chapter 13
Two Days Later
Bronx
Our original stadium was built in the twenties.
Two years ago, due to an aging infrastructure, excess cash, and the need to one-up everyone else, our new home was built.
We now had fifty thousand seats. Fifty-two skyboxes.
A press box that caused erections. And a locker room that trumped every MLB club out there.
A locker room that, fingers crossed, held Dad’s wallet.
“It’s not gonna be there. You check, you always check.”
“It might be in the drawer. Sometimes you stick it there.” I grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the glove box and pushed them on.
I pulled at the seat belt to try to get some breathing room.
“Just let me run in and check. Otherwise we’re dealing with…
” I rummaged through the center console, snagging a wad of spare bills and counting them out. “Nineteen dollars.”
It was an old conversation, one we’d had a dozen times.
After games, both of us tired, things got left behind.
My backpack. His medicine. His keys, though we never got too far without those.
His wallet was a constant source of stress, never where it should be; typically in Alpine when we needed it in the Bronx.
Once he left it in a Cleveland hotel room, the team jet at thirty-five thousand feet before Dad reached for his back pocket, a curse leaving his lips.
He looked at the dash and cursed. “And … I’m low on gas.”
“It’ll be there,” I repeated, passing him the gate card, the players’ lot empty, today an off day.
Everyone was at home, neglected families getting attention, jealous spouses getting updates, muscles worked by masseuses.
Sometime today, Chase Stern would take off from LA, his stuff packed up by movers, everything in motion so that he could play tomorrow.
“Be quick.” Dad came to a stop by the gate, and I grabbed the door handle, my feet already out, the truck door slammed shut as I jogged down the walkway and to the door, my fingers quick on the keypad, his personal code entered, and then I was inside.