I toss a heavy scoop of soiled straw into the wheelbarrow, then lean against the shovel while I pull the handkerchief from my back pocket and wipe away sweat from my brow. The stream of faint morning light gets cut off, followed by the gravelly clearing of a mature throat, and I look up to see my dad grabbing the second shovel from the utility hook on the wall.
He sets a dented silver travel mug on the concrete near the corner of the barn before standing and giving me a quiet, warm smile. It’s the kind of look he’s only recently started giving me. I give one back, stripped of the tension that usually defines us.
“Mornin’,” he says, his voice low and still full of sleep.
“Mornin’,” I echo, shifting my shovel so it rests on my shoulder. “You’re up early.”
“Old habits.” He leans the shovel against his body and pulls a pair of work gloves from his pocket, slapping them against his thigh. He glances around the pristine barn, then back to me. “Figured you could use a hand.”
“Appreciate it, but I can handle it, Dad. Go on inside and wake up with the rest of that coffee.” I point the shovel’s tip toward his mug. His body is still, his eyes flitting to his mug then back to me, the weight of that word perhaps hitting him as hard as it did me.Dad.
He doesn’t listen, instead stepping right into the stall next to mine, pitching a heavy clump of bedding into the wheelbarrow.
“I know you can handle it. That’s the thing.”
He works in silence for a second, his movements practiced and fluid, before looking over the wooden partition at me. “I appreciate how you help your mom keep things going around here, Jake. Truly. She has a lot of passions in her life, but family is right at the top of that list.”
I pause, watching him. It is rare to hear him talk about Mom so openly without a layer of defensive armor up. There’s always love in his voice. Well . . . longing, for sure. And regret. But this is a deeper reveal.
“Being able to keep her father’s bar open, maintaining this land, the livestock, the small farm . . . it means everything to your mom,” he continues, his eyes softening as he looks around the property. This is a peek inside just how deeply he understands her. When his gaze comes back to me, his expression is dead serious. “And I know you made that possible. Especially when I wasn’t around.”
A heavy silence settles in the barn, save for the horses shifting in their stalls.
“I should be the one bearing this responsibility, not you,” my dad says, shaking his head. He shuffles closer, offering a look of genuine humility. “So today, let me at least help. And maybe, one of these mornings, sleep in and let me handle it. I’m working hard to mend fences around here, son.”
A little smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. The opening is too good to pass up. “Well, good luck mending the ones with Mom.”
My dad’s head falls back as he lets out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle. “Some fences are more broken than others.”
“And some fences have been run over by trucks and bulls and?—”
“Okay, I get it,” he interrupts, laughing out loud as he waves a gloved hand to cut me off.
We fall back into a comfortable silence, the easy kind that comes from hard physical labor shared between two people. The tension that plagued us for years feels lighter somehow.
After we finish bagging the last of the waste, my dad leans against the stall door and holds his gloves in a fist against his hip. “That was a hell of a game in Little Rock, by the way. I tell you what . . . word is going to get around that you don’t run on Jake McKinney. That cannon was firing.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a surge of pride. I grab a rag to wipe my hands. “Actually . . . I tried that adjustment you suggested at the plate. Standing a little deeper, keeping my stance closed.”
My dad’s chest expands. It’s just a fraction, but I see it. And a quiet, humble pride washes over his face.
“Did you, now?”
His smirk is peeking through.
“Yeah. That’s what led to the triple in the third. It felt right. Smoothest swing I’ve taken in months.”
He nods slowly, trying to play it cool, but I can tell it means the world to him. “Well, you executed it perfectly. That was all you, Jake.”
He’s right. It was. But also, I would be lying if I said his advice wasn’t ruminating through my mind when I prepared for that at-bat. His wisdom always does. Even when I act like it’s the last thing on earth I want to hear.
“Hey, Dad?” I hesitate for a second, then clear my throat. “I was wondering . . . maybe if you have some timeafter our workouts today, you could work with me a little more on my swing?”
My dad gives me a faint, questioning look. “We have a great hitting coach, you know. Kessler knows her stuff.”
“Yeah . . .yeah.I know. And she’s shown me a lot, believe me.” I look down at my boots, then back up, giving him a small smile. “But I kinda like your advice.”
A tender, quiet moment stretches between us, and my dad just nods, his throat moving as he swallows hard. There’s a profound appreciation in his eyes.
