Chapter 18
HARVEY BOWLING LEAGUE
He didn’t have a game on Wednesday night and decided that instead of doing something relatively cool and normal, he would accompany me to family bowling. The league was about to get started again in January, and according to Dad, we needed to get our asses to the lanes and practice.
Thus, family bowling.
Wednesdays from four to seven were always half-off games, and thus reserved for bowling as a family, especially during league season.
Bowling was basically sacred in our family, and even Jeremy—notoriously too cool and busy with his college friends to want to hang out with us—made time for a couple games.
Ron was down and out with a cold, so he said Barry could wear his HARVEY JANITORIAL sponsored bowling shirt so he could match the rest of us. I argued we shouldn’t have to wear our shirts yet, but everyone called me a buzzkill, even Jeremy, so really I couldn’t argue.
Only problem, Ron was much less broad than Barry—which made sense as Ron was an electrician, not a hockey player—so the button-up bowling shirt was tight around Barry’s shoulders and sat almost like a crop top. I told him he didn’t have to wear it, but my dad insisted.
For as good as he was at hockey—an Olympian, Jeremy now continued to remind me—Barry was shit at bowling, and I mean just really, really terrible.
“Have you ever bowled, sweetie?” Mom asked after his ball almost hit a pin but swung for the gutter at the last moment.
“Ma,” Kate scolded. We shared a plate of fries that Kate ate with a fork to avoid getting grease on her bowling ball.
“Maybe he just needs a warm-up game,” Jeremy said.
“Not everyone can be good at bowling,” Dad piped in, patting Barry’s back as he traded places down the lane.
I shot Barry an apologetic look, but at his exaggerated frown, I cracked a smile. He smirked like he always did when he got a positive reaction from me and grabbed a fry over my shoulder before he turned to my mom.
“I haven’t bowled in years. I heard a story once about a guy hurting his arm bowling and stayed away for a decade.”
“Seems a little extreme, but okay,” Kate muttered. I elbowed her and she snorted.
Dad threw a strike, his second in the game, and we all paused to clap while he waved us off but secretly ate up the attention.
“It’s not extreme, he’s superstitious. Lots of players are,” Jeremy defended. I batted my brother’s hand away from taking another grip of fries. “Have you still not replaced your shoulder pads?”
“I actually did last season when I was resorting to zip ties to keep pieces together. New set’s still not quite as good.”
“As I said,” Kate said, then replaced Dad to bowl her turn.
“I remember watching your video feature about the mental health charity you work with,” Jeremy said. “I thought it was really cool, and like, brave. I didn’t even know what OCD was other than deep cleaning and stuff.”
I’m sure my shock showed on my face because what the hell was he talking about? How many years had Jeremy been following Barry’s career close enough to watch features about him?
Barry took Jeremy’s compliment in stride, smiling and holding his fist out for my brother to bump.
“Thanks, man.”
I made a mental note to google this video later and research what they were talking about, since asking What are your mental illnesses? seemed a little too brash for family bowling, and it was my turn, anyway.
I managed six pins, and Dad cheered that I had great follow through in my throw.
Barry looked charmed by the whole affair.
He stood out in this old, run-down place we all loved—the swiveling plastic chairs were too small for his limbs, Ron’s shirt too small, and the biggest size bowling shoes they carried looked foreign when I was used to him in fresh, expensive shoes.
It made him look both more and less human.
Like he didn’t belong, but what was more human than trying?
I took pity on the man after another bad round and, at my dad’s urging, walked up to Barry’s side to give him some tips.
“Here.” I nudged his arm with my shoulder until he shuffled sideways, that quiet amusement still on his face. “Line your right foot up with this dot and imagine your arm and wrist locked at your side in a line. No funny business.”
“Your dad makes the ball spin, I would call that funny business,” Barry quipped.
“Advanced technique. You are one gutter away from me getting the kid’s slide out for you.”
Barry tipped his head back and laughed, and the column of his throat was so appealing I had to force my eyes away from him. “Fine, fine, no funny business.”
