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“Not sized,” I correct. “Weighted.”
He squeezes my ankle and then offers to make me lunch. Veggie burgers he coincidentally happens to have in his freezer. He grills them up on his balcony as I put a salad together, and we eat while listening to a soundtrack of Elton John because Harold insisted. Then we take a walk by the water, and as if the day couldn’t get any better, he asks if he can come with me to pick up Noah from his baseball camp.
I drive him in the car he gifted me, and he laughs any time I lose my cool with other drivers. At the field, he waves toward Noah, like we do this all the time.
Like we’re really a family or something.
It makes my heart race faster than Noah sprinting toward him. He ignores me to hug Austin around the waist. “What are you doing here?”
“Came along for the ride. That okay?”
“Yeah, for sure! Do you wanna throw with me?”
Austin checks with me that it’s okay then follows Noah back out to the field, but since the 6’3” professional baseball player is difficult to hide among the little leaguers, he calls attention to himself, and soon, he’s mobbed by the team and adults.
He dutifully signs baseballs, mitts, and pieces of paper, and it’s over twenty minutes before they’ve finally dispersed. Austin pulls out a mitt that he happened to bring with him, maybe because he assumed he’d have a chance to do exactly this, tossing a ball back and forth with my son as I sit in the stands watching, taking some pictures and video.
I’m not sure what compels me to document the moment, but something deep inside reminds me to really soak this in. Memorize the smiles and laughter and sunshine, because it won’t last.
I put both Mom and Austin on a group message and send them the photos and videos. Mom doesn’t respond, but I watch as Austin holds his hand up to Noah and then removes his cell phone from his pocket. From where I sit, I can’t see if his face changes, but he does raise his head toward me, his shoulders rounding as if he’d like to make his way toward me. He doesn’t, but he does heart each and every photo and video. Then he puts his hand back in his mitt and raises it to Noah. “Go ahead. Fire it in here, kid.”
CHAPTER 21
AUSTIN
July started off with a long series of road games, and I’ve been putting off writing my speech about my father, but with All-Star Week coming up in a few days, I need to get it done.
Except every time I sit down to work on it, I stall out.
I’ve typed and deleted so many paragraphs on my Notes app, I’ve lost count.
I don’t have any funny anecdotes or even anything relatable to the audience. Unless, of course, someone else knows what it’s like to grow up with a major league pitcher father who still holds the record for career shutouts. He didn’t want sons; he wanted successors. And while my brother may not be known for playing the same position as Doug Ashwood, Brett—the heir—is a king in his own right. He has the second-highest number of RBIs for the season right now and is a media darling. Which is what my dad cares about.
What makes him look good.
What records and titles and skill can be attributed back to him.
I understood early on that I was the spare and had a lot more to prove. Baseball didn’t come as naturally to me as it did to Brett. Sometimes I would’ve rather been out riding my bike than in the yard, throwing at targets. Sure, I loved striking out a batter, and, yes, I got along with my teammates, but none of that ever made me feel whole.
Because in the end, what did another out being added to the board do for me? Nothing.
What did those teammates want? To meet my dad and have me on their team.
None of it mattered when I was a kid, and I have a hard time seeing the trees through the forest now. I’m a major league pitcher because I am good at it…sometimes.
I’m a major league pitcher because I was trained to become one.
I’m a major league pitcher because I don’t think I have anything else to offer. And that is the real issue.
After yet another failed attempt at writing an introduction paragraph, I toss my phone on the table and stand to stretch my back. We have a home game tonight, and even though I’m not pitching, I promised Yadi I’d look over some footage with him since he’s most likely going to be relieving for Garrison at some point. I only have about two hours before I need to meet him.
With my head buried in the fridge for a snack, I hear the door open and another one of Millie’s common phrases. “Let’s keep this party going, eh?”
“Not much of a party happening right now,” I say, and she jumps up, dropping the bag of groceries she’d been carrying, a can of Diet Coke and a few oranges rolling across the floor.
She exhales loudly, slumping against the wall. “You scared the shit out of me.”
I pick up the groceries, some snacks for Harold, fruit for me, and yet another planter for the counter. This one, a small pot wrapped in cardboard with directions about how to grow the aloe plant. I set it all on the counter then tug Millie to me to kiss the top of her head. “Sorry.”
