“I set the machine to random. That was a slider,” he says with a chuckle.
“Well fuck, if I knew that?—”
“You think the pitcher’s gonna tell you what he plans to throw? That he’ll holler out, ‘Here comes your curve, Jake.’” My dad’s sarcasm is irritating. It’s also strangely endearing.
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. What am I doing wrong?”
My dad hits pause on the machine control and steps in behind me, kicking my front foot forward a few inches, forcing my stance a bit wider than I’m used to.
“Those legs are McKinney legs. They’re built to hit bombs out of this place, no matter what junk a pitcher throws at you. Use ’em.”
I hold my dad’s gaze for a beat, not sure I’m built quite like he is. The man has years of home run records under his belt. And I see him lifting in the weight room. He might be over forty, but he still outlifts most of us.
I nod when I’m as ready as I’m going to get, and when he backs away, I steady my focus on the pitching machine, paying careful attention to the arm slot it’s mimicking. I read the curveball right away, sink into my quads, and elevate through the ball, launching it to the back of the tunnel at an angle my gut says puts that home run at about four-fifteen.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” my dad says through laughter, clapping as I take another hack. This time, it’s a fastball.
“Hell yeah! Use those tree trunks I gave ya!” He whistles as I lunge into a slider that fools me, but I rally back and nail the next four pitches with hard line drives. My last swingfeels like it could have taken the cover off the ball, and for the first time in my life, I turn around and look my father in the eyes just to check if he’s proud of me. His smirk is subtle, and there’s a camaraderie to it, but there’s pride behind his eyes, too. My chest opens up and I breathe in deep.
We gather up the balls, and I pull my gloves from my hands, ready to call it a day.
“Hey, so . . .” My dad’s voice has a forced casual tone, followed by heavy hesitation. “I’m heading out to see your grandparents. Just a short visit. I need to pick up some mail for your mom that went there by mistake or something. Anyhow . . . you want to tag along?”
I shift my weight and chew on the inside of my cheek, my gaze not quite meeting his yet. My hesitation isn’t about seeing my grandparents, it’s about spending a solid hour trapped in a truck cab with the man standing in front of me. Roddy and I are doing better, sure. But we’re on step one of a multi-step process. Step one means we can actually have a conversation without me wanting to lasso him, drag him behind a horse, and leave him in a ditch. It’s a delicate peace.
“Yeah,” I finally say, rolling my shoulders out. “I owe them a visit. It’s been a while.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in his truck, on the interstate heading into Oklahoma City. The first fifteen minutes are brutal. Just forced small talk about the Tulsa pitching rotation and the humidity levels. But as the city skyline peeks over the horizon, the silence stretches out, getting heavier. I decide to lance the boil.
“Been thinking a lot lately,” I say, staring straight out the windshield.
“Oh yeah? ‘Bout what?”
I mash my lips tight, not sure if I want to have this talk here. Now. When I am in a moving vehicle and a long walk from home. My nostrils flex with a sharp breath, and I glance at my father’s profile. His eyes are wrinkled at the corners from years of squinting at a pitcher and staring in the sun. His jawline is rugged, marred with a scar I watched him earn during a game ten years ago. He threw his mask off and took a cleat to the face as he tagged a runner out at home. He held on for the out, and then the benches cleared.
“I’ve been thinking about how hard it must’ve been for you back then. Faced with following your dream, or, you know . . . staying behind to be a ranch hand for Grandpa Earl. Or running the bar with him.”
My dad goes dead silent. His grip tightens on the steering wheel as his fingers adjust, his jaw setting into that stoic, unreadable expression he always seems to wear when the past gets dragged up. I figure he’s going to shut me down, but then his shoulders drop.
“Jake,” he says softly, his tone thicker than usual. “If things had been different, I would’ve made the choice to stay home and be that man in a heartbeat. There were just . . .” He trails off for a breath, wincing as he stares out at the long stretch of road, his hand rubbing at his chin.
Finally, he finishes. “There were a lot of other messy things in the way.”
He reaches across the console, his big, weathered hand resting heavy on my shoulder. I don’t flinch away this time. I’ve wanted that hand on my shoulder so many times. Ineededit.
“Every family has a little bit of chaos that comes to the top sometimes,” he says, looking over at me for a split second before cutting his eyes back to the road. “You just happened to arrive when that chaos was ready to boil over.And me leaving . . . it’s what made sure everyone stayed safe.”
My pulse quickens, and I lean in, pressing him. “What does that mean? Safe from what?”
I squint at him, trying to understand, but all he does is sigh.
“That time will come, Jake. I promise you it will. But right now, I’m just asking you to trust me. I know I don’t deserve your trust, but son, I’m begging you to. When I say there was never a choice between playing ball and being a dad—beingyourdad? Well, I mean it. I made the hardest decision of my life by walking away, and I took the risk to this family along with me.”
I stare at his profile for a long, quiet mile. The anger that usually flares up in my chest isn’t there. Just a strange, heavy realization that the picture is a hell of a lot bigger than I ever knew. And despite the vice grip the unknown has on my heart, I can seem to give my father his one ask—trust in this.
Finally, I nod. “Okay. But promise you’ll tell me the rest when you can.”
Roddy takes his hand off my shoulder and extends it across the cab. I take it, and we clasp hands—firm, tight, honest.
