15. Jake
FIFTEEN
JAKE
We’re keeping the throttle turned down today, and I’m glad because the sun is baking the dirt out here.
It’s the day before the home stand against Tulsa, and since Roddy and I are splitting the catching duties down the middle this weekend, Coach wants us to save our legs and arms. No grueling blocking drills, and no throwing to second till our shoulders ache.
Mine never seems to stop, so I welcome a day off that doesn’t raise eyebrows.
I refuse to show up for a stretch and call it a day, though, so for the last hour, I’ve been working on getting a better read on the curve.
I drop my bat against the netting and wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my glove.
I’m about to call it a day when my dad steps under the netting to gather the balls with me.
“You’re looking good. You open to one tip?” He arches a brow, and I fight against my well-trained instinct honed by years of telling him to buzz off.
“Sure.”
We load the bucket into the machine, and I step into the hitter’s box while my dad moves off to the side, shielded by one of the older L-screens. I manage to rip through the first curve the machine throws, but the next one takes an ugly dive that tangles my legs and makes me feel foolish.
“I set the machine to random. That was a slider,” he says with a chuckle.
“Well fuck, if I knew that?—”
“You think the pitcher’s gonna tell you what he plans to throw? That he’ll holler out, ‘Here comes your curve, Jake.’” My dad’s sarcasm is irritating. It’s also strangely endearing.
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. What am I doing wrong?”
My dad hits pause on the machine control and steps in behind me, kicking my front foot forward a few inches, forcing my stance a bit wider than I’m used to.
“Those legs are McKinney legs. They’re built to hit bombs out of this place, no matter what junk a pitcher throws at you. Use ’em.”
I hold my dad’s gaze for a beat, not sure I’m built quite like he is. The man has years of home run records under his belt. And I see him lifting in the weight room. He might be over forty, but he still outlifts most of us.
I nod when I’m as ready as I’m going to get, and when he backs away, I steady my focus on the pitching machine, paying careful attention to the arm slot it’s mimicking.
I read the curveball right away, sink into my quads, and elevate through the ball, launching it to the back of the tunnel at an angle my gut says puts that home run at about four-fifteen.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” my dad says through laughter, clapping as I take another hack. This time, it’s a fastball.
“Hell yeah! Use those tree trunks I gave ya!” He whistles as I lunge into a slider that fools me, but I rally back and nail the next four pitches with hard line drives.
My last swing feels like it could have taken the cover off the ball, and for the first time in my life, I turn around and look my father in the eyes just to check if he’s proud of me.
His smirk is subtle, and there’s a camaraderie to it, but there’s pride behind his eyes, too.
My chest opens up and I breathe in deep.
We gather up the balls, and I pull my gloves from my hands, ready to call it a day.
“Hey, so . . .” My dad’s voice has a forced casual tone, followed by heavy hesitation. “I’m heading out to see your grandparents. Just a short visit. I need to pick up some mail for your mom that went there by mistake or something. Anyhow . . . you want to tag along?”
I shift my weight and chew on the inside of my cheek, my gaze not quite meeting his yet.
My hesitation isn’t about seeing my grandparents, it’s about spending a solid hour trapped in a truck cab with the man standing in front of me.
Roddy and I are doing better, sure. But we’re on step one of a multi-step process.
Step one means we can actually have a conversation without me wanting to lasso him, drag him behind a horse, and leave him in a ditch. It’s a delicate peace.
“Yeah,” I finally say, rolling my shoulders out. “I owe them a visit. It’s been a while.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in his truck, on the interstate heading into Oklahoma City.
The first fifteen minutes are brutal. Just forced small talk about the Tulsa pitching rotation and the humidity levels.
But as the city skyline peeks over the horizon, the silence stretches out, getting heavier. I decide to lance the boil.
“Been thinking a lot lately,” I say, staring straight out the windshield.
“Oh yeah? ‘Bout what?”
I mash my lips tight, not sure if I want to have this talk here.
Now. When I am in a moving vehicle and a long walk from home.
My nostrils flex with a sharp breath, and I glance at my father’s profile.
His eyes are wrinkled at the corners from years of squinting at a pitcher and staring in the sun.
His jawline is rugged, marred with a scar I watched him earn during a game ten years ago.
He threw his mask off and took a cleat to the face as he tagged a runner out at home.