“Good. Now try it.”
Barry did try it, locking his arm and wrist and swinging the ball at his side, which made its way down the lane and managed a strike, all ten pins falling over with a clatter.
My family erupted into surprised applause and cheers, drawing the attention of the bowlers in the nearest lanes, and Barry grinned down at me.
I poked his bicep. “Were you hustling me?”
His eyes were warm and sparkly, making me feel all bubbly inside. “You’re underestimating your teaching skills.”
“And your athletic aptitude,” I muttered.
“Maybe.”
My dad clapping Barry on the shoulder broke us from our private moment, and I put space between us immediately. Mom and Kate shared a look, a silent conversation I just hoped they wouldn’t press me about later.
When I searched BARRY WRIGHT MENTAL HEALTH, it wasn’t even a hunt for information—I immediately found over a dozen sports articles about him, particularly his advocacy for mental health support in sports, his work with multiple youth and adult foundations, and his own struggle with OCD.
Most of the articles made mention of an incident in his fifth season, when he was twenty-four, three years into an eight-year extension. He’d always been known as a superstitious player but nothing out of the norm—it was seen more as a charming feature than a bug.
But then, apparently, it got really, really bad.
Obsessively maintaining routines, going not just for a couple extra practices, but sometimes two per day, working himself way too hard beyond what was healthy, all culminating in a mental break while rehabilitating a shoulder injury.
In my bed, I watched the feature about him that Jeremy mentioned.
Barry was five years younger than he was now, his hair was longer, gelled back and curling over his neck, and there was no gray starting to pepper it.
He wore a Columbus polo and looked almost nervous, a tension in his shoulders I wasn’t used to seeing.
“I reached a breaking point after the injury. I was set to be out for at least three weeks, but even though I wasn’t on the ice, I was still sure every loss would be my fault if I didn’t do my routines. If I didn’t work harder.”
While he spoke, the video played a montage of clips of Barry looking miserable watching games from a press box and other various B-roll of him exercising or stretching.
“I would’ve really hurt myself if Coach didn’t approach me about seeking help from a therapist. He told me that his mom had OCD and that talking to someone about it changed her life.
” Younger Barry gave a wistful laugh, then nodded quietly for a long moment.
“I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I was desperate enough to listen. ”
Like every good inspirational video, the music took a turn for the optimistic while clips of Barry looking happier showed over his talking.
“That summer changed everything for me. While I worked through my injury, I went to a lot of therapy. Did a lot of exposure work, which was brutal at first, but opened my world up in a big way.”
I blinked through tears—the video doing its job—while he went on about his advocacy work since then and his plea for all athletes to get help and not suffer alone.
As soon as it ended, I watched it again, then read an especially long article where he went into greater detail with an interviewer about his OCD until I couldn’t see the screen through the tears flowing over my eyelids.
I could admit that it was more than pregnancy hormones making me emotional. It was seeing laid bare the horrible and blatant torture of this man who was so wonderful, a thorough documenting of all the ways he’d suffered alone, and how strong he was to get through it.
I heard a creak from outside my room and slammed shut my computer, holding my breath. After ten seconds, I had to sniffle.
“Hannah?” Barry called quietly. I was usually firmly asleep by now, my nausea and sleep aid having worked its magic.
I didn’t reply, but snot was dripping out of my nose, and I sniffed again. He peered around my cracked door and most definitely saw my puffy, crying face.
“What happened?” He exhaled and pushed into my room to kneel at my side of the bed. He immediately put a hand on my head, pushing my hair off my forehead.
“Nothing, it’s hormones,” I lied, but seeing that genuine care and worry on his face brought on a fresh wave of tears.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Barry said, and the term of endearment made me worse.
I hiccupped. “It was just a sad video. Elderly cats.”
“Yeah?” I could tell he didn’t believe me, and he swiped his thumb over my wet cheek. “Junior’s going to live forever, so no need to worry about that.”
“You’re right.” I closed my eyes and tried to collect myself.
