CHAPTER 9

It just didn’t matter to me. A lot of people, from what I hear, feel this way about their jobs. They do them, they perform in a responsible way, but part of them is just going through the motions, feeling trapped.

Trapped is what I felt like these days when it came to baseball. In every direction I looked, I was causing pain to people I cared about: my dad, my coach, my team. And all because I was tired of playing this game. It was so time for me to move on, but I didn’t know how.

As I drove home, I searched my mind for something less gloomy to think about. Four! We had a gig Friday night, and we’d be practicing tomorrow. Whatever disaster the weekend brought, for the next couple of days I’d be doing something I loved. Dad was in avoidance mode, I guessed, and for now that was okay.

The band’s job was at a sweet-sixteen party for Zoey Bouchay, a sophomore at our high school. Lisa knows Zoey. In fact, I think she helped us get the gig. What everyone knows—at least in Vegas, where “Show me the money” should be the city motto—is that Zoey is a Russian princess. My dad is rich, I admit. But Zoey’s mom, well, she owned Bouchay Cosmetics.

“Expect celebrities,” Lisa told me. “You’ll be just one of about six bands. But everyone will be surprised at how good you are.

“It’s weird, because Zoey should be completely spoiled. But she’s a sweetheart. A little embarrassed about the party, but her mom insisted.”

Zoey’s parents came from Russia in 1992 with cash. They started the cosmetics company, which went nuts. When Zoey’s dad split in ’99, there was plenty of money to go around. Anyway, the party was going to be an MTV-style bash. And Four was playing at it. This could really put us on the map.

Let me tell you about Four. I’m keyboard and vocals. We’ve got Manny Ruiz on drums, Ethan Davis on guitar, and Phil Terrier on bass. I don’t mean to brag, but for our age and repertoire, we’re good. No big-time recording ambitions. We just want to do the music right. That’s what makes us a team.

I wish my dad could hear us, because we’re like him that way. Pure. Dad’s music may not be everyone’s thing, but in listening to him, everyone does hear truth. His voice is great. It’s pleasant, but there are a lot of those voices. Dad’s singing is true. He believes in the lyrics. His signature song, in fact, he wrote himself. It went triple platinum or whatever, but he has to sing it now every time he performs.

It’s called “The Dream I Left Behind.” The song has gone cultural.

 

I’ve loved the world, its women and its gold.

I’ve had the life, but when I’m growing old

I know one thing will haunt me:

The dream I left behind.

 

I’m pretty sure it’s about baseball.