He held on for the out, and then the benches cleared.
“I’ve been thinking about how hard it must’ve been for you back then. Faced with following your dream, or, you know . . . staying behind to be a ranch hand for Grandpa Earl. Or running the bar with him.”
My dad goes dead silent. His grip tightens on the steering wheel as his fingers adjust, his jaw setting into that stoic, unreadable expression he always seems to wear when the past gets dragged up. I figure he’s going to shut me down, but then his shoulders drop.
“Jake,” he says softly, his tone thicker than usual. “If things had been different, I would’ve made the choice to stay home and be that man in a heartbeat. There were just . . .” He trails off for a breath, wincing as he stares out at the long stretch of road, his hand rubbing at his chin.
Finally, he finishes. “There were a lot of other messy things in the way.”
He reaches across the console, his big, weathered hand resting heavy on my shoulder. I don’t flinch away this time. I’ve wanted that hand on my shoulder so many times. I needed it.
“Every family has a little bit of chaos that comes to the top sometimes,” he says, looking over at me for a split second before cutting his eyes back to the road. “You just happened to arrive when that chaos was ready to boil over. And me leaving . . . it’s what made sure everyone stayed safe.”
My pulse quickens, and I lean in, pressing him. “What does that mean? Safe from what?”
I squint at him, trying to understand, but all he does is sigh.
“That time will come, Jake. I promise you it will. But right now, I’m just asking you to trust me.
I know I don’t deserve your trust, but son, I’m begging you to.
When I say there was never a choice between playing ball and being a dad—being your dad?
Well, I mean it. I made the hardest decision of my life by walking away, and I took the risk to this family along with me. ”
I stare at his profile for a long, quiet mile.
The anger that usually flares up in my chest isn’t there.
Just a strange, heavy realization that the picture is a hell of a lot bigger than I ever knew.
And despite the vice grip the unknown has on my heart, I can seem to give my father his one ask—trust in this.
Finally, I nod. “Okay. But promise you’ll tell me the rest when you can.”
Roddy takes his hand off my shoulder and extends it across the cab. I take it, and we clasp hands—firm, tight, honest.
“I promise.”
The retirement village is quiet, and it smells like fresh-cut lawns.
When we walk up to Maggie and Earl’s building, we find them in the recreation room, completely locked into an exercise video game on a giant TV.
They’re swinging their arms around like madmen, and my grandpa drops an F-bomb when my grandma seems to take him for a point.
Maggie spots us a second later and laughs.
She immediately hands her controller over to another couple waiting their turn. My grandpa does the same.
Earl gives Roddy a hefty clap on the back and pulls me into a one-armed hug that’s surprisingly strong for a guy his age.
They lead us down a shaded walkway, across a courtyard, and toward their place.
We sit in their living room, trading stories about the season and catching up on Daisy, but the lighthearted mood shifts when Maggie reaches for a drawer and pulls out a white envelope, its edge neatly ripped open.
She hands it to Roddy.
“Looks like the town is trying to take over our old home,” Earl says, his voice gruff and worried. “They’re calling it eminent domain or some horseshit. I can’t even make sense of this thing!”
My dad frowns as he pulls the letter from the envelope and begins to read.
“Eminent domain? For what? It’s not like the state needs to double the lanes on the highway or build a parallel road through town. This doesn’t make sense. I’ll look into it, Earl. Don’t you two worry. I’ll figure out what’s going on.”
I glance at my grandfather, and he seems satisfied with my father’s pledge. But when my gaze shifts to my grandma, I feel less certain. There’s worry in her eyes. Hell, I’m sure there’s worry in mine, too. That old home? My mom lives there. My life was there. It’s every good memory I’ve got.
When Dad and I hit the road back to Sweetwater, the drive back is quieter, but the air feels lighter than it did this morning—even with the new mystery my grandpa dropped in our hands.
The drive back seems to take half as long, and soon, my dad is pulling into the ballpark parking lot to drop me off at my truck.
I step out and lean in through the open window.
“You heading to the bar to talk to Mom?” I figure he’ll want to let her know about that eminent domain business.
His eyes draw in tight, the worry lines etched deep in his brow as he nods.
“Yeah, something feels off with that. But we’ll sort it out, I’m sure. See you tomorrow.”