“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?”
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“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.”
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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 HC TITLE-AUTHOR
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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.”
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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
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