Page 9 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“The team—”

“Dad, there are more things in life than baseball.” I look his way for the first time. I give no smile, no nod, just a lift of my eyebrows behind my sunglasses in a half-hearted attempt to mask my need for him to just be my dad and not the baseball great, Cal Wylder.

“Like what, son? Do you have a family you go home to every night? No. This club is your family. Your teammates are your brothers. And you’re currently letting them down by not showing up to the table with dinner every night.”

Ah. Tough love, Wylder-style. Gotta love that. But then again, I shouldn’t expect any less. It was always one more fly ball, one more throw down to second, one more let’s do it until you get it right, son, before we could eat lunch, eat dinner, or go home.

In an effort to avoid the recurring fight between us, I look away and rest my head on the seat back. It’s much easier to focus on the blue sky above and feeling sorry for myself than deal with him. “Sorry, Pops. While I inherited your skill with a ball, I sure as hell didn’t inherit your godlike ability to heal.”

“Maybe you’re not putting in enough time at the gym, then. It takes dedication to come back from an injury. You know, if you get the muscles strong around the tear, they will help take the pressure off the cuff.”

“Got it.” I clench my jaw.

“Every day you’re off the field gives another player an opportunity to steal your starting position. You have to be vigilant against that.”

“Sure thing.”

“I’m serious, Easton. This is important, so you better start treating it that way.” Funny how no matter how many times he’s used this phrase over the years, it still jolts me back to being eight years old and on the mound in Little League, the tears of frustration in my eyes because I couldn’t make the ball hit the strike zone, and him telling me I wasn’t trying hard enough. And how, well over an hour after the last inning ended, he sat on the bucket behind home plate and demanded ten strikes in a row before we could go home.

I hated him that day.

I respected him later for it, but I hated him that day.

Kind of like now. Not much has changed.

“I get you’re serious. No doubt there, Dad. Good thing the front office is, too, since they just brought in Doc to help my rehab.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, and it takes everything in me to keep my eyes closed and wait for whatever I’ve got coming next. That sound from him is never followed with a benign statement. “Doc, huh? Let’s hope you don’t blow off three sessions with him like you did the trainer you had before. That’d be grounds for the club to cut you.”

“They’re not going to cut me, Dad.” But he’s planted the seed, and I know it will haunt me tonight when I can’t sleep. “Besides, I skipped out because I didn’t have a choice. I had to take care of Mom.”

I wait to hear the disapproval that always falls from his mouth, but it doesn’t come. In fact, nothing does, and I’m not sure if the silence makes me grateful or worried.

“It’s a shame your mother’s . . . problem . . . is affecting your career.”

I grit my teeth and hold back the sigh I’m certain every child of divorce knows by heart when one parent disses the other. “Yeah, well . . . her problem was a result of things beyond my control. She was alone and fell. Someone had to take care of her. And, for your information, I didn’t skip out on my appointments. I called in, got my training, and did it on my own time.”

He clears his throat, his universal sound for “not buying it,” but I don’t really fucking care right now. I love him more than anything, but most days I loathe him, and his demanding expectations, too.

“It’s not the same. You have to be present, be seen. The club isn’t happy, Easton . . .” He lets his phrase fade off, but it will still fertilize the goddamn seed he planted. “Your bat was on fire. You had the streak going, you were picking off runners left and right, and your pitch calls were perfection. Every day you’re gone is another day those facts are forgotten, and in a game of statistics, that’s worrisome.”

“And here I thought you were going to pay me a compliment and just leave it at that. I should have known better.”

“Easton.” My name is a warning. A demand for respect. One I’ve heard more times than I can count. And yet there is something underlying it that I can’t quite pinpoint.

“Such a shame my rotator cuff was ripped apart. Must have been my fault that prick yanked it backward on the tag. Should I have called time-out on the way down and asked him to hurt something else instead? Break a bone because that heals easier than tendons? Is that what I was supposed to do, Dad? Would that have met your expectations?” My voice escalates with each word, my frustrated anger loud and clear. And fuck, yes, I’m being disrespectful, but so is he, and I’m sick of hearing it.

Silence descends around us in this house I grew up in, under the shadow of the iron giant sitting beside me, who ruled this stadium his entire career. I look out to where his number, twenty-two, adorns the center field wall in retirement, and wonder if I’ll ever live up to the expectations he set out for me that day on the mound when I was eight.

I’m not quite sure.

“Look, you’re right.” He sighs instead of apologizing. “I just want the best for you, Easton. I always have. I hate that you’re injured. I hate that your shoulder’s not coming along as quickly as it should. And I hate that I’m here and there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

I look over to him, see his dark hair with silver at the temples and his eyes that match mine, and know he means well. The hard-ass with a son who can carry on the legacy he left when he retired.

“You can just be my dad. That will help me.”

And yet I know there’s no separating Cal, the three-thousand-hit player, from Cal, Easton’s father.