Chapter 13
Thirteen
My mom drives Randy and me to our first Young America baseball practice at Montclair Park.
Fourteen of us gather around the coach near the dirt infield. I’m wearing my glove, squeezing it open and closed while listening to him summarize what we’re doing today.
“Before we hit the field, let’s take a moment to introduce ourselves. You boys will be playing for the next few months together so tell us your name and one thing you like to do for fun.”
As each kid takes their turn, I size everyone up.
Even though we’re the same age, we couldn’t be more different physically.
Terry looks tough with coiled black hair cropped tight to his head and skin that glistens a dark bronze.
Next to him stands a lanky boy named Leland who’s clearly his buddy.
His long afro blows in the breeze and his wide toothy smile cracks often.
Vinny’s short and stocky with brown eyes that droop like a hound dog’s.
Jeremy has white-blond hair, fair skin, and blue irises as bright as Randy’s.
He’s the tallest and I bet he could hit the ball really far.
Randy introduces himself. “I like to ride my bike in the hills and off jumps.”
The coach nods at me.
“I’m Mick, and I like to skateboard,” I say, figuring mine should be different.
When another kid named Randy chirps up, Coach taps his clipboard, looking between the two Randys.
“One of you needs to go by another name,” he says. “How about you, Red?”
My friend shakes his head, obviously not happy with that nickname.
“Remington is a little long,” the coach adds.
“How about Remy?” My suggestion comes out quietly, unsure.
The coach peers at me intently. “Did you say Remy?”
I nod, glancing at Randy to gauge if that’s okay.
Randy nudges me with his elbow. “I like it. Let’s do it.”
We trade grins.
Randy—Remy—is the opposite of shy. He’s loud and cracks jokes and talks to anyone who will listen.
Before the first practice ends, he’s friends with everyone on the team.
And by default, so am I.
My brown leather mitt dwarfs my hand, weighing it down as I run toward the living room. I overhear my parents talking about me and slow my feet.
“How did he do?” my father asks, the sound of newspaper ruffling in the background.
“Great!” my mom answers, and a big smile bursts from my lips. “I was so impressed how quickly he picked up the catching and batting drills.”
My father harrumphs, my surging pride taking a nosedive.
There’s a pause while I wait for them to say more. My lungs ache from holding my breath, and when I let it go, the air whooshes out noisily.
“Who’s there?” my father barks, and I flinch.
“Me,” I answer meekly, trudging into the room and showing myself.
He lowers his newspaper and pins me with a cold stare. “What are you doing lurking around?”
“I w-was coming to tell you about practice.”
His eyes flicker from my mom to me. “Well, out with it, Mick. Or must I live in ignorance?”
“I liked it,” I admit, socking my fist into my mitt with a satisfying thud.
The leather’s still super stiff, but Coach said if I keep smacking it, I’ll break it in.
He also told me to shove a baseball in the pocket, keep it folded, and place something weighty on top to help.
“We learned how to throw and took turns hitting the ball.”
“Did you now? Show me.” He pushes out of his recliner, hastily folds his newspaper, and drops it on the coffee table.
I glance around. Where? Here?
My dad motions to the backyard. “Outside. Hop to it.”
Oh. Does he have a glove too? I scamper out the sliding glass door and leap off the porch steps, anticipation mounting with a slight undercurrent of dread. I want to do well.
My mom’s face appears in the kitchen window as my father reaches me.
“Where’s the ball?” he asks.
Elation pops like a balloon. “Um…I didn’t bring one.”
My father’s head tilts toward the sky as he lets out an exasperated breath.
“I’ll grab one real quick,” I toss over my shoulder, already racing back inside.
Two baseballs sit on my bed, and I snatch the closest. I’m such an idiot for not bringing it in the first place. No wonder he thinks I’m so stupid.
Rushing outside, I hold up the ball. “Got it.”
“Stay here. Throw me the ball when I tell you to.” He walks several yards away, and I worry it’ll hurt him to catch barehanded. But he’s telling me to, so I’ll do it.
I wait for him to speak.
He raises both hands. “Throw it, son.”
Positioning my body like Coach showed me, I pivot in place and hurl the baseball. It veers a few feet away from my dad.
He retrieves it, holds it up like he wants to make sure I see it, then tosses it back.
The ball nicks the side of my glove and bounces out of reach. Glancing at my dad’s pained expression, I retrieve the ball and throw it again. This time, it’s straight enough for him to catch it.
“Better,” he says. “Again.” And he pitches it back.
Failing again, my chest tightens as I chase it down and hurry back. I replay the instructions from practice and put even more force into hurling it, trying like heck to impress Dad. The baseball sails over his head, and my eyes widen, partly in awe, partly in fear.
We both track it until the ball lands an impressive distance away. A moment later, my dad mumbles something incoherent before snapping, “Don’t just stand there. Go fetch it!”
Breaking into a run, I find the ball and bring it back to him, passing my mom, who now stands on the back porch.
My father yells over my head. “Thought you said he did great. Kid can’t hit a target or catch a damn thing.”
“He’s ten, Bill. It’s his first week. And for never having played, he did do well.”
“Your mother wouldn’t know talent if it bit her in the ass,” he grumbles. I don’t understand what he means, but it doesn’t sound nice. “Mommy eyes…that’s what she has. But don’t worry, Mick. I’ll teach you how to throw the ball like a man instead of like a girl.”
Can’t girls throw? Why not?
“Hey,” he says gruffly, and I meet his gaze. “If you’re going to do something, do it right. Learn the correct way, practice until you’ve mastered it, don’t half-ass it. When you’re part of a team, you’ve got to pull your weight, so you don’t let your teammates and coaches down. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” I want to be good. I like it.
And when I hit the ball into left field today, it was one of the best things I’ve ever experienced.
The surge of power and satisfaction of wailing it super far…
yeah, I want to do that a lot. Hitting something felt good, like relieving a pressure deep inside.
My father’s expression turns pleased, proud even, and I hunger for more looks like that from him. Maybe if I excel at baseball, we’ll find common ground, and it will give him something to like about me.