We watch this as-old-as-time-dance between fathers and sons. The dad pitches, the son hits, and the dad instructs before starting the process all over again. The one boy in the outfield near us glances our way every once in a while when he has to shag a ball that has bounced near us. He has the same dark features as Easton and for a few brief moments, I picture Easton as a father doing the same thing with his sons someday.
The thought brings a smile to my lips.
“Kid’s got a good swing,” he says after a while, falling back on the easy topic of conversation.
“You would know,” I nod, quick with the praise. “Tell me about Helen. That must have been a huge step for you.” Just saying her name reminds me of that fleeting fear I had that he’d cheated on me.
I hate that he’s still hesitating but I need him to know he can talk to me about this. The more he does, the less he’ll feel isolated in what must have been a pretty paranoid and lonely world.
“After I signed the addendum and Finn saw it, I knew I’d screwed up. Ironically I didn’t even know how bad considering Cory only forwarded the trade agreement and not the Triple-A one.” He shakes his head.
“Asshole.”
He chuckles and nods. “True. Finn became unglued when he found out what Tillman had done. Having me sign them without representation. From there on out, he started questioning every move Cory made when it came to me and tried to alert Boseman of them.”
I nod, so very glad I was wrong about Finn.
“But the more Finn pushed, the more scared I grew that he’d figure out the truth. So I tried to play it off with him. I told him to drop his complaint to Boseman about Cory making me sign the addendum under duress. I assured him it didn’t matter anyway because I’d be rehabbed and healthy and would get reinstated. Little did I know what else Cory was going to pull.” He shakes his head. “It was my fault, Scout. I let you blame Finn, but it was one hundred percent on me. Christ, it was the first time my inability to read had a monumental effect on my life.”
“You were in severe pain. You can’t know if you would have done anything differently.”
“I made the same excuse to myself at first. Believe me, I was the king of spinning the truth to make me feel better . . . but, there were serious repercussions this time around. I knew I needed to do something, and then coincidently, I had a meeting with the volunteers at the Literacy Project. Helen was working there to get hours in for one of her classes—she’s studying for her teaching certificate at University of Texas. She’s great with the kids, patient, knowledgeable. I knew she was struggling with studying and working two jobs to pay for school . . . so I made her an offer: I’d pay for her tuition, if she’d tutor someone for me. After realizing I wasn’t joking, she was thrilled at the prospect. I had my lawyer draw up agreements binding her seven ways from Sunday from disclosing who she was tutoring. Once she signed everything, I let her know it was me.”
I imagine how surprised she must have been as we watch the two boys switch spots. They stop for a moment to talk as they pass each other, both looking our way briefly before settling into their new positions.
“We’ve made some progress. I’ve become quicker at tricking my eyes to make the letters go the right way and reposition them, but I still have a long way to go.”
“But at least you’re on your way.”
“Being on my way doesn’t fix what happened last night. God, it was horrible.” He sighs the word out and scrubs his hands over his face as he relives the evening. “I didn’t know I was going to have to read anything, Scout. I would have never agreed to it had I known. I thought it was the same as when I’ve been in the booth here. You just talk, shoot the shit about baseball, and that’s it. Now I’m the universal hashtag and poster boy for dumb jocks everywhere.”
“It wasn’t that bad—” I start, but he holds up his hand.
“Don’t. I don’t need to be coddled. I saw everything from the posts on social media to listening to Jim Rome bash me on the radio. I know how bad the comments are, and you know what? They’re right. When the teleprompter started scrolling, it was moving so fast I couldn’t use the strategies Helen is teaching me to trick my brain and make sense of the letters. I froze. Plain and simple. I was caught so flatfooted that trying to cover it up would have only made it worse. It was bad. I know it. And the critics and anonymous keyboard warriors sure as shit know it.”
“For all they know, it’s just what Bud said. The teleprompter was broken and they didn’t teach you the controls of the soundboard.”
“In a perfect world, yes. But this world is far from perfect. Bud was there. The camera crew and sound engineers were there. They know there was nothing wrong . . . and all it takes is one of them to have a beer with a friend, make a comment in passing, and next thing you know, Easton Wylder is exactly what all the kids in school used to call me. Dumb. Stupid. Slow. Retarded.”
“And?”
“And what?” He turns to look at me like I’m crazy.
“Anyone who has ever listened to you speak or been around you knows that’s not true. And that’s a lot of people, Easton. Just because you can’t read well doesn’t mean you’re not intelligent. You’ve made sure you were educated in other ways . . . so what’s the big deal if people find out? No, hear me out,” I say as he starts to argue with me. “People don’t need to know you can’t read. All they’d know is you have dyslexia and the teleprompter was moving too quickly for you.”
“Why would I ever do that?” he asks, the words a hushed whisper as if it’s incomprehensible why I’d suggest something so ridiculous.
“Because dyslexia isn’t something to be ashamed about. There are so many others out there like you, Easton. People who are embarrassed because they too have a learning disability and are afraid others will make fun of them. Like the kids in your program, for one. What if they knew the man they idolized was just like them and still successful?” He shakes his head. “There’s power in sharing your shortcomings with others. It may open you up, but it could allow others to overcome their own hurdles.”