I knew he wouldn’t press if I told him not to, but I couldn’t get the image of that devastated young Barry out of my mind. With a heavy exhale, I decided to tell him the truth, because it felt too heavy to hold alone.
“I watched the video Jeremy mentioned, and then I read a couple articles about you, and I got so sad.” My voice went embarrassingly high as I spoke, and I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie—his hoodie, actually, because mine were too small to be comfortable over my bump.
“I didn’t know you had to go through all that. ”
Barry’s face warmed like I said something sweet and kind instead of needing comforting for things that had happened to him.
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me up to his side, gathering me in the best, most comforting hug I’d maybe ever had.
I kept crying, for no reason other than he was so lovely and generous, even now, even after I almost kept a baby from him forever.
“I got snot on your shirt and your hoodie,” I whispered after I got my act together enough to calm down. Barry’s chest rumbled with a laugh.
“It’s okay. Despite being in the garage beyond a dangerous, icy walkway, you do have a washer and dryer.”
I poked his stomach at the jab, and he laughed again, pulling me closer and propping his chin on my head.
“That article about you was really sad,” I said.
His exhaled a sigh and rubbed circles on my back.
“Wasn’t a puff piece,” he agreed. “I wanted to be transparent about it. Lots of guys struggle and don’t know they should get help. I didn’t even know I could get help.”
“But you feel…better? Now?”
“I do. I still see a therapist every week. Kim. She’s helped a lot.”
I try to picture Barry in a therapist’s office, or meeting with one online, his shoulders hunched while he video calls this Kim. I bet she’s wonderful, too.
“I think you’re brave,” I said, echoing my brother’s sentiment. “I’m sorry it was so hard.”
“Me too,” he said simply.
“Why don’t you ever talk about it with me?”
Barry shrugged, and the quiet went on so long that I pulled back to peer up at him. He met my eyes for a long moment. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, his jaw flexing as he did.
“I knew it would come up eventually. I figured you’d google me and that would be the first thing you found, and if for some reason you didn’t find it, I didn’t want to give you any reasons to think I wouldn’t be a good partner in this.”
I reeled backward, astounded to hear my own fears echoed from his perfect mouth. I blinked too many times trying to process this admission, then breathed out a slight, humorless laugh.
“You don’t believe that about yourself, do you?” I said, so quietly.
“I don’t,” he said, then looked away from me.
“No, I mean, of course I do sometimes. I’ve learned a lot, and therapy really did change my life, but on occasion, I find myself…
getting bad again. Then I get more therapy, and it does get better.
It’s a cycle, and I’m always improving even if I feel like I’m taking a step backward, but it’s not something that will ever go away fully. ”
There was something warm and tangible in the air between us, a vulnerability that made me shiver. I put one of my hands on top of his and squeezed.
“Kim tells me that I’ll be a great dad because I’ll work as hard on being a parent as I do on everything else in my life, and when it gets bad, I’ll do what I need to do to get better,” Barry said.
“And what do you think?”
“She’s right. I will.” He nodded, a glimpse of the self-assurance I knew from him.
It was a relief but also made me see him in a new light; Barry wasn’t just born confident and assured like I believed.
His confidence wasn’t this God-given gift I was certain couldn’t be taught.
Barry was sure of himself because he knew he could do hard things, overcome tough obstacles, win, learn, grow—because he’d done it all before.
He was strong because he knew he could be. And because he had to be.
“For what it’s worth, I know you’ll be a great dad.
I’ve never doubted your ability to be a great parent, I think you might be made for it.
” He was such a natural caretaker, vigilant and attentive to the needs of others, and acting without being asked.
There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that he’d be a good father to our baby.
“But you can tell me. If it gets bad again, I mean. You’re not on trial with me. ”
Barry’s face went softer still, and he pulled me back into his embrace, my cheek pressing against his warm chest. I closed my eyes and accepted that it was okay to hug this man who was determined to be a good dad to a baby he never asked for.
“Thanks, Harvey.”