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He tips his face toward the sky. “Good day, eh?”

I grunt in response.

“The kids will love you.” When I eye him, he merely smiles. “Come on. It’s fun!” Then he grabs a few balls scattered around and starts juggling. “Ay, ay, ay!”

A couple of the kids direct their attention to him, peeling off from the group around Flash, and then more join, until almost all of them are cheering and laughing at Yadi’s show. He sings and speaks Spanish to them as if they understand, although some of them do, and the others don’t care—laughing all the same.

Alberto Yadiel Santiago-Cruz, as he introduced himself to me, is from the Dominican Republic and was scouted when he was still a teenager. He’s barely in his twenties now and doesn’t care about playing for a team with a shit record because he’s just happy to be here. He’s got a mean slider and loves everything about baseball. Except that he has to be away from his family.

He told me all of that in the first five minutes I met him.

I don’t like him.

I don’t like Flash fucking Franklin ruffling my hair.

I don’t like having to pose for pictures.

I don’t like any of this.

Particularly when these kids are broken up into small groups so we can work more closely with them. I’ve got a pipsqueak named Noah, a girl who introduced herself as Gabriella, and Brady, a boy clearly upset to be placed with me.

Same, kid. Same.

“All right, uh…” I swipe my hand over my beard. “Let’s talk pitches, I guess. How old are you? You guys all have players pitching, right? You’re not hitting off tees or your coaches?”

“Guys and girls,” Gabriella corrects.

And I clear my throat before amending, “You guys and girls are hitting off pitchers, right?”

Noah nods as Brady rolls his eyes. “We’re all on traveling teams. We don’t play T-ball anymore.”

To think, a few months ago, I was looking forward to becoming a father. I imagined playing baseball with my child, rolling in the grass, and carrying them on my shoulders, cheering them on for every small and large thing they accomplished. Now, though…I think I’d hate it.

Because this little asshole Brady huffs and puffs when I ask them if they know the difference between a two-seam and four-seam grip. Then he calls Noah a name for not knowing.

“Your fingers go in between the two seams or over the four. It’s in the name, idiot.”

“Hey!”

Brady startles at my outburst, as do some others around me, but I don’t take my volume down as I stand up to my full height in front of him. “You might be able to pull that shi—stuff at home with your team, but not here. We don’t call our teammates names or insult anybody.”

Brady snorts. “Oh yeah? You follow your own rules too or just like to start fights with your brother?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Malcolm making his way over to us, as well as one of the managers of the program. Probably to hand me my ass. With a sigh, I pivot toward them, but weirdly, it’s not me they have a problem with.

It’s the little asshole.

The woman whose name I’ve forgotten says she heard what he said about Noah and me, and that she would like to speak to his parent or guardian, before promptly marching him off toward where they’re all stationed by the dugout.

Malcolm seems proud of me as he nods. “You good?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” I gesture to Noah and Gabriella. “You two good?”

She says, “We’re good,” as he chirps, “Yep!”

So I face Malcolm again. “Now can I get back to work?”

He bows his head. “There’s hope for you yet.”