Today's the day.
It’s seven o'clock, and I can see Dad’s pickup truck kicking up dust along our street, nearing home. The road is long and curved like an "L," with tall oak trees lining the sides. He’s at the very top of the L, but I can still hear the rickety engine sputtering.
The sun is a burning red apple in the clear, evening sky. The earth’s belly is full with spring rain. I dig my bare feet into the wet soil, standing atop the hill of my front yard, fingers wearing out the baseball’s cowhide skin in my right hand, leather mitt fixed on the other.
Today’s the day, I think. Today will be different. He won’t be so tired after work today.
My house is big and blue behind me, bluer than any crayon in my art box, bluer than the slushies from the corner store. The grass is dark green all around me, and nearly up to my knees. Dad hasn’t mowed for the first time this year yet. I would do it, but I’m only ten. I can’t push the mower.
I toss my baseball high in the air, tracking it as it pauses for a moment, then plummets. I’m not very good at catching, and my mitt is too big, but I'm just happy to have one. Some kids don’t.
The ball nips the end of my mitt, thudding on the ground. But it’s okay. Dad is just now rounding the curve, and he didn’t see.
Maybe if I chuck it further away and stage a diving grab, then he’ll remember how much fun this game is? That was some thought—I can hardly even snag it when standing still. But don’t blame me; we don't play much anymore.
Dad seems to have forgotten that playing catch is fun. I'm not surprised. Adults don't seem to know what's important. They need reminding. Fun matters just as much as serious things—probably even more.
I swiftly scoop up the ball and throw it again, hoping he might be watching. He’d be proud if he saw me catch it.
Blast! The ball thumps beside me.
I look to the street. Today's the day, I think.
Dad’s not far now. From his rolled-down window, I can hear a sad song blaring—only sad music he's been listening to lately. It’s because things haven't been good at home.
Dad and Mom don’t laugh around each other anymore. They hardly look at one another unless they are arguing. Last week, he almost left. He had a bag packed in his truck and was in the garage, kissing goodbye to me and my sister and brother. I had never seen him cry before. He was crying a lot.
Dad looks a lot different nowadays, too.
His eyes are always bloodshot with dark rings around them, like a raccoon's. It's Mom's fault, I think. She hangs around a lot of new people, mostly guys, and Dad can’t sleep when she’s gone. It’s what they argue about. That, and us.
They argue every night she’s home, which isn’t much anymore. Us kids hide under our covers in our bedrooms when they come to check on us, pretending to be asleep. But we aren’t. We hear everything they say.
I chuck the ball again. Surprise– I miss it entirely. But I hardly notice this time. It doesn’t matter. I dart my eyes to the end of the driveway. Dad's home! Nothing else matters.
The tires squeal on the asphalt as he turns in. Excitement floods my insides as I grab the ball and run down the hill to greet him. The high dandelion stalks part against my dirt-stained knees. My curly blonde hair dances in the rush.
"Today’s the day!" I shout. Sometimes I can't contain myself.
But I soon see that it isn’t. Every bit of excitement vanishes as rapidly as a dream when waking. My chest drops into my stomach.
I can’t believe my eyes.
Dad’s crying again.
He has trouble looking up as he steps from the car, but I still see. His eyes are a murky wishing well, without any nickels giving their brightness. His tie hangs loose around the unbuttoned collar of his white dress shirt. He slumps before me.
"Dad," I sputter, "what's wrong?"
He swallows harshly. "I need to talk to you, kid. Things are going to change," his voice chokes, "very soon." He starts to say more but stops many times, then grows silent for a long while.
"It’ll be alright, Dad," I say, my voice tinged with confusion. He usually says this to me.
He clears his throat. "It's just that, your mom and I—well, we talked last night. I'm afraid things just aren’t the way they used to be, Luke. And they won't ever be again. I'm sorry." Peering squarely into my eyes, he puts his hand on my shoulder. He looks as if he hasn't slept in weeks. "I need to ask you something," he continues, "this weekend I’ll be looking for a new place. I want it to be nice for you guys and to make sure you like it. Will you come with me? Your sister has a dance competition, and your brother is too young to know the difference."
Though I heard everything, my tongue seems caught in my throat. I drop the mitt and ball. The ball rolls away, slowly along the black driveway. Still, I say nothing. I can't.
His words, his confusing words, topple over in my brain. As I think them over, I feel as if I am trapped in a blank white room, my insides as empty as the walls. Then it hits me—this is real. Dad is really leaving this time.
