Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Prisha sat back. “About what?”
I sat up again. “Well, about the fact that he was leaving. That all this good stuff I was feeling was just going to evaporate when he left. But then . . .” I grinned. “He decided not to leave.”
“Oh?”
“He says he doesn’t want to. At first, he thought he’d just stay the rest of the week and go home this weekend. But last night, he said he’s thinking about moving back here for good. He was offered a coaching position at the high school.”
“Wow. This is a lot to process.”
“It is.” I took a deep breath. “I also sent the letter.”
Prisha crossed her legs in the other direction. “Did you?”
I nodded. “The day after I was last here, but . . . I haven’t heard back.”
“Well, that’s only, what, a week?”
“Yeah.” I had to laugh a little. “I guess so much has happened for me in that week, it feels like it’s been much longer.”
My therapist smiled sympathetically. “Understandable.”
“I actually told Tyler about the letter. About wanting to meet our son.”
“And how did he react?”
“He was . . . supportive.” I played with the hem of my top. “He said if it was something I felt I needed to move forward, I should do it. He made me feel good about the decision.”
“Does Tyler want to meet him?”
“No,” I admitted. “He was very clear about that, and I completely understand. He’s never struggled with guilt over the adoption like I have. He was able to leave it behind more easily.”
“Sounds like you two are communicating very well.”
“I think we are.” I met her eyes and smiled. “I really think we are.”
Seventeen
Tyler
At practice Thursday afternoon, I worked with a few more pitchers on their motion, ran double-play drills with the middle infield, and gave advice on different offensive situations during batting practice. For the most part, the guys were all eager to learn, receptive to criticism, and grateful for the feedback.
There was only one kid—a right-handed pitcher with the last name Brock—who acted like he knew everything already, and I sensed him bristling when I suggested he didn’t have as solid a grasp on the mechanics as he should, but he wasn’t openly antagonistic.
His father watched the last half of practice, though, and I didn’t like the look he gave me, or the way he stood with his chest puffed out and his jaw jutting forward, or the way he yelled at his kid through the fence, basically telling him to do the opposite of what I was saying.
Virgil was there, sitting in the dugout, and when I was done, I sank down next to him while David finished up practice.
“Who’s the asshole?” I asked, nodding toward the guy.
“Brock? He’s nobody. Just one of those guys who thinks he’s better than everybody else because he’s bigger and louder. Ignore him.”
“He was interfering while I tried to work with his kid.”
“Yeah, he does that all the time. Always huffing and puffing about the lineup and where his son should be in it. He was on the team here way back when, long before your time. But he wasn’t good enough to be scouted for college ball and he’s still mad about it.”
“Oh.” I took some satisfaction in that.
“I hear David offered you a position.”
“He did.”
Virgil side-eyed me. “Gonna take it?”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“You should take it.”
I chuckled. “And why’s that?”
“Because it’s where you belong. And if your dad was around, he’d say the same thing.”
I looked out at the mound and decided to give a voice to a feeling I’d kept buried far from the surface. “You don’t think he’d call me a quitter for leaving the game? He wouldn’t think I’d been weak?”
Virgil didn’t answer right away. “Is that what you think? That your pop would’ve called you a quitter?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. It was my choice to get out. I wasn’t fired or anything. I could have stayed and kept working on it.”
He remained silent.
“Maybe he’d think my real failure was giving in to the fear that nothing would land where I threw it ever again. There’s no room for fear on the ballfield. You tough it out. You try harder. You beat it. Or you don’t deserve to be there.”
Virgil looked at me, but I didn’t meet his eyes.
“You deserved to be there, son,” he said. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”
“What if it was? What if I was too sure of myself? Too convinced that the game owed me, rather than the other way around? What if God or the universe or whatever is out there decided I was just an asshole like everyone else and didn’t deserve the arm?”
My old coach had no answer ready, but he let me talk, which was maybe all I needed. These were things I’d never said to anyone. Only another ball player would understand it, but admitting this kind of stuff was not acceptable in pro sports. It showed weakness, and you had to be tough.