His hand goes up to pull on the back of his neck as he turns to watch the boys and their dad still at it. Pitch. Hit. Instruct. Repeat. Focusing on them is the only way he can escape from the riot of insecurities inside of him.
The kid at the plate cranks a fly ball to left field. The pop off the bat is unmistakable as it soars high in the sky. The dad gives a huge whoop as the other son runs our way. When the ball stops a few feet before us, Easton steps forward and picks it up just as the kid slows to a stop before him.
“I think this belongs to you,” he says as he holds out the ball. When the boy looks up from the ball to Easton and realizes who is standing in front of him, his expression is absolutely priceless.
“Holy shit,” he says and then startles when he realizes he cussed and puts his hand up to his mouth. “You’re—he’s—oh my God—don’t tell my dad I said shit—Dad!”
By this time the kid’s father is making his way to us, curious about the stranger talking to his son with his other boy not far behind. Their reaction is just as priceless when they recognize Easton. All three of them are slack-jawed with shock.
Once the dad collects himself, he reaches his hand out. “Leo Tompkins. And this is Ollie and Archie. We’re all huge fans. How’s the shoulder healing? And a Wrangler? Really? How are you—sorry, I’m rambling. I’ll stop now.”
Easton chuckles and the sound is so very welcome after the despondency I’ve heard in his voice today. “Easton Wylder. It’s a pleasure and the shoulder’s slow going, but it’s healing.” They shake hands. “And this is Scout Dalton.” Introductions are made and then Easton turns to Ollie and Archie. “You’ve both got great swings. Keep practicing with your dad, and you’ll be hitting it out of the park like it’s nothing.”
Both boys look star-struck from his praise—eyes wide and full of disbelief—and I wish Easton could see that this is what people see. Not his shortcomings or what he deems
as flaws. But this. The whole package. The personable hero that little boys and girls all over Austin and beyond wish to grow up and be like someday.
“Thank you,” Ollie says. “I want to play just like you when I grow up.”
“Can you autograph a baseball for us?” Archie asks.
“Sure, but I don’t have a pen,” Easton says as both the kids and the dad look deflated when they realize that not one of us have one. “How about this? How about you head over to the stadium tomorrow before the game. You ask for Manny Winfield at the ticket booth. I’ll have him come and take you for a tour of the locker room and dugout during batting practice.”
“Are you serious?” Ollie asks, his voice escalating in pitch with each word as Archie all but hops out of his shoes.
“Dead serious.”
“Thank you, so much. That’s very generous of you,” Leo says putting his arms on both boys’ shoulders. “Let’s leave Mr. Wylder alone now. We’ve taken enough of his time.”
“Not a problem,” Easton says as Leo physically steers his boys to turn around and start walking the other way. “Ollie, try and keep your hands still before the pitch. It’ll help with your bat speed. And Archie, close your stance up a bit so you can reach the outside pitch.”
They both look back to him again and give eager nods before walking toward the infield, their infectious chatter floating back to us.
“What if one of those boys couldn’t read? Do you think they’d think any less of you if they knew you had trouble too, or do you think they’d still think you were their hero? I know which one I’d put my money on.”
“I never asked to be anyone’s hero, Scout, let alone the poster child for illiteracy. There’s a lot of responsibility that comes with something like that when I already have enough shit to deal with.”
“Okay,” I murmur. He’s irritated, and I’m pushing when I shouldn’t be, but I know this would help him. Not only would it give this selfless man a different kind of motivation to conquer his demons, it would also show him that the public still loves him regardless of what he deems to be his faults.
“Thank you for coming . . . for talking to me . . . but I kind of want to be alone right now.”
I stare at him—at those conflicted brown eyes—and as much as I want to stay, sit with him and help him not feel so alone, I know I need to give him the time he’s asking for.
I press a kiss to the backside of his shoulder. “Okay.” Begrudgingly I start to walk away and then stop. “There are no conditions to my love for you, Easton. It’s not that you play baseball or your ability to read or your public persona that attract me to you. Those things will come and go and change over time. It’s your heart I love. It’s your ability to open up to me even when you don’t want to. The man you are makes me want to be a better woman, too. So, I’ll give you time to think and be alone when I really don’t want to as long as you understand I want you. All of you. Your flaws. Your mistakes. Your achievements. Your shortcomings. Your love.”
He turns toward me and the look in his eyes tells me he understands.
It tells me he’s coming home to me.
It tells me he knows I love him for him.
It tells me he loves me too.
“Hi, Momma.” I slide into the booth beside her.
“Easton. Why are you here?” She looks around the dim bar like a scared rabbit. “Did Marty call you? I’ve been good. I promise I’ve only had a few drinks tonight.”
I reach out and give her a hug. She still wears the same perfume I can remember from my childhood, and right now it’s comforting. Sure there’s cigarette smoke clinging to her clothes and alcohol on her breath, but that perfume makes me feel like I’m eight. When she patched up my skinned knees from crashing after trying to jump my BMX bike off my homemade ramp. Whenever anything happened, she pulled me in against her, kissed the top of my head, and told me it would be okay.
