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My head snaps to Carter. I forgot he was standing beside me.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Why the hell not? It’s your old man.”
Because it’s the worst thing to do before a game.I don’t voice that thought. I shrug instead.
“What if it’s an emergency? Why else would he be calling before a game?”
Because he’s drunk.Because he’s an asshole. Because he hates me. I can list many reasons, and none of them are good. Marty warned me his drinking is worse and it’s starting to affect what little business he still gets. I relent and answer. The last thing I need is Carter getting up in my personal life.
“Hello?”
“You worthless piece of shit. You too good to answer your dad or what?”
I grit my teeth, hoping that Carter didn’t hear his rant. The glance Carter’s way reveals widened eyes, so I guess he had.
“I answered, didn’t I?”
Dad grunts. “You need to get home right now.”
“You know I can’t do that. I’m in the middle of summer league ball.”
“Baseball.” The word spews from his mouth as if it is poisonous. “Quit pussyfooting around. You’re never going anywhere with that. It’s a complete waste of time.”
As his slurred words sink in, I stare across the locker room. To the guys filtering in. To their carefree laughter. Everyone has issues. I’m not alone but damn if I don’t feel isolated.
“Is there a reason for your call?”
“Your brother’s parole is coming up. You need to be home.”
I feel eyes watching me. I remain stoic, trying not to let on that anything is wrong. We do this song and dance every summer. It’s getting fucking old.
“That’s not until the end of August,” I say, irritated. I went home after summer ball my freshman year and arrived late to campus. My coach at Cessna U understood, but I swore I’d never visit the prison again. My presence didn’t help Steve’s case anyway. It’s not like having his dad and brother waiting outside sways the parole board’s mind. But I’ll save that argument for when I don’t have peering eyes on me.
“You ungrateful piece of shit. After everything your brother did for you, the least you can do is be there for him.” Another one of Dad’s tactics he likes to use is guilt. It won’t work, but I need to get off this phone. I have a game to win.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He mumbles, “Such a worthless fuck-up,” before clicking off.
I don’t move, the talk with Jason forgotten. All I can think about is focusing on how I’ve let my entire family down—my brother, Dad, and even Mom.
My mind flashes back to a bowl of Cocoa Puffs.
I had just poured myself a bowl and sat down to eat them when Dad busted through the back door. My five-year-old legs quaked. I could tell by his red face he found the pile of tire rims I knocked over. My brother, Steve, and I were playing capture the flag. He placed the flag on top of a pile of boxes in Dad’s garage. I had to climb them with Steve chasing after me. The flag was within reach when Steve grabbed my ankle. I lost balance and skidded on the boxes. They tumbled over. Steve took off running. I tried to restack the rims, but they were too heavy. I bolted, hoping Dad wouldn’t get too mad.
“You piece of shit. Do you know how much money you cost me?” The vein in Dad’s neck popped and bobbed up and down like it did every time he yelled. He yelled a lot.
“I didn’t do it.” I tried to protest because it wasn’t my fault. Not really. Steve made me do it. He always got me in trouble.
“Don’t lie to me.” He raised his hand for the first time, and I shrunk down in my seat. Before he followed through, Mom walked in the backdoor.
“Phil,” she yelled. “What happened?”
“Your piece of shit son ruined Mrs. Cole’s rims. This is your fault. You coddle him too much.” His fingers wrapped around my arm and squeezed. I let out a whimper, and his grip tightened. Mom moved toward me, but she didn’t tell him to stop. She never stood up for me, but he yelled less when she was around. She placed a hand on Dad’s arm—the one that had a hold of mine.
“Let me get him ready for school, and I’ll take care of it when I get back.”
