According to the divorce papers, Dick has shared custody of the kids. The weekends are supposed to be his. At first, Caroline insisted they comply because she wanted time with Pete, but it became such a battle that eventually she relented. Dick didn’t force the issue. The few weekends Kiley and Jim were forced to be with him were dismal, two days of silent disdain from Kiley and visible boredom from Jim interspersed with bursts of vile sibling warfare. He’s not sure where he failed as a father, but it’s obvious, somewhere along the line, he became a nuisance his kids want nothing to do with. Maybe he worked too much. Maybe Caroline poisoned them against him. All he knows is it wasn’t only his marriage he lost when Caroline chose to end things, it was his place in the family.
But at least he still has baseball.
“Hey, buddy, ready to go?”
Jim shrugs, but his crisp uniform and freshly oiled glove suggest he’s been preparing for the game for hours. He throws his bat bag in the back of the Volvo and climbs into the backseat.
“Did you see Mike last night?” Dick asks.
A slight nod in the rearview mirror, but he says nothing.
“That was three seventy-seven,” Dick says, baiting him.
Jim bites, “No, it was three seventy-eight. He got a walk-off Monday.”
“Oh, that’s right. Forgot about that one. So you think he’ll break five hundred?”
“If the suckers pitch to him. The cowards don’t even give him a chance half the time.”
Dick doesn’t like the language and thinks the comment sounds a lot like Pete but keeps the thought to himself. At least Jim’s talking to him. Or he was. Jim has turned back to the window, and Dick feels his stress. It’s been a rough season.
Dick rubs his own stiff vertebrae, hoping to work out the tension bunched in his neck. It’s been three days since he drove to Independence and did what he did. Three days without a word. It’s strange knowing he’s done something so radical and that not a single person knows, his life humming along as if nothing has happened at all. He understands now why people confess. The desire to tell someone is nearly irrepressible. He can’t sleep, can barely eat, and every other minute, it feels as if his brain is going to explode.
He was back at work later that morning, and now, he is driving his son to his Little League game. Each evening, he’s called Dee under the pretense of checking in to see how she’s doing, and each day, she’s reported the same: she’s fine, so is Jesse, and they haven’t seen Otis.
He parks in the shade and safely out of foul-ball territory.
Jim climbs out and, as he lifts his bat bag from the back, says, “I hit one last game.”
“Yep. And it was an RBI,” Dick says. “Great situational hitting.”
“You think he noticed?”
Dick sighs and turns to him. “All you can do is play your game. The rest isn’t up to you.”
“Yeah, whatever.” He skulks away, and Dick follows, wishing he was better at these sorts of things, able to offer words of wisdom or golden nuggets of encouragement.
The problem is Jim’s coach is a jerk as well as an idiot, and there really isn’t anything you can do about people like that—ignorance and arrogance a horrible combination and incredibly difficult to deal with.
As always, they are the first to arrive. Jim stretches as Dick stripes the field. Officially, Dick is the assistant coach. Every year since Jim was six, Dick has stepped up to help. He’s never tried to be the manager, knowing he’d never be chosen among the testosterone-packed, all-star dads who vie for those positions. But he’s a good assistant and has always earned the respect of whatever manager he’s worked with. Until this year, when they had the great misfortune of ending up on Andy Simms’s team.
Twenty minutes before game time, Andy shows up, and Dick, who had been warming up the boys, leaves the field, passing Andy without a word. When the season started, Dick would stay in the dugout during the games to help with the lineup, keep the stats, and make sure the batters were ready. But that was before Dick tried to make things right. Three weeks ago, after the team won, Dick approached Andy as he was packing the equipment bag.
“Good game, Coach, nice to take that one,” he said, trying to assume the gruff manner of guy talk.
Andy grunted. Even after a victory, he didn’t seem happy.
“Listen, Andy, I was hoping to talk to you about Jim.”
Andy stopped stuffing the bag and stood. He glowered down at Dick, which should have been the first sign that maybe Dick should reconsider, but at the time, Dick was certain, once he explained things, it would make so much sense that Andy would be grateful for the feedback.
“The thing about a player like Jim is they’re easy to overlook,” he said. “Because they’re not the ones hitting the grand slams or racing around the bases, their contributions aren’t as obvious, but if you look at his stats, you’ll see his OBP is—”
“Are you questioning the way I’m managing my team?” Andy said, interrupting.
“Not questioning,” Dick said, his voice grown tight as he realized the conversation wasn’t being received the way he had hoped. “Simply trying to point out the possibility that some of Jim’s potential might be being overlooked—”
“We won, didn’t we?” Andy said.
“Well, yes.” Dick bit back the retort that they’d lost the three games prior. “But I’ve been running the numbers on all the players, and I think if we—”
“You know, Dick,” Andy said with too much emphasis on the name, “at the moment, I think I have all the help I need on the field during the games.”
Dick blanched, unsure what he was saying. He thought they’d been talking about Jim.
“From here on out, it’s probably best if you stay in the bleachers.”
He shrugged the hundred-pound bag onto his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a knapsack and walked away, leaving Dick staring after him.
And so now, three weeks later, Dick climbs into the stands and takes his seat with the other parents, then watches as the team gets clobbered by a team with half the talent but a far better coach.
In the bottom of the fifth of the six-inning game, Andy has no choice but to let Jim have his required at bat. With two outs, Andy puts him in, and silently, Dick rages. Jim had been so excited when the season started, and now, the bat practically drags as he walks to the plate.
Jim digs his feet in, narrows his eyes at the pitcher, and Dick holds his breath as the pitcher lets the first pitch fly—high and outside, the exact first pitch he’s been throwing all game. Jim doesn’t flinch, just watches it go by. The next is low and in, which puts him up in the count.
Look for one down the middle. This is it. You’ve got it.
Just as Dick thinks it, his heart sinks as he watches Andy give the take sign.
A perfect strike sails across the plate.
It’s okay, buddy. You’re still up. He’s going to throw you another. Be ready.
Steam practically blows from Dick’s ears as Andy gives Jim the take sign again and as another juicy strike goes past. Before Dick can rein in the emotions, the pitcher hurls the next pitch, high and outside, exactly like the first pitch, and Jim swings with all his might and hits only air.
* * *
“Tough loss,” Dick says as they pull up to the house after a silent ride home.
Jim shrugs, climbs from the car, and shuffles inside.
Dick pulls Jim’s bat bag from the trunk and walks it toward the door as Caroline appears.
“Why’s Jim upset?” Her tone is accusatory.
“Rough game. The coach is a jerk.”
“Really? Pete likes him. They’ve done work together.”
Dick bites his tongue. Makes sense. Birds of a feather . . .
“Yeah, well, maybe now, Jim will finally give it up. Pete likes hockey.”
Dick sets the bag on the porch and walks away. He stopped fighting with Caroline years ago.
He gets back in his car and, for the millionth time since Wednesday, looks at his phone. Still no call from Dee.
He can’t take it anymore. Tomorrow, he will return to Independence.