Page 47 of The Men of Summer Collection

Thirteen years ago

Age thirteen

As I walked to the plate, I peered up at the stands, hunting for a familiar face.

One with eyes the same shade as mine.

One that came with a voice like a warm hug.

But the last several games—heck, for most of last season—my dad hadn’t been there as regularly as before. He hadn’t shown up next to my mom, leaving her alone in the stands.

She’d waved and cheered me on just the same, and I smiled and waved back, but I’d wished he’d been there.

I missed him.

Missed my dad, my coach, my hero.

When I reached the plate, I took a few practice swings and the pang of missing was so intense, it felt like a hole, tunneling into my heart.

Ignore it.

As I shifted my focus to the pitcher, I said it again.

Ignore this pain. Be stronger.

That was how I had to be.

I had to play like that.

I zoned in on the moment, and I whacked a triple into center field.

That approach worked for a few more games.

Deny, pretend, ignore.

I didn’t miss him anyway.

Who cared? I didn’t need him.

And still, he didn’t show up.

We made it to the championships, and I played my heart out without him, hoping he’d show.

In the last game, I launched a rocket over the fence, and a voice shouted from the stands. “That’s my son!”

My wish was coming true.

As I ran, I snapped my gaze to the stands, excitement curling through my body.

Until I found him, stumbling down the bleachers.

Ignore it.

But I couldn’t pretend.

As I crossed home plate, he clambered over the final seat and ran onto the field to give me a hug, but tripped and fell—a drunken, stinking mess.

His scent clogged my nostrils. That had to be alcohol. Later, I’d learn it was tequila.

He lifted his arm, a plaintive plea, laughing, like this was all so funny.

Nothing was funny. This wasn’t what I’d wished for.

Heat flooded my cheeks, the surge of embarrassment. Shame filled my body.

“Give me a lift, son,” he said, chuckling.

As my throat tightened, I spotted movement on the edge of my vision—a bird swooping by. No, a falcon. I wanted to be that falcon and fly away from here.

From all the eyes watching me. Watching us.

They looked away when my mother ran down from the stands to help, embarrassed for her.

I was keenly, horrifically aware of every stare as I left the field with my parents. I longed, again, to be that bird arrowing away from here, swift and powerful.

And I hoped, then I hoped harder, that this would never happen to me again.