13

 

After the trophy presentation and the free cake, it was finally time to pack up our stuff and leave the field. On our way to the parking lot, Cathy came running over to me.

“Jack! That was amazing!” The exclamation points were back.

“Thanks. I just got lucky, but thanks.”

“So listen,” Cathy said, twirling her hair with her finger “we’re going over to the Dirty Dog to celebrate! Baxter said it’d be fun if you wanted to come!”

OMG. The Dirty Dog had the best hot dogs and root beer floats in the entire state. And Cathy was welcoming me back into her inner circle. This was too good to be true!

But my dad was already shaking his head.

“Well, this is lousy timing. I just signed you up for that tennis clinic that starts today.”

You have GOT to be kidding me.

“What tennis clinic?”

My dad sighed. “We just talked about this yesterday! You agreed to start trying out some individual sports, so we thought we’d give tennis a try?”

Was he kidding? Since when is saying “whatever” a sign of agreement?

Nana interrupted. “Oh come on, Richard, let the boy have some fun. He just hit the game-winning home run, for God’s sake.”

“It was a pop-up,” I corrected, “but thanks, Nana.”

My mom tried to compromise, as usual. “Can we just go to the Dirty Dog for a little while before tennis?”

My dad glanced at his watch. “Hmm. These lessons are pretty pricey, and every minute counts. Why don’t we just go celebrate after the clinic?”

That was it. That was the moment I realized my dad would never, ever get it. I threw my glove on the ground.

“THE POINT IS NOT TO CELEBRATE AFTER THE CLINIC! THE POINT IS TO CELEBRATE WITH MY TEAMMATES! THE POINT IS TO HAVE FUN LIKE A NORMAL KID!”

Wow. I wasn’t sure where that came from. I’d never really lost it like that before.

It felt good.

“And I don’t like tennis,” I added softly.

No one said a word. Everyone in the whole parking lot was staring at me, waiting to see what I’d do next. I was waiting to see what I’d do next.

But it turned out I wasn’t quite brave enough to take a stand against my father.

(Yet.)

So after a minute, I picked up my glove and walked over to the Billows’s car.

“I can’t go, but thanks anyway.”

“No problem,” said Cathy, who looked at me as if I were a different, more dangerous person.

Baxter smacked my arm. “Great hit, dude.”

“Thanks.”

I walked back over and got in our car. I didn’t look at anyone.

The only one who dared to speak was Nana.

“I don’t like tennis, either,” she said. “I prefer golf.”