Practice is over until Saturday, when we’re going to hit the batting cages in Haven. My head is still attached, but there’s a decent chance I’ll die in a car crash on the way home. Dad is just not paying attention. He’s driven these same few roads all his life, and I guess he feels like he doesn’t need to look anymore. I don’t agree at all. I always buckle up, first thing, when he’s driving. If I still had a batting helmet, I’d put it on.

There isn’t a lot of traffic in Tall Pines at night, but there isn’t none. And here’s my dad, fiddling with the radio and then making way too much eye contact. Don’t get me wrong: It’s polite to look at the person you’re talking to. It’s just maybe not such a great idea while you’re driving. But here he is, looking at me when he asks a question and looking over when I answer. I keep my answers short.

“How’s Wainwright?” he says.

And then he half answers his own question with: “Can’t believe he’s still out there coaching.”

“He’s good,” I say, and then pause so Dad will look back at the road.

He corrects his course a little, pulls the tires back off the double yellow line, then looks back toward me: “Yeah?”

“Bigger than last year,” I say. And, whatever, it’s true. It’s getting pretty noticeable.

Dad looks back at the road. There’s a good chance he’ll chew me out for “judging a person by their appearance.” Dad has been reading a lot of parenting books lately. I’m pretty sure that’s where all of this eye contact is coming from, too. But he just cracks a smile.

“Oh, well, you know, it’s not so easy for us old guys to stay slim,” he says. Then he looks down at the beginning of a bulge at his belt and laughs.

“You’re not old!” I say.

“I’m no spring chicken!”

Dad is always saying things like that. What is a “spring chicken,” anyway? A chicken is a chicken, right? Or does a spring chicken turn into a fall turkey?

“Not old like Coach,” I say. I don’t really like to think of my dad getting that old — and it won’t be an issue if he doesn’t start looking at the road!

A car honks and he swerves back into his lane.

“Eyes on the prize,” I say.

He laughs again. He loves that one, too.

“Speaking of packing on the pounds,” he says, “we need to pick up dinner on the way home.”

“Really?” I say, because we don’t normally get takeout after practice.

“Affirmative, soldier,” he says. “The orders come straight from High Command.”

He means Mom.

“Where?” I ask.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” he says.

Tall Pines is only an exciting place to eat if you’re a termite. There are exactly three options around here at this time of the night. Still, I consider the question carefully. This is dinner we’re talking about, and I’m always super hungry after practice. (Mom calls me the locust plague!)

“Well, there’s pizza,” I say.

“That’s a good one,” says dad. “Pizza at Brother’s. And the Sicilian Express is always a pastability, too.”

He uses the same pun every time, but I’m not really in the mood for the kind of food they make there: pasta and chicken parmesan and things like that. It’s kind of a warm night, and I’ve been running all over the place. We finished up with sprints, and I’m sweaty and dirty in that way where the dirt is sticking to the sweat so much that you almost feel muddy.

“Seems a little fancy right now,” I say, meaning I feel like the Swamp Thing. “And they always give us like seventy-two pounds of pasta.”

Dad seems a little disappointed, but I point to his belt to make my point. I think he’ll laugh, but he doesn’t. People get touchy about that stuff. It’s like it’s OK for them to say, but not for anyone else.

“There’s McDonald’s,” I say, but I guess I sort of sunk that one by pointing at his stomach, too. Dad considers the options for a few moments.

“The pizza place it is,” he says, making the turnoff. “They make a mean Greek salad.”

I don’t understand why you would go to a pizza place and get a salad, but parents think about things differently. And it works out for me, because we can get a medium pizza (which is actually pretty large). Then Mom and Dad can just have a slice or two to go with their Greek salads, and leave the rest for me.

Anyway, we survive the decision-making process without a head-on collision.

“Make the call,” Dad says, nodding to his cell phone in its little holder. It’s illegal to talk on your cell while driving here, so I place the order. We pull into the lot like three minutes later. Tall Pines isn’t that big a town. There’s something I’ve noticed around here: the bigger the tree in the name, the smaller the town. “Tall Pines” … that’s just trying too hard.

So we wait in Brother’s for our order. There are already three other kids from the team there, and more will probably pull up. Dad stands by the counter and talks to the parents and other people he knows from town.

I go over and say hi to Tim Liu, who is Assistant Coach Liu’s son. He’s a nice guy, but he’s locked in a pretty fierce battle at second base. His dad being a coach is kind of a problem, because if he gets it, people will grumble. I think a few kids have started the grumbling a little early, but I’m not one of them. I like Tim, and he really is a good fielder.

Then there is a younger kid named James, who I don’t know that well, and Katie Bowe. It’s weird with Katie. When we’re at practice, she’s just the shortstop. She keeps her hat pulled down low in a way that makes her look sort of tough. If it wasn’t for the ponytail, you could almost forget she’s a girl. But then, after practice, like literally one second after it’s over, the hat comes off, and there’s just no doubt.

Like right now, she has some dirt under her right eye, but it doesn’t look bad the way it would on me. My hand goes up and brushes my face without me even meaning to. It’s actually kind of cool on her, like it’s a look or something, and a few days from now all the girls in school will be doing it.

She glances up and I look down fast. I don’t think she saw. Or maybe she did. I turn back to Tim and say the first dumb thing that pops into my mind.

“Really, lot of dirt and, um, out there today,” I blurt out. It’s barely even a sentence.

“Huh?” he says.

I smile and shake my head, trying to think of something smart to say. Then I realize Katie is still looking over at us, so there’s no chance of that.