Is that why I came here when I left the Little League field? Is that why I drove an hour with Scout’s parting words running through my mind and making me question how I deserve someone like her? Just to have my mom tell me it’s all going to work out in the end somehow.
“Easton?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” I say as I let her go and sit back to look at her. “I needed to take a drive to clear my head.”
“Is something wrong? Did something happen?”
I stare at her and smile, wishing I could live in this oblivious, alcohol-induced make-believe world she lives in sometimes. Things would be so much easier.
“No. Everything is fine now.”
“Oh. Good. I was worried maybe something happened to that nice young lady you brought here the other day.” She takes a sip of her drink as someone changes the music on the jukebox. Johnny Cash starts singing about falling into a ring of fire, and I glance around this sad state of a bar before looking back to her.
“No, she’s fine.”
“Well, that’s good. I like her.” Her smile widens. “And she sure is pretty.”
“I like her too. And she is pretty.” I shake my head. “There’s no way in hell I deserve her.”
“I disagree,” she says, tipping her glass to me and asking if I want any. I decline. “Everyone deserves somebody.”
“Yeah?” I don’t know why that comment strikes a chord with me. The woman’s talking about deserving love, yet she’s been waiting for years for hers to come. “Does your true love deserve you, Mom? Because he’s left you alone all this time so I really don’t think he does.”
“Shush. Don’t say that. He’ll come back. He promised to fix things, and then it would all be better.”
“Make what better? And if he hasn’t come back now, why do you still think he’s going to return?” I demand, taking my own frustration out on her maddening devotion to a lover who probably doesn’t even exist.
“Because he’s the one.” She shrugs as if it’s a proven fact, and there is no disputing it.
“Who is he?”
“A lady never kisses and tells, Easton. You should know that.”
“You’re frustrating as hell, you know that? You wait for a man who hasn’t returned and you still think he’s the one?”
“You’ll understand in time.” She squeezes my hand, a soft smile turning up her lips as she gets a faraway look in her eyes as if she’s remembering something. “There will come a day, son, when someone will love the parts of you that no one else knows how to love. That’s when you know they’re the one for you.”
After all the shit that happened today, I can’t do anything but stare at her and absorb the wisdom that hits way too close to home.
“Are you going to stay with me tonight? A new sofa cover from the Home Shopping Network came today that I bought just for you.” Hope fills her voice but it’s got nothing on the hope she unknowingly just gave my heart.
“I’m sorry. I need to get back.”
There will come a day, son, when someone will love the parts of you that no one else knows how to love.
“You’re still up.”
“Mm-hmm. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Her voice is sleep-drugged and it calls to every part of me. I need her.
The condo is dark save for the under-cabinet kitchen lights and the glow from the skyline beyond. I leave it that way as I make my way to the silhouette of her sitting in my chair looking at the world beyond.
“Are you okay?” she asks as I walk past her and step up to the windows. I stare at the city below, the darkened ghost of a stadium. Other people are facing much worse things than I am, and yet that fear is still there, holding me back as its hostage. After a while, I turn to face her. She has on one of my T-shirts, her bare legs are curled under her, and she has a glass of wine in her hand. I can’t see her eyes but the compassion in her voice rings in my ears—the sound of someone loving the parts of me that no one else has known how to—and I know how goddamn lucky I am that Doc didn’t show up to take the Aces’ PT contract five months ago.
I may have thought she was a prank, but right now I’m pretty damn sure the prank was on me. How could I have ever known?
“I had a lot to think about, so I took a drive to clear my head,” I say as I lean against the wall.
“Go anywhere noteworthy?”
I think of my mom. Of her hugs. Of her unexpected advice. “Not really.”
“Were you successful in clearing your head?”
“Yes and no.”
She makes a noncommittal sound as she takes a sip from her glass. We stare at each other through the darkness for a few minutes as I work up the courage to say what I need to say.
“What if my shoulder doesn’t heal?” I ask, her body startling from my unexpected question. “The surgery could have gone perfectly, and I have the best rehabber in baseball on my side, but what if my shoulder doesn’t cooperate? What if I can’t make it back again?”
“Then we cross that bridge if and when we come to it,” she says cautiously.
“There’s this moment right before a game starts. Sometimes it’s when I’m putting on my gear in the dugout, other times it’s that moment right before the first pitch when the stadium hushes for that split second . . . it’s part rush, part adrenaline . . . it’s indescribable . . .” Struggling with how to put something so real into words when it’s not anything concrete, I turn to look at the ballpark’s shadow to try and help.
“It’s the magic,” she murmurs as she falls into step beside me, leaving me to do a double take because once again she gets it—gets me—when no one else does.
“There you go putting words to my thoughts again.”
“I guess that means we’re a good team.”
“A damn good team.” I hook my pinky with hers needing something to ground me as we wade through a room full of unspoken words. I feel like I can breathe for the first time since I got off the plane this morning. “I felt it last night.”