Page 3 of Ugly Duckling (Content Advisory #6)

How does Jesus make his coffee? Hebrews it.

—Text from Gunner to Parker

GUNNER

They say that you only have one worst day of your life.

They’re right.

And I had that day when I was twenty-one.

That morning, I’d made Jett, my son, his favorite meal—pancakes with a side of strawberries.

I loaded him into my truck and dropped him off at my Uncle Parker’s house.

I’d given him a bear hug, one of the ones that elicited a squeal of laughter from him, and I’d driven off to get to practice.

I was half a year out from going pro, and the only thing keeping me going at this point was sheer force of will and my son’s excitement for what was to come for me.

It was a pretty awesome feeling, knowing your son was proud of you.

Hell, he was practically a staple at the ball field.

Sadly, he started kindergarten last year, and there was no more bringing him to practice at college days for me.

It sucked.

I loved having my kid around.

I may have had him young, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t take good care of him and love him with my whole heart.

He was the best thing that’d ever happened to me and was one of the greatest things that I would ever produce in this lifetime.

“Jesus fuck,” Coach Bartlett cursed then called, “Gunner!”

It wasn’t the way he said my name.

It was the look on his face as he said it.

I knew without getting out of the batter’s box that this was about to be the worst thing that ever happened to me.

I just didn’t think that what was about to happen was going to be as bad as it was.

I was thinking car wreck with my uncle, but he was fine. Or possibly even something like the school calling to tell me that Jett was sick.

That wasn’t what I got.

“What’s up, Coach?” I asked.

Coach Bartlett looked ravaged as he said, “Gunner, something happened at the school. They’re saying school shooter.”

My stomach sank.

“Is he…”

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But you need to go.”

I didn’t think.

Didn’t change out of my baseball cleats.

Didn’t even take my batting gloves off.

I just ran.

My old Jeep was pushed to the limit that day.

I drove as fast as the ol’ beast would take me.

I pulled up to the school, and the first person I saw was my uncle in the crowd.

“Uncle Parker!”

Uncle Parker turned, and I knew by the look on his face that my world had just ended.

I sank to my knees without any conscious thought of doing so.

Suddenly I was on the ground, and the only thing I could see was the tiny footprints in the gravel rock that the kids used to make their way to the track.

I swallowed hard as the tears started to fall.

My baby.

My baby boy was gone.

And some school shooter had taken it all from me.

My hopes and my dreams. Our future.

Gone, just like that.

He wouldn’t get married. He wouldn’t know what it was like to hold the whole world in his hands when his own baby boy was placed in his arms. He wouldn’t know what it was like to watch his son graduate pre-k.

He wouldn’t know anything.

Because he was stolen from me.

I threw my head back and cursed every god in existence.

Fuck this.

Fuck him.

Fuck this life.

Two years later

“And for his first at bat in the major leagues, Gunner Penn!”

I felt nothing.

I should’ve felt excited.

I should’ve felt elation that I was about to do something I’d always dreamed about doing.

I mean, I was stepping out onto a major league baseball field, and I was going to bat against Carl Sanderson. Carl Sanderson, the number one pitcher in the world.

Yet, I still felt nothing.

I was just existing.

“Ready, Rook?” the catcher teased.

Shawn Ortiz.

Third-best catcher in the league.

“Yep,” I said as I walked right up to the plate and waited.

No pre-bat routine for me.

I had no superstitions left.

There was no reason to tap the base three times, or only chew my gum on the left side.

Superstitions were for people that were worried they’d lose.

I’d already lost.

There was no going any further down than I was right now.

The first pitch came and I watched it come.

Strike.

Second pitch came.

Ball.

Third pitch came.

Strike.

Fourth pitch came.

Ball.

Fifth pitch came.

Ball.

“Gotta swing, boyo!” I heard my uncle call out. “For the fence!”

For the fence.

I stepped back and tightened my gloves, readjusting my helmet.

Swing for the fence, Daddy!

His voice was so real in my head that I looked out into the crowd.

He should’ve been here.

God, he should’ve been here.

Tears in my eyes, I stepped back into the box and performed my routine.

The one that I’d started doing just after Jett was born.

I dragged my bat across the base. Once. Twice. Three. Four times.

J-E-T-T.

Once I was done spelling out Jett’s name, I swung my bat up onto my shoulder and waited.

The pitch came, and I somehow knew he was going to throw that slider.

I waited until the right second, then I swung.

The bat connected with the ball.

Crack.

I started running, not bothering to put any effort into the run.

I knew it was out of here.

You swung so fast, Daddy!

Wow, Daddy. That was the best at bat yet!

I can’t wait to see you wearing a Lumberjacks uniform!

You did it, Daddy.

By the time I rounded the third base line for home, I was openly crying.

Picking up my bat from the next hitter, I nodded my thanks, and he smiled at me sympathetically.

I swallowed hard, my gaze skidding away from his, and found my uncle in the crowd.

Uncle Parker had his hand over his heart, but it was the photo that he was holding up that really made me lose it.

Jett, screaming at the top of his lungs, his tiny little fingers clenching the fence so hard that they were white.

My favorite photo ever.

Uncle Parker had taken it during my last game.

My baby boy, my biggest fan.

Uncle Parker pointed at me and mouthed, “He’s proud.”

I wiped my tears and stepped into the dugout.

He would be proud.

If he was here.

Five years later

“You’re quitting?” Parker asked.

I looked at my hands. “I don’t have the heart for the game anymore.”

Parker shook his head. “This is what you’ve always wanted to do.”

I scrubbed at my face with both hands. “It was. When I had Jett. But my priorities have changed. I don’t want to anymore. The people and the places…I just don’t want anything to do with this life anymore. It’s too public. It makes me want to scream.”

“Then quit,” Uncle Parker’s wife, Kayla, suggested. “If you’re not happy, you shouldn’t be doing it. What would you do if you left the game?”

I had that planned out already, actually.

“I’m going to start up a company.” I hesitated, my eyes moving from Parker to Kayla and back. “One that specializes in school security. I’m going to make schools impenetrable. With your help, Uncle Parker.”

Parker’s eyes went soft. “I’d do anything for you, kid. You know that.”

I nodded. “I’ve spent the last five years doing research in my every available second.

I’ve done all the legwork. I’ve started the LLC—Angel Security.

I have fourteen retired military members already waiting in the wings for me to make the call.

But I want you to go over them first, make sure that you like them and that you think it’ll work well.

Or, if you have any suggestions on who you think would be better, I’m fine with that, too. ”

Kayla pressed her hands to her mouth, and I saw that she had tears in her eyes.

“This is perfect,” she whispered. “Jett would be so proud of you, Gunner.”

I rubbed at the ache that never quite left my chest. “I think this is where I’m meant to be.”

“Then fly, Gun,” Parker said. “We’ll help you.”