If he is gone, who will make us egg sandwiches every morning while us kids watch cartoons on the little TV in the kitchen? Who will wake us in the middle of a winter school night to take us sledding? Who will play catch with me?
How is it possible, I wonder. How can two people love each other and then suddenly not?
Dad wraps his arms around me. Against my head, I feel his belly shaking, the sniffles growing louder. I can’t speak. Water is welling in my eyes, and I don’t blink the tears back. Dad always taught me to be proud. But he was crying, so today, this time, I know I can too.
"I’ve realized something through all this," he begins suddenly, kneeling down while drying his face with his sleeve. He holds me by the shoulders at arm's length. Heat radiates from him. He brushes back a strand of his shaggy black hair from his hard-lined forehead. "This whole situation has taught me what’s really important in life." His eyebrows above his blue eyes lift slightly– he looks a bit like he used to. "So today—let's not worry about all this." He stands with a new energy. "Just a moment while I change my clothes."
As I watch him hurry into his house, I begin to feel guilty. I look down at the ball still tumbling down the asphalt and the mitt at my feet. They both seem so childish and unimportant now.
I think of my dad’s exhausted face—the way he had slumped over those past few months and how irritated he seemed to get over the smallest things. I realize it was because he had been dealing with so much. So much weight was on his shoulders for so long. It must have felt crippling. And there I was—bugging him everyday to play catch with me.
The blue hour of twilight creeps over the hill. Crickets and cicadas hum from the woods out back. Fireflies dance over the tall grass.
The porch light flicks on as Dad emerges from the doorway in baggy sweats and a t-shirt. He stops at the top of the hill, smiling. To my astonishment, a mitt is in his hand.
I grab my mitt, then bolt towards the ball at the driveway’s end. I thunder up the hill.
Chucking the ball at him, it lands short and rolls to his feet.
“Now,” he says while picking it up, “I’ll reveal to you the secret of this game. Are you ready?”
“Yes!” I yell. My insides might explode.
“It's simple,” he begins. “You can’t be afraid of the ball. When it comes at you, you just have to stand there, without moving, and trust that you’ll catch it. And when it gets close, don’t stab at it, let it come to you. That's it. Ready?”
I wasn’t ready. I always jumped my body away from the ball when I saw it nearing. Just in case.
Dad winds up and lets it fly.
For a moment, the ball catches in the porch light. I can’t see anything. It had to be close, so very close. Then, at the last second, it appears merely feet from my face. Out of pure reflex, I fling my mitt up, without moving my body, without stabbing at it. It slams into the loose web.
I caught it.
“Yes!” Dad shouts. “Just like that!”
How did it happen? I don’t know. But I did it.
The moon comes out, bright and glowing. We play catch until my arm is sore. I caught the ball again and again, without fear.
“Just a moment!” Dad finally says. “We need to remember this day.”
He hurries inside then runs back and sets up a camera on the hill.
"Come and stand here," he says. "Quick. We only have ten seconds, so look at that lens and smile bright."
I rush to stand beside him. He puts his arm around me as the camera flashes, blinding in the darkness.
“I blinked!” I say while chuckling, rubbing my eyes.
“You always do!” Dad replies.
Then I blinked again. And again. My vision clearing. Over and over. And then it seemed I blinked once more—and forty years had passed.
***
Looking back, I didn’t understand the significance of that day. I was ten. I didn’t know how much the lives of us kids would change in those following years, or what struggles and blessings would arise from navigating life with a broken family.
I went with him that weekend to look at an apartment. It was nice, with a community pool and a big playground, but he never got it. Things got messy. He got laid off, but the bills kept coming.
Mom kept raising his child support. She told everyone lies about him. I was confused by them; they didn't seem like the dad I remembered—the dad who taught me how to catch.
I hated him during those years, believing the lies. All the while, he slept on a blow-up mattress in a spare bedroom of his friend's trailer park home, downing bottles of NyQuil just to fall asleep. I didn't see him for a while.
But those were just the bad times. When I got older, everything changed for the better. We played softball together, every Sunday, under the park lights on cool summer evenings; until he couldn't play any longer. I was the best outfielder on the team, thanks to him.
Dad is gone now, but not really. He’s in my story. He lived a great life. Everyone respected him. I stare at the picture on my fridge of him and me, wearing our mitts in front of the big blue house. I keep it there to remind myself of what's important in life on my saddest days, on days I feel like giving up,
But Dad never gave up.
And I know I can't either.
Related Posts
