IN THE MORNING, HE SPRANG from his bed, slapping at the alarm until it went quiet, then bolted for the bathroom. Somewhere between a shower and brushing his teeth he really woke up, and it was his own baseball tournament that occupied his mind. The restaurant, his friends, JY, being a baseball genius, and even the mother he was determined to find all dropped back to the end of the line, crowded out by thoughts of ground balls, strikes, home runs, and double plays.
He smelled breakfast as he pulled on his uniform, so the snap of eggs and bacon didn’t surprise him as he rushed into the kitchen. His father smelled of shaving lotion, and he looked and moved about the kitchen like it was midday, not early dawn.
“There’s my boy. Right on time.” His father carried the hot skillet to the table and slid some breakfast onto two plates. “You eat, then you play good.”
Nerves dampened Jalen’s appetite, but he knew a long day should start with a good breakfast, and his father would be upset if he didn’t eat, so he chewed and swallowed.
“Leave the plates,” his father said. “I take you to the bus, and then I clean up.”
“You’ve got a lot of work to do today, right?” Jalen was thinking about the grand reopening.
His father put a thumb in the center of his chest. “Is not work for me to cook. It’s what I do. Is a joy.”
“Like baseball,” Jalen said.
“For you is like baseball. Play, not work.” His dad’s face glowed behind the small wire-frame glasses and his blue eyes sparkled. “You get your bag, I get the sandwiches.”
“When did you make them?” Jalen asked.
“About four. I got a big day today. I’m no sleep.”
“Dad, I said you didn’t have to.” Jalen dipped out of the kitchen and back down the short hallway to retrieve his gear bag.
His dad held the front door for him and said, “I’m thinking about you and your team eating these sandwiches, and I’m thinking I’m gonna help you win. It’s makin’ me happy.”
Jalen chuckled and got into the minivan. “Thanks, Dad.”
Already the chill from the night air seemed to be fading, and the clear pink sky above promised a beautiful day for baseball. In that light, Jalen could make out more of the details of their home. Once a railroad shed, it had been cobbled into a small, disjointed house through the years. Even Jalen’s inexpert eye could see where the bedrooms had been added, a stained blue tarp bridging the old and the new to keep water from leaking between the rooflines. One broken window had been replaced by a board, and the porch rested crookedly on piles of cinder blocks and fieldstones. The part of the porch that once wrapped around the side had collapsed after a snowstorm, but you could still see the unpainted scars where it had been attached, and their nail holes bleeding rust. In the daylight, it was an embarrassment, and it knotted Jalen’s stomach to think about one of those reporters showing up and possibly snapping a picture.
Meanwhile, Jalen realized they weren’t moving. He shifted his focus to the tired-sounding engine as his father turned the key again and again before stopping with a sigh.
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s flooded.”
Jalen looked at the clock on the dash. It read 5:43, but the school parking lot was ten minutes away. A chill, along with the words of warning Coach Gamble had given them all—be there by six or we leave without you—passed through his brain.
“Maybe we become a famous restaurant,” his dad said as he popped the hood. He fished some tools out of the case behind the driver’s seat and held up a wrench at Jalen. “Then we gonna get a new van.”
His father hustled outside, raised the hood, and bent over the engine. Jalen stood beside him, willing the thing to work, but with very little idea what was happening. His father always insisted that engines weren’t something he should worry about.
“You keep doing good in school,” his father would say as he swished Jalen away from any mechanical projects he might be after. “You gonna be a doctor or a lawyer. You’re not gonna have space in your brain for mechanics, too.”
Right now Jalen wished he knew, wished he could help, but he could only stand with his hands shoved deep into his pockets and worry as time seeped away.
“Now she’s gonna work!” His father wiped his hands on his pants and slammed the hood with confidence.
Jalen scurried into the passenger seat. His father got in and turned the key.
The engine groaned in a steady beat without catching fire. His father kept the key turned until the groan became a weary moan that steadily slowed before he let go.
“The battery, she’s gonna die.” His father stared hard at the controls. “I got maybe one more try. Maybe two.”
His father suddenly slammed a hand on the dash, and Jalen did the same, even though he was pretty sure that wouldn’t help the situation. The clock now read 5:49.
The reason everything in the past few days had happened was because Jalen wanted to play on the Rockets. It was the only show in town, a 13U travel team that would give him a summer of competition on the bigger field. It wasn’t Little League anymore. At this stage kids began to play on a field as big as the pros used—ninety feet between the bases instead of sixty.
It was a transition Jalen knew he had to make, or be left behind forever as a young baseball player with no hope of making it to the pros. All the trouble he’d been in and out of was so he could play. Even the excitement of helping JY salvage his career, and being part of his favorite team’s wins, didn’t compare to how important today was to him. And, because of all that other stuff, Jalen was already on probation with his coach and had been strictly warned that if he missed this morning’s bus, he was finished.
So he clenched his jaw and tried not to shout at his father. “Dad, hurry!”
His father—not a churchgoing man—did have a silver cross he wore around his neck, and at times like this, he pulled it out and kissed it before closing his eyes and turning the key once more.