At least the athlete
Posted on June 2, 2008
Filed Under fiction, kids, marriage, parenting, suburban joys | 8 Comments
It was Sunday afternoon and from his bedroom Timmy could hear the human silence in the old house, the groan and creak of old floor boards, his parents walking paces around each other, careful to enter the kitchen only when the other was safely in the living room. He thought their aggressive but furtive avoidance somehow the inverse of audible.
He went on sketching the apple tree in the yard, just beyond his bedroom window until he couldn’t bear the aching nothingness of the afternoon and went down the stairs to stand in front of the open refrigerator.
“If you’re hungry, Timmy, decide what you’d like to eat before opening the fridge door. You’re letting all the cold out,” his mother said.
Timmy swiped a yogurt from the second shelf though it wasn’t what he wanted. He let the door slam and watched his mother jump. He left the utensil drawer open after removing a spoon and sat down at the weathered farm table to eat his banana strawberry yogurt from the carton. He didn’t realize that his mother was comparing him to his father. He didn’t know that his mother was busy considering whether or not standing in an open fridge or leaving utensil drawers open were learned or inherited habits. He hadn’t sensed that, just last month, she had considered leaving.
“You’d better get your cleats, Timmy,” his father called from the home office. “Ten minutes to game time.”
Timmy looked to his mother who shrugged. He had hoped that they could all forget about baseball. His mother seemed willing, eager even, to overlook the entire sport but his father came into the kitchen punching the inside of his well worn glove, the one he’d had since high school. It smelled of twenty year old sneakers and slightly of piss.
“Today’s the day, Timmy. Maybe they’ll let you pitch an inning or two. I’m guessing you’re going to hit today. I’m thinking a double or a home run,” his father said confidently. Unable to strike the right tone, his father’s over-the-top optimism only underscored the true insecurity he felt as a man who had fathered a son who had, so far, managed to strike out and miss pop flies to right field each and every weekend afternoon for the past three months.
“Don’t forget to wear your cup. I’m thinking you might get to play catcher for a bit,” his father said.
“I don’t want to play catcher, Dad,” Timmy said. Just thinking about the other team stealing bases while he bobbled the ball behind home plate made him feel nauseas.
“Don’t be silly, Timmy. You’ll be a great catcher,” his mother said sweetly though she wouldn’t come to watch the game. She had learned to leave her husband to the task of coach and spectator as he was possessive of the role, embarrassing in his urgency.
Timmy filled his mouth with another spoonful of yogurt and left the half empty carton on the table for his mother to dispose of while he climbed the stairs to find his cap and glove.
“Nonsense. Your mother’s right. You were born to catch,” his father said as he walked out the back door to start the car and wait for Timmy in the driveway, the engine running.
“Hurry,” his mother urged from the foot of the stairs. “You know how your father likes to warm you up a little before a game.”
Timmy sat on the floor of is bedroom and wriggled into the tight polyester stretch of his baseball pants. He paused to remember the last game he’d pitched. It was unfortunate that his debut on the mound had coincided with his father’s first time volunteering as umpire. Being earnest and eager to show he would play no favorites, his father had been ruthless with the calls. Timmy walked six batters and was taken out in the bottom of the third. His next at bat was a three swing strike out. Standing behind him wearing the official face mask and chest plate, his father had kicked the dirt in frustration and later cried in the shower wishing his son, Timmy, had turned out at least the athlete he had been.
Comments
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
