I was nearly blind with anger as I slammed Ian’s kitchen door behind me and stumbled across the driveway between our houses then climbed the steps to my own kitchen door. I slammed it as hard or harder than I did the door at Ian’s house.

Then I threw myself down into a chair, and cursed the tears that began to roll down my cheeks. I hated emotional arguments. When I was a little kid, I woke up in the middle of the night hearing my parents arguing in the kitchen. I don’t think it ever descended to violence, but it was loud, and it was mean. My mom often ended up in tears.

On more than one occasion, one of my parents stormed out the door into the night. They never got in the car and drove off. I watched out my upstairs bedroom window, and I could see one parent following the other still shouting, stumbling around in the dark. Eventually, I usually crawled back into bed and fell asleep.

The next morning my parents acted like it never happened. They didn’t make an effort to explain anything to me. They acted like they assumed that I didn’t know. I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t be so ridiculous when I grew up.

Now I was sitting with my head in my hands after a shouting match and storming out slamming a door behind me. I wasn’t really sure what happened next. Even though Ian and I spent most nights together, we didn’t officially live in the same house. If we were going to “sleep it off” together, I would need to get back into his house or get him into mine.

Then another wave of anger welled up inside. I couldn’t just sit at the table. I needed some kind of physical release. I stood up and kicked at the baseboard along the kitchen wall. I knew better than to use a fist against a wall. My buddy James put his fist through the drywall in his bedroom as a teenager. To teach him a lesson, his parents made him rehang the drywall on all of the walls of his bedroom.

I growled through clenched teeth and spoke out loud, “What the fuck, Ian? Do you really think I’m a liar?”

Maybe the rumors and reputation were right after all. Gay men were just too fucking emotional. It was just a brief hello and conversation with two guys that appeared out of nowhere. All that I did was try to deflect talking about it until I knew enough information to be able to see the entire picture.

Ian had to know everything as it happened, or he felt like I was trying to hide things. Where was my privacy?

I tried settling down on the couch and distracting myself away from thinking about Ian. As luck would have it, the TV was on a sports channel when I last turned it off. When the picture popped in, they were covering a softball game.

I watched intently for a few moments and then shook my head. It wasn’t the game that I now knew was still lodged in my heart. It wasn’t baseball.

For a moment, I thought about going back to Ian’s house, knocking on the door, apologizing, and trying again to explain the differences for me between baseball and softball. Then I saw the look in his eyes again. He was angry and emotional, and it wasn’t a big thing, at least not yet. No decisions were made.

After sitting on the couch a few more minutes and staring forward into empty space, I came up with a plan for my day, at least the time that would elapse before softball practice. I decided to opt for riding on my own to practice. I could send Ian a text message later in the day and let him know I was out in the city and would drive to practice directly.

The sports complex that held the baseball stadium also housed batting cages to practice hitting the baseball as hurled at you by a machine. It sounded like the perfect way to work off some of my frustration, but it didn’t open until 2:00 p.m., and it was still only 10:00 a.m.

I decided to revisit the basement of my house for the first time in several weeks. I thought about bringing some of the glass and old photos upstairs for decoration.

After I descended the stairs into the dimly lit space, I could easily pick out the boxes I already explored. They were coated with significantly less dust than the neighboring boxes. I pulled out one of the boxes holding glass dishes and set it on the floor. Then I pulled out the box holding old family photos and stacked it on top.

I decided to open up another box and see what treasures it might hold. I was surprised to see that it held a baseball catcher’s mask on top. Crumpled newspaper filled the box below, and I could tell that more items were buried deeper. I wasn’t in the mood to be bombarded with more baseball items, so I closed that box up and took all three chosen boxes up the basement steps to the living room.

I spent the next couple of hours before lunch trying to find places in the house for beautiful old glassware and photos of families that I didn’t know. I liked the old-fashioned retro feel it gave the house. I didn’t know how good I was at placement of items, but I just shifted things until they looked good to me.

For lunch, I put together a quick ham and cheese sandwich along with chips and a beer. I tried to ignore how much I was normally doing with Ian and focused instead on being self-sufficient. It was my life and no one else’s. I needed to convince myself that I could handle it.

---

The batting cages were empty except for one that was occupied by two skinny teenage kids. My best guess was the pitching speed was dialed up to about sixty. They missed several, but I also saw them take some pretty solid cuts.

I signed up for an hour in a cage, and I suspected I might want even more time. I had a lot of anger and frustration to work out.

I set the speed to eighty to start, grabbed a blonde wood bat and dug in to hear the crack of that bat hitting a real baseball. I laughed to myself when I missed the occasional pitch. I was rusty. Hitting a ball delivered horizontally at high speed was entirely different from the high, slow arc of a neon green softball.

I switched the setting from a left-handed pitcher to right, and then I heard a voice. It was one of the teenagers saying, “Hey, you’re really good.”

Clicking off the pitching machine, I turned toward the back of the cage. Both of them were standing with fingers gripping the chain link fence. I said, “Hey, thanks. Do the two of you play in high school?”

The shorter one spoke up and said, “I’m just a sophomore. I haven’t made the team yet, but I would like to. Joey here is starting shortstop.”

I pushed the business end of the bat into the ground and leaned on the handle. I said, “Well, congrats to you both. To you, Joey, for being a key part of the team and to you..” I held up one hand and pointed to the shorter of the pair. “What’s your name?”

“Shane.”

I said, “And congrats to you, Shane, for not giving up.”

Shane spoke up again and asked, “Do you think you could give us any pointers? We’ve got a few minutes left.”

“Better yet, why don’t you both just join me. I can add on another hour if we need it, and I’ll see if I can be any help with your swings and batting stances.”

Joey looked slightly skeptical. He asked, “Did you play in high school?”

I said, “I was in the minor leagues until I got injured.”

Shane exclaimed, “Whoa! You’re kidding, right?”

I laughed and said, “No, I’m not kidding at all. Get in here, guys, and let’s see what we can do.”

I opened the gate to the cage, and they joined me. The next ninety minutes flew by. I helped with swings and the angle of legs as well as the crouch in preparation to swing. By the time the last of my time elapsed, Joey and Shane were hitting nearly every ball solidly at seventy miles per hour.

I started to give them handshakes as we wrapped things up, and instead, we just shared big hugs. Joey asked, “Do you play baseball anywhere? Or do you just come and practice like this on your own?”

I told them I was playing the next night and gave all of the details. Shane said, “Thank you so much, Mr. Powell, you just might have a local fan club.”