Hawk (The Boys of Summer 4)

Even the best laid plans tend to change when it comes to my life, it’s the nature of the beast. My mom manages the local bank and normally can set her schedule the way she sees fit until there’s a crisis like there is this morning. It’s definitely a perk of living in a small town. Their printers aren’t working, and no one can log into the network. It’s not the end of the world having to talk to David Farmer alone, except that I’m anxious and eager to help my son, so I find myself mulling over and over again what I’m going to say to my former gym teacher. I’m trying to remember if I had a good relationship with him. Did I show up to class on time? Was I wearing the appropriate physical education clothes? Did I run the mile in the time he allotted? Sadly, I have no answer for any of my questions. I think I was a decent student for him, and hopefully respectful, because I’m about to ask him for a giant favor.

The youth center is quiet when I walk in, only the bell ringing against the glass door breaks the silence. The front desk is empty, but I can smell freshly brewed coffee. “Hello?” I call out from the hallway. “Anyone here?”

“We’re closed until three,” a gruff voice hollers from behind a wall somewhere. I peer into the office, looking for whomever is here and find no one.

“Excuse me,” I say as I step into the office and start toward the open door behind the desk. “I’m looking for Mr. Farmer.”

As if on cue, he steps into the doorway. “We’re closed. Come back at three.”

“But you’re here.” I point out the obvious. “I only need a minute of your time, Mr. Farmer.” I step closer and take a good look at my former teacher. He’s dressed like you’d expect, in jeans and a t-shirt. He’s got a round belly and seems to be growing his winter beard. If he keeps it up, he could easily play Santa in our winter festival. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Bellamy Patrick. I mean Carlisle. Bellamy Carlisle now Patrick. I had you as a teacher.” By the time he retired, I was long gone and living in Washington.

He laughs, although not in a humorous sort of way. “I’ve taught a lot of students over the years, Mrs. Patrick.”

Ms. But I don’t want to correct him. “I imagine, too bad my son won’t have you as a teacher, which is why I’m here . . . for my son, not the teaching part.” I’m flustered and losing my train of thought.

He sighs heavily. “We really are closed until three. I only came in to do some paperwork since my secretary is on vacation. If you come back—”

“What I have to say will only take a minute, I promise.” I hate interrupting him, but I’m desperate, and I don’t wait for him to brush me off again before I tell him what I need. “My son, he’s having trouble fitting in since we moved here. It’s been almost two years and I am at a complete loss on how to help him. You see, I’m recently divorced, and his father is hardly in the picture. It was my mother’s suggestion that I come down here and see if you have a big brother type program.”

“Who’s your mother again?”

“Rebecca Carlisle. Maybe you remember my father, Herb?”

“Yeah, Herb I remember. What’s he been gone now, ten years?”

I nod, not willing to talk about my father passing away. The old man studies me for what, I’m not sure, but his eyes are piercing and boring holes into my psyche. I don’t understand the animalistic machismo that flows through this town. Why can’t men be normal, caring, and understanding instead of this heavy-handed shit?

“Anyway, back to my son.”

“How old?”

“He’s ten.”

“You should get him into sports.”

“I’ve tried, Mr. Farmer. He’s tried out for Little League, football and basketball. He’s been to camps, clinics and the open gyms offered. It’s a popularity contest here and he’s not popular.”

Farmer motions for me to sit down in the chair across the desk. As I do, he pulls out the squeaky, rickety chair his assistant uses. “You’re not the first one to complain about the sports in this area being a popularity contest.” He picks up a pen and taps on the desk. “Youth sports is hard. The coaching is volunteer based. There are rules to follow, such as holding try-outs and creating equal teams. For the most part, this happens. However, when it doesn’t, I often find my hands are tied because if I come down too hard on the coaches, they won’t volunteer. If I don’t have any volunteers, the kids can’t play.”

“And I understand that. What I don’t understand is how kids are singled out. My son wants to play. I want him to play. I want him to make friends! And when he’s constantly not chosen, it’s heartbreaking. I’m not saying he’s the best or most talented. All I’m saying is that he wants to play baseball, and it seems like if this is something parents are paying for, he should have an opportunity.”

“Oh, he absolutely should. What I’m saying is . . .” his words are cut short by the ringing of the phone. Even though he claims to be closed, he answers anyway.

“Richfield Youth Center. Oh hey, Brett. Yeah, let me pull up the schedule.”

My stomach drops when I hear him say Brett. I can only suspect it’s the same asshole that is making it so my son can’t play. Of course, if I were to accept his advances, I’m sure my son would become the next star of Richfield. I love my boy, but not at the cost of my dignity.

“Field schedule is online. Nope, not making any changes. You can swap with the other coaches if you want, but it stands.” Farmer slams the phone down and again, sighs heavily. Something tells me that Brett might be the cause of this old man’s gray hair.

I clear my throat. He slowly looks up. It’s a long minute, maybe two, of silence before he opens his mouth. “I’ll ask the coaches how many kids were cut and see if they can find a spot for him on one of the teams.”

It’s my turn to sigh and offer up a weak smile. His efforts will be futile, I know this, but it’s something. Maybe if Brett knows I’ve gone to see David Farmer, who basically runs the program, something will change. I stand and offer my hand. He stands with me and shakes it. “Thank you. I look forward to hearing from you. Chase, my son . . . he’s eager to start playing with his classmates.”

“Yeah,” is all he says. I show myself out and when I’m in my car, I’m hoping to feel this unsurmountable relief, yet the only thing that comes is tears. Nothing’s going to change. In fact, I fear that I’ve made everything worse.

I’m not halfway to my office when my phone rings. Brett’s name flashes on my screen. I picture him on the other end gritting his teeth and maybe tugging on his hair in frustration. Either that or he’s laughing hysterically at my failed attempt. Chase loses no matter what happens. He’ll forever be known as the kid whose mom had to complain to get him on a team.

“What have I done?” I mutter. Nothing but regret washes over me. I know I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life going to see Farmer. Instead of going to my office, I go to the bank. Inside, I rush to my mom’s office, bypassing her assistant and opening her office door. Once I see her, I collapse into a heap on her couch and bury my face.