Page 83 of Fair Ball

I was asked to be here tonight to celebrate my father, Doug Ashwood, as he is about to be inducted into the Hall of Fame. A true honor. But I am not here as a son; I’m here as a baseball player because that’s how I was raised. To be a baseball player.

I could list all of Doug Ashwood’s statistics off for you, but I know that’s not why I’m here. I’m not here to tell a joke or even relay a heartfelt story. I know I was asked to come tonight to satisfy your curiosity, but unfortunately, I was warned by multiple people that I should be on my best behavior. The problem is, even if I wanted to tell you a joke, I can’t because I don’t have them. Even if I wanted to relay a heartfelt story, I can’t because I’ve never experienced one.

So I guess your curiosity will be fulfilled tonight, and as usual, my father will continue to be disappointed in me.

For as long as I can remember, I was told that what I wanted didn’t matter. The phrase “Shut up and listen to me” was yelled at me so often, I swear they’re the first words I remember. Because we didn’t live in a home. We lived in a baseball kingdom. The sports media has dubbed my brother the heir and me the spare to the King of Baseball, but it’s true. That’s how we lived. Under the thumb of a tyrannical ruler. If I complained about baseball practice, I had to stay an extra two hours. When I was hurt, I was told to shake it off. If I cried, I was ignored or told that I wasn’t a real man. We lived in competition, brother against brother, father against sons.

I’m sure a lot of people would tell me to suck it up, that all of this is a small price to pay for being a major league baseball player, and maybe they’re right. Maybe my father was right.

Maybe I should be more grateful that Doug Ashwood was my father, that I was trained to put baseball above everything, even family. And seeing as I’m here tonight to give a speech congratulating him, I guess it does prove them right. By caring more about your career strikeouts than your wife, you can become a Hall of Famer. By forcing your children to compete with each other on a daily basis, they’ll play in the majors and stop talking to each other. By making a game the most important thing in your life, you, too, can get your name on a plaque and a special dinner where your kid finally unburdens himself of the truth, of the childhood he never had, and the family he lost.

So, I hope that has satisfied your curiosity of what it’s like to be the Spare. Congratulations, Dad. Enjoy your night, and I hope it was all worth it.

“Oh shit,” I mumble to myself, but Harold repeats it, and I shush him. “Not now, Harold!”

“Hey, dickhead.”

“Hey!” I whirl around, aiming my finger at the cockatoo. “Not nice.”

“Not nice, not nice.”

“I’m not going to stand here and argue with you, but we’ll be talking about this when I get back.”

He clucks at me, but I’m already on my way out.

It takes me fourteen minutes to drive to the convention center but fifteen to jog there because the parking spot I find is in the next county, so by the time I arrive, I’m out of breath, red in the face, and stubbed my toe when my sandal caught in the sidewalk and I pitched forward. I barely caught myself, my toe taking the brunt of it, splitting the nail.

Hurts like a son of a bitch, but when Austin sees me, he hauls me to him. “You all right?”

“Yeah, I…” Lifting my left foot, I wince in pain when I see the little bit of blood pooling. “Split my toenail running here.”

“Baby,” he murmurs and helps me over to the wall, where he steadies me before leaning down.

“No, not the pocket square!”

But he dabs at the blood anyway, ruining the material. I plunk my head against the wall. “It was so pretty.”

“It doesn’t matter. Stop moving, so I can see.”

I try to hold still, but I don’t have a lot of flexibility in the dress, and I have to hike it up past my knees. Austin kneels, propping my foot on his thigh so he can tend to it. He pinches the pocket square over my toe with one hand and traces the thin straps of my sandals with the other. “You never wear shoes like this.”

“I know. I hate them.”

“Then why are you wearing them?” It seems only then does he fully comprehend I’m in a dress with my hair and makeup done. His dual-toned eyes widen. “Why…?”

My stomach drops, more than his panicked voice when he called me. More than the sting of pain when I tripped. More than the fear I’d ruin this night for him. I swallow the lump in my throat, lick my suddenly dry lips. I’m already overstimulated from the rush of getting here, and this… It feels like it’s all about to crash. “You asked me to come here.”

He sets my foot down, shoves the square in his pants pocket. “To bring my speech.”

“Yeah, but… I thought— You said you needed me.”

He flinches and drops his chin, rubbing his hand along the back of his head and beard. “Yeah, I did—do, but Mills, I didn’t mean…” He exhales harshly, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at bay. When he finally raises his gaze, he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I just need my speech. I told you I don’t plan on staying. I⁠—”

“I get it,” I say, interrupting him then opening my clutch for the folded-up paper. My hand trembles, but I ignore it when I hold it out to him, though he’s slow to accept it. His face flashes with regret, and I hope maybe he’ll change his mind, but as he takes the speech, a voice sounds behind him.

“There you are.”

I can’t see who it is, but from Austin’s reaction, I have a good guess, and when he pivots around, allowing me to step away from the wall, I see it’s Doug Ashwood.