“Never going to happen,” he responded overconfidently, and I smiled.
Heaven help me.
Epilogue
Eleven Years Later …
All my life, I’d heard Uncle Dean’s stories about what a stud my father was in high school, and how the girls all fawned over him. To be honest, not much was different with me. People always patted my back like I was a f**king champion or something as I walked through the school campus, and this afternoon—a game day—was no different.
Once I reached the locker room, I changed into my baseball gear, ignoring the rest of my teammates while I prepped mentally. Every game day, I followed the same routine: I changed into my gear in silence, refusing to say a word, while I listened to the “warm-up” soundtrack I downloaded blasting in my ears.
Heading out toward the baseball field, I spotted my dad in the bullpen, working with our starting pitcher. Since my dad started coaching the varsity baseball team at my high school, it became the school to attend … especially if you were a pitcher. Which I wasn’t.
My dad had coached all my baseball teams except one since quitting the major leagues. To be honest, I only had vague memories of my dad playing baseball for the Angels. My childhood memories consisted mostly of my dad always being around, not him being on the road playing ball.
I decided when I was just a little tyke that I wanted to be a catcher. Maybe it was all the years of catching for my dad while he pitched balls at me? I didn’t know for sure, but what I did know I was a great catcher. I had an arm like a cannon. Base runners didn’t steal on me, I’d throw them out quicker than shit. Like a rocket launcher was attached to my arm, I’d fire that ball from behind home plate to second base and get them out nine times out of ten. My parents worried about my knees, but I worked hard to keep them strong and flexible. I knew all about what my dad went through when he got hurt in the majors.
Before I stepped into the dugout, I made a visual sweep of the stands and saw my mother was sitting alone on a stadium chair among the growing crowd. Since my cousin Coby was the only freshman who made the junior varsity team and our games overlapped, Uncle Dean and Aunt Melissa missed almost all of mine. Poor Gran and Gramps were forced to split their time between games, meandering back and forth between the two ball fields.
I scanned the crowd for my little sister, Jacey, only to see her talking to some boy who looked a year or two older than her.
Hope to God Dad doesn’t see that.
Dad already had enough heart attacks with Jacey to last a lifetime, starting with her trying to wear makeup like she was twenty instead of ten, and coming down the stairs to go out wearing short shorts and little tank tops. Every time it happened, Dad would stand there with his face all red and his hand over his heart as he ordered her to march right back upstairs to change, while my mom just stood there and laughed.
My parents always got along really well. Every fight I’d ever seen them have always ended with a kiss and my father calling my mother by her pet name, Kitten. I’d find it kind of cute if it didn’t make me want to f**king barf watching my parents make out like teenagers. There were some things you could never un-see.
No one knew why my dad called her Kitten, even though I’d asked about a million times. I couldn’t even look at a kitten without thinking about my mom, which was pretty f**ked up, if you asked me. And don’t get me started on the deal with the quarters, either. I blocked out the real reason they collected them and chose to think about the stupid cutesy stories instead. Do you have any idea how weird it was to grow up thinking that quarters were meant to be put into jars and not spent? I almost had a coronary the first time one of my friends pulled a quarter out of his pocket and deposited it into a vending machine. As a matter of fact, I got a little hysterical, and the principal was forced to call my mom because I refused to calm down. She had to come get me and take me home. To this day, I ask for my change in dimes and nickels. No quarters for me.
No girls either. Unlike my dad, who was apparently some grade-A womanizing badass, I tried to steer clear of girls. They were distracting, and a pain in the ass. I had no idea how my dad got them to leave him alone, but if I so much as kissed a chick, I couldn’t shake her for months. Didn’t f**king need that.
“Chance! Get out here and warm up that arm, son!”
I headed out of the dugout and started tossing the baseball around with a teammate while my mind wandered briefly wandered back to my family. My dad never missed a game once his career ended. My mom, on the other hand, missed some here and there due to her photography jobs. She accepted work when my dad forced her to. He told me he could see it in her eyes when she wanted to cover a story and that we needed to encourage her to go.
More than once, Dad and I had sat on the couch together and informed her that the house wouldn’t burn down, I wouldn’t flunk out of school, Jacey would have her lunch packed and homework done, and we’d eat three meals a day if she left us for a week. We basically had to convince the woman that we would survive in her absence.
Compared to other moms, mine was rare. More often than not, my friends’ moms couldn’t wait to leave the house and not be held accountable for what happened there while they were away. My family, on the other hand, practically shoved my mom out the door every single time. She never wanted to leave us. And to be honest, my dad wasn’t the same when she was gone. He always seemed a little sad, no matter how happy he was with me and my sister.
When both games finally ended, the group of us always gathered at either our house or my uncle’s for dinner; tonight it was our turn. Whenever we’d get together, Gran would rave about how much she loved being surrounded by family, but sometimes I wanted to kill my little cousins. Tonight Uncle Dean’s nine-year-old twins were running around like they were possessed by demons, wanting to put makeup on me and paint my nails.