CHAPTER 7

I found Dad sunning by the pool with wife number five. They were stretched out motionless in swimsuits and sunglasses on adjoining chaise longues, frosty drinks on small tables at either side. I wondered if they were napping, but I walked up anyway and said, “Dad! We need to talk.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just waved me away with the back of his hand like you’d bat away a fly.

“I mean it, Dad.”

“Later, Trip. As you can see, Ysabel and I are relaxing.”

“Oh, it’s all right, Julio,” Ysabel said, sitting up. “I was going to have a swim anyway. Hello, Trip.”

She got up, and Dad and I both watched her dive into the pool before speaking. Dad heaved a deep sigh. “Okay, son. What’s on your mind?”

I told him what I’d heard. “Is that true, Dad? Because if it is, you’re a jerk!”

“Well, the way you told it makes me sound unreasonable. And I’m not unreasonable. I only want what’s best for the team, and for you.”

“Can’t you see that Coach is resting me because I’m burned out? I’m sick of baseball! I don’t want to play!”

Dad’s voice got harder. “Your playing or not playing is not up for discussion,” he said. “You owe it to your team and your talent to play. Your coach is preventing that.”

“Are you listening? Have you noticed that I’ve been playing like crap lately?”

“Oh, I’ve noticed,” Dad said, and now he sat up and pointed his finger at me. “You are getting lazy, Trip. Lazy! And I’m not going to let some so-called coach who wants his players to like him . . . I’m not going to let him help you to be lazy. When you play poorly, the answer is to play harder! Not to drop out. A coach should know that.”

“Look, Dad, everyone can see that my playing baseball isn’t about me, it’s about you! You wanted to be a baseball star yourself, and now you’re trying to live through your sons! But it’s my life you’re talking about. It’s not yours!”

Dad was on his feet. “I gave you your life! Don’t ever forget that.”

“You’re acting like a bully! Using your money for fists!”

Dad took a step towards me. “If I had ever spoken to my father the way you are speaking to me, he would have whipped me.”

The next words just slipped out. “You didn’t even know who your father was!” I was sorry almost as soon as I said it. It was true. In the slums of Caracas, Dad’s mother had earned a living the only way she knew how. She was with many men, and young Julio had a succession of “stepfathers.” But by saying it I had crossed a line.

Dad lunged at me. I stepped to one side and then wrapped my arms around him from behind. He struggled, but I was stronger, and he finally said, “All right! Let me go.” He was breathing hard now. Then he turned to me and said, “You are a minor. I’m your parent. I will decide what is best for you, not what you think you would like. Now go.”

“Look, Dad, I didn’t mean . . .” But he gave me that backhanded dismissal wave again and headed to the pool to join Ysabel.

Do fights like this happen in every family? Maybe you only get that angry at the ones you love. At that moment, though, I felt like I’d broken something important, something I could never put back together.