“We have to go,” Brett says as he pulls his daughter away from us. He doesn’t go back to the dugout but leaves the park, tugging her along.
“Do you know that guy, Uncle Hawk?”
I sigh. “Unfortunately, I do.”
“He’s not very nice.”
“No, he’s definitely not nice.”
Nolan and I find a spot to throw near the kids who are lurking around. I ask them if they want to join, and they all do, except for Bash. Only a few of the kids know who I am, so Nolan takes it upon himself to do introductions and give them my stats for last year. Suddenly, I’m a hero or the coolest guy in Richfield. I’ll take it. I do my best to instruct them on form and stance, but with one arm, it’s limited. I’m not a coach by any means, but I think it’s safe to say my nephew is going to make one hell of a pitcher.
Twelve
Bellamy
I’m knee deep in my flower bed, pulling dead, wilted clumps of weeds, leaves, and whatever else accumulated over the winter, when I hear “Mom” being yelled from down the street. Leaning back, I place my hand on my forehead to shield the sun so I can see what’s going on. Chase, along with a few other boys, are pedaling down the road, racing each other. I stand and start heading toward my son, out of sheer fear that he’s going to get hurt. I hate that my first reaction is that someone is trying or going to hurt my son. I can’t help but think this way, especially after the last few days. When Chase said he was riding over to the baseball fields, I wanted to stop him, to tell him no, but I couldn’t. I was surprised he wanted to go over there, given everything that’s been going on, yet so proud of him for trying to stand up for himself. I’m halfway down the driveway when I stop abruptly. I hear laughter.
Chase is laughing.
He’s laughing, right along with the other boys. No one is chasing him or calling him names. They’re all riding next to each other with their baseball gloves hanging from their handlebars and one boy is tossing a ball in the air. I think that he must be the cool kid of this little posse, riding with one hand, seemingly without a care in the world. I turn my focus back to Chase and for the first time in a long time, my son seems happy and I’m thankful that my sunglasses can hide the fact that I have tears in my eyes because I wouldn’t want him to see me like this.
The boys come to a skidding halt in my driveway and all five of them drop their bikes and come rushing toward me. I hear “Mom”, “Ms. Patrick”, and “baseball” all at once and have to put my hand up in a silent request for them to all stop talking.
“One at a time, boys.” I haven’t had to say something like that before and realize I love it. Never, in the past couple of years, did I suspect I’d be standing here like this, telling a group of boys who look happy and excited to be standing next to my son, to not all talk at once so I can understand each of them. I could easily get used to this.
“Mom, you’ll never guess what we just did!”
“Tell me!” I beg.
“We. Played. Baseball!” Chase holds his arms out and punctuates each word with a jab in the air. My mouth drops open, not only in surprise but in shock as well. Could Brett have changed his mind? Was it David Farmer putting his foot down or did Brett realize he had made a mistake?
“And Ms. Patrick, it was amazing!” says the boy next to Chase.
“What’s your name?” I ask him and the rest of the group.
“Mom, this is Ben, Blake, Nick and Gavin.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I tell them. “Okay, now fill me.” I crouch down so that I have to look up at them. I want to see the excitement in their eyes when they share their amazing day.
“Ms. P . . . it’s okay that I call you that, right?” Gavin asks. Son, you can call me anything you’d like at this point as long as you never hurt my son.
“Absolutely!”
“Great, okay
. So, we’re at the ballpark, right?” I nod along with him. “And we’re just watching because none of us made the team and this guy comes up to us with his kid—”
“No, that was his nephew. Nolan’s in my class,” Blake adds. The two boys argue back and forth until I tell them it’s fine either way and to continue with the story because I’m on the edge of my seat with anticipation.
“Okay,” Gavin says, sighing heavily. “This guy tells us he wants to teach us how to throw. I mean I already know how, but this guy is Hawk Sinclair! You know who that is, right Ms. P? He’s a pro at baseball and stuff. Pitches like a hundred miles an hour!”
Hawk Sinclair, the cowboy stranger from this morning.
“Mr. Larsen didn’t ask you boys to play?”
“Pfft, my mom says Mr. Larsen is a . . .” I give Ben a stern look. I’m sure I agree with his mother, but he doesn’t need to say it in front of the other boys.
I clap my hands together and stand. “It sounds like you boys had a great afternoon.”