One thing I’ve obviously inherited from the man is my stubbornness. He’s wearing his like armor right now, and no matter how blunt I seem to be about not wanting his help, or, well . . . company, he seems hell bent on hanging around. He may as well make himself useful.
“If you’re going to be here, grab the stool and feed the tee balls.” I nudge the coaching stool with the end of my bat. My dad drags it into position, then props the bucket of balls on one knee. I wonder if he imagined this scene the way I did when I was eight years old, teaching myself how to play this fucking game.
He rests a ball on the tee, and I do my best to block him out, lining up my bat and digging my feet into the turf mat before taking a hack. It’s a good crack, a solid barrel to the ball. If only my angry heart wasn’t pounding all the way into my throat, maybe I could enjoy it.
“I heard Coach tell you to let go. You know what that means?” He positions another ball on the tee, and I breathe out a short, snarky laugh.
“Yeah, I understand subtleties and euphemisms. I just want to take a few more swings so I can end on a high note for the day, and then . . .” I waggle my fingers away from my temple. “Poof, I’ll let the day go.”
I grip my bat and dig in, taking a hard swing. I top the ball, bouncing a hard grounder that feels, well, pretty fucking awful. I meet my dad’s gaze, then flit my focus to the tee and nod.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Again,” he says, shaking his head.
“Sorry to disappoint you. We don’t all have the great Roddy McKinney swing,” I mutter, slicing through the ballabout a half second after he places it on the tee. I cut it close on purpose. He doesn’t flinch though. I have a feeling we both have the same style of grudge-holding and temper.
“I’ve never called myself great. Let’s get one fact straight. I don’t have some hero complex. And I own my fuckups,” he says, rolling a ball in his palm before placing it on the tee.
“Yeah? Is that what all the birthday cards were for? You making good?” I chuckle before swinging through the ball again. Solid contact. I toss my bat to the ground and nod toward my dad that I’m done. Mostly, I’m done with this . . . whatever we’re doing.
He heads to the back of the tunnel to gather the few balls I hit, and I pull the tape from my wrists and pull off my batting gloves. His massive hands hold the dozen or so balls as if they’re marbles, and he dumps them into the bucket before straightening up the equipment while I pack up my gear.
I’m about to step out of the tunnel before him, not totally running away, but certainly not lingering to walk with him. I barely leave the cage, though, before his hand grabs my biceps.
“Hey, one sec,” he says.
My gaze drops to his touch. He doesn’t know me well enough to get to do this. His hand falls away. I think he got the message based on my nonverbal cue.
“The birthday cards were all I could think to do. No, actually, they were because I was a fucking chicken shit. There. That’s what I am, what I was. I sent my son cards from local drug stores from wherever market I was in because I was too chicken to pick up the phone. And by the time I manned up enough to show my face around your mom’s house, you were the man of the house. And you hadevery right to blow me off the way you did during my visits.”
“Two visits, Roddy. You visited me twice. You didn’t even show up for my fucking graduation.” I stare my father in the eyes, and he lets out a slow breath, his lips mashed as if he’s not certain how to respond to the truth.
I shrug.
“Thing is, I’m fine. I’m over it. And I’ll figure out how to do this on my own, so just . . . quit trying so hard. Maybe just . . .let go.”
I pat his shoulder with my own heavy palm, and his gaze drops to my brief touch. His eyes remain fixed on the spot as I back away. I turn my back to him and toss my gear bag over my shoulder.
I make it a dozen steps before he utters, “I can’t let it go, Jake. You’re my son, and I love you, and I will never, ever let any of this go. Even if the whole damn thing is my fault.”
I don’t pause. Instead I continue my route to the clubhouse. Stopping would give his words weight, and they hit me hard enough without mutual dramatics. I hate that he’s here. But more than that, I hate that there is still this little boy buried deep inside me who wanted to stick around in that tunnel and take a few more swings just so he could watch.
FOUR
CAMPBELL
The evening air has a bite to it, but nobody in this stadium seems to care. It’s opening weekend in Sweetwater, and when it isn’t college football season around here, baseball is literally the only game in town.
The seats are packed, a sea of faded orange and navy blue caps vibrating with a special kind of energy. Hotels are full. Families drove to this small, special place from the bigger cities to the north.
Kevin wants me to work on getting a turnout like this every weekend, but there’s something special about the firstrealgame of the year that will be hard to recreate. No coaches sitting in folding chairs outside of the dugouts without repercussions from the umps; caps on mound visits to tweak a rookie’s arm slot and speed to the plate. By now, it’s time to see which of these boys can fly on their own, and who might benefit from the extra spring games down in Double A.
I pull my Mavericks zip-up hoodie tighter around my shoulders, my tablet clutched against my chest like a shieldfrom the sudden steady wind. Nobody’s hitting it out in this, but those of us camped over here beyond the home dugout are bound to get a lot of foul balls. I should be thrilled with tonight’s turnout. The gate numbers are up two hundred percent from last season’s opener. And I managed to get the local radio station to actually broadcast live instead of playing the game on delay an hour after the final out. Who’s tuning in late at night to be slow-rolled the results of a game they either got updated about on their phones or heard the final score from a neighbor? Small towns fascinate me.
I’ve done great work during my short time here, and I’m proud of the strong start. But my stomach has been tied in a series of inescapable knots ever since Kevin stopped in and upped the stakes with the whole selling the team bit. Add in my morning phone call from dear old Dad reminding me that my spot with his firm is waiting for me when I’m ready to “give up my little hobby and take on a real job,” and it’s no wonder my stomach is all cinched up again.
I slouch back in my seat, propping my sneaker-clad feet on the cupholder so I can rest my tablet on my thighs. I like keeping my notes in here along with the stat tools the team populates. A lot of the baseball reporters come from the good-old-boys club, and I’ve learned the best way to keep them from talking down to me at pressers is by knowing more than they do. So I study—everything
I tap open my notes for Roddy and set my eyes on the big guy as he slides his mask down and takes his place behind the plate. He pounds his mitt a few times and nods toward Hunter Reddick, the easiest story to sell out here. Hunter’s a number one draft pick. Landing one of those on my first assignment with this organization was a stroke of luck. Plus, so far, the kid’s been phenomenal with the media. He’s personable. Downright charming, actually.
