RYAN
In the garage, I stand outside Dad’s office and prepare myself for the impending conversation. The enrollment papers for the writing competition are rolled tightly in my left hand. I rap twice on the door and Dad tells me to come in.
Except for the chair he sits in, Dad made everything in this room: the chrome desk and matching cabinet, the printer stand, the large art table that displays the stack of blueprints for his current clients. He shot the two deer mounted on the wall. The central air kicks on and a couple of papers near the vent on the floor crinkle against each other.
Dad keeps the office neat, tidy, and controlled. His eyes flick to me then back to the bound manual on his desk. He’s disposed of his tie, but he still wears his white work shirt. “What can I do for you, Ryan?”
I sit in the chair across from him and search for words. Before Mark left, I never had a hard time talking to Dad. The words came easily. Now words are hard. I stare at the papers bound together in my hand. That’s wrong. Since Mark left, writing words has made life slightly tolerable. “Do you remember last year’s short-story assignment?”
He gives me a blank look and scratches the back of his head.
“You were upset because it was due during spring playoffs,” I remind him.
The lightbulb goes on as he nods and returns to the manual. “Didn’t you write about a pitcher that came back from the dead or something?”
Actually it was a pitcher that sold his soul to the devil in return for a perfect season, but I’m not here to argue.
“Did your English teacher give you a hard time? Too much gore?”
My mouth grows dry and I swallow. “No. I…uh…finaled in a writing competition.”
That caught his attention. “You entered a writing competition?”
“No, Mrs. Rowe entered the entire class in the state writing competition. It was open to any high school student not graduating that spring. They read the entries this summer and I finaled.”
He blinks and the smile is slow to appear, but it finally manages to form. “Congratulations. Have you told your mom? She loves it when you do well in school.”
“No, sir, not yet. I wanted to tell you first.” I would have told them together, but since Mark left, they can barely be in the same room.
“You should tell her.” The smile slips and he glances away. “It’ll make her happy.”
“I will.” I suck in air. I can do this. “There’s another round of the competition in a couple of weeks in Lexington. I have to be there to win.”
“Will Mrs. Rowe be providing transportation or will the school let you drive yourself?”
“It’s on a Saturday so I can drive myself.”
“A Saturday,” Dad repeats. “Was Mrs. Rowe upset when you told her you couldn’t make it? If so, I’ll talk to her. There’s no reason why she should hold this against you. Maybe one of her other students can take your place.”
He relaxes in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach. “I saw Scott Risk at your game yesterday. He didn’t stay long because of family obligations, but he saw you pitch and he was real impressed. He mentioned a camp the Yankees may be doing this fall. I know what you’re going to say—‘not the Yankees,’ but once you’ve proved yourself you can trade teams.”
My mind swirls. Scott Risk watched me play. Which is great and odd. Great because Scott knows people—specifically scouts. Odd because I’d have bet Beth would crucify me to her uncle.
Not important. Or it is, but not now. I came in here to discuss the writing competition. A competition Dad never considered. “I think I should compete. I can play the Thursday game and let one of the other two pitchers on the team play for me on Saturday.”
Dad’s forehead wrinkles. “Why would you want to do that? The teams worth playing are scheduled on Saturdays.”
I shrug. “Mrs. Rowe said that a lot of college recruiters will be at the competition and that a lot of the finalists win scholarships. I figure I can get some sort of an athletic scholarship and combine that with whatever scholarship I could win from this writing event, and that way you won’t have to pay much.”
Dad lifts his hand. “Wait. Hold on. College recruiters and scholarships? Since when do you care about that?”
Until my conversation with Mrs. Rowe, never. “You and Mark visited colleges. We haven’t discussed it, so I thought this would be a good opportunity to…”
Dad’s face flushes red and he spits the next words. “He was different. You can’t go into the NFL straight out of high school. He had to go to college first. You can go straight to the minors out of school. Hell, Ryan. You can go straight to the majors.”
“But Mark said…”
“Do not say that name in my presence again. You’re not doing the competition. End of story.”
No, it’s not the end of the story. “Dad…”
Dad picks up an envelope off his desk and tosses it at me. “A two-hundred-dollar-a-month car payment so you can make practices and games.”
The envelope lands on my lap and my throat tightens.
“Your insurance on the car, the booster fees, the uniforms, the travel costs, the league fees—”
“Dad—” I want him to stop, but he won’t.
“Gas for the Jeep, the private coaching lessons…I have supported you for seventeen years!”
The anger inside me snaps. “I told you I’d get a job!”
“This is your job!” Dad pounds his fist against the desk, exactly how a judge ends all discussion in court. A stack of papers resting on the edge falls to the floor.
Silence. We stare at each other. Unblinking. Unmoving. A thick tension fills the air.
Dad’s eyes sweep over his desk and he inhales deeply. “Do you want to waste four years of your life going to school when you could be out on that field playing baseball for money? Take a look at Scott Risk. He came from nothing and see what he’s become? You’re not starting with nothing. You have a jump on opportunities he never had. Think of what you can make of your life.”
My fist tightens around the enrollment papers in my hand and they crackle. Is it fair? Is it fair of me, even if it’s just for one game, to walk away from something that my parents have sacrificed and worked so hard for?
Besides, it’s baseball. Baseball is my life—by my choice. Why are we even arguing?
“Ryan…” Dad’s voice breaks and he rubs his hand over his face. “Ryan…I’m sorry. For yelling.” He pauses. “Things at work…things with your mom…”
My dad and I—we’ve never fought. Strange, I guess. I know plenty of guys who go rounds with their fathers. Not me. Dad’s never given me a curfew. He believes I’m responsible enough to decide what trouble I want to get in and says if I go too far, I’m smart enough to dig myself out. He’s encouraged me every step of the way with baseball. More than most parents ever would. Dad watches out for me and this… this is him looking out for me again.
I nod several times before speaking, agreeing to something, but I don’t know what. Anything to make this confusion stop. “Yeah. It’s okay. This was on me.” I crumple the papers in my hand. “You’re right. This…” I lift the wadded paper. “It’s nothing. Stupid, even.”
Dad forces a smile. “It’s all right. Go in and tell your mom. She’ll be thrilled.”
I stand to leave and try to ignore the emptiness in my chest.
“Ryan,” says Dad. At the door, I turn to face him.
“Do me a favor—don’t tell your mom about the last round of competition. She’s been on edge lately.”
“Sure.” What would be the point of telling her? Mom has a way of knowing when I’m untruthful, and I’m not eager to discover that the words I just uttered to Dad are a lie.