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“Okay fine. I’m out of ideas. What I’d really like to do is just kick him off the team.”
Not that I necessarily have the authority to do so. I’m sure a decision like that rests with Rush, not with a part-time coach.
“And what do you think would happen then? To this kid who is already so angry.”
“He’d…be angry somewhere else?”
“Probably, and he wouldn’t have his one outlet—baseball—to help him.”
I’ve never thought about it that way, like Justin is a kid I need to think about outside of just how he does at baseball. I mean, I’ve never assumed any of my coaches have thought about me that way.
Although, I guess that’s not entirely true. Coach G might have ridden my ass, but he was always asking how school was going, how my girlfriend was, if everything was good at home. My assumption was that he didn’t want those things fucking with baseball, that he was checking in to make sure I was keeping my nose clean. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe he did care about me on a personal level, and I just assumed he was a disconnected old guy with nothing important in his life besides coaching.
I wince. I know I was a good kid, but every so often, I’ll think back on something from my youth and realize how self-centered I was. Or maybe…just how young I was.
It’s what I’ve been telling Justin, isn’t it? You don’t know what you don’t know, and when you’re young, you think you know it all. You think you understand the way everyone sees the world because you only know one way to see it yourself. It takes some growing up to realize just how wrong you are.
“So then…what would you suggest?” I ask, deciding to take advantage of the man sitting next to me and his 59 years of life experience. “For how to approach Justin.”
“Well, maybe try to look at Justin’s anger as a ball of flames,” he says, flicking on his blinker as we exit the freeway onto the road that will take us winding through the mountains. “What he needs is a good dunk in a pool, not fuel added on the fire. Someone to help him learn how to cool that anger. Which—to be fair—is not easy to do.”
I nod, knowing he’s right. When I consider what else Rush shared with me about Justin—that his dad’s not around—it’s easy to deduce that the only way he’s learned to deal with his frustration is through anger.
“Hey, you don’t happen to know Justin’s mom, do you? Her last name is Chisholm.”
Dad thinks about it for a second, probably running through a mental list of town residents, though it’s likely he doesn’t know everyone.
“I don’t think so, but maybe your mother does. Why?”
I shrug. “Rush said Justin’s dad bounced out on him when he was younger and I’ve been thinking a little bit about what his situation at home might be like. Just wondering if you knew anything about his mom.”
Dad shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell, but you should definitely ask your mom. That woman’s brain is like a rolodex.”
I nod, my mind beginning to consider different ideas for how to approach Justin, or even Justin’s mom. I consider how I might be able to metaphorically dunk Justin in a pool to help him cool some of that anger. I’m going to be in town at least through the holidays, and while three months working with a kid probably isn’t enough to change them dramatically, maybe I can help nudge him in the right direction.
We drive for another hour, our conversation steering away from the difficult topical points we’ve hit on so far and instead leading toward easier things. Just as we pull into town, something occurs to me, and I look at my dad.
“Hey, what’s a rolodex?”
He just laughs.
“Nice hit, Ruben!” I shout, watching as the ball drops into Palmer’s glove in right field.
This kid has been working hard on improving his swing over the past few weeks—extra time in the batting cages, listening intently to coach critique—and it’s already starting to pay off. When we had our first conversation earlier this month, it was clear he had a lot of work to do. His timing was good, but his stance was off and his swing needed a lot of work. When I made some suggestions right then, he implemented them immediately, and it was actually pretty astounding how much of a change there was after just a few swings.
Now, a few weeks later, it feels like I’m looking at a completely different hitter. Some time working on his muscles to build up strength and the kid is going to be a big player during the spring season. I can just feel it.
Ruben grins at me, but the moment is shot to hell when Justin speaks from where he’s standing off to the side, waiting for his turn.
“I don’t know what you’re celebrating. That would have been an out.”
The grin on Ruben’s face dims slightly, and I sigh, scratching at the stubble on my face.
“Justin, does the word teammate mean anything to you?” I look over at where he’s standing with his bat on his shoulders and his arms looped over it.
So arrogant. So full of himself.
“Because when you’re on a team, you encourage each other. Or have you forgotten all the lessons we learn in Little League?”
