s why people who make it here don’t leave easily.

You can’t just move to Bagdad.
You have to earn it.

We were fortunate enough to earn our spot on the Bagdad Team and we’ll forever miss and treasure the fifteen years our family spent in this community, our home.