Chapter 9 - NOAH PICKED UP A BAT AGAIN
Noah was seven when he asked to play baseball.
I froze.
He noticed.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Is baseball bad?”
My chest hurt.
“No.”
“Then why do you look weird?”
Kids.
I sat beside him.
“Because the bat reminds me of something scary.”
He looked toward his arm.
The bruise had disappeared years ago.
The memory had not.
“Me too.”
Silence.
Then:
“But I still want to play.”
I smiled.
“Then we play.”
Derek volunteered to help coach.
Not head coach.
Assistant.
He asked me first.
“Too much?”
“No.”
Then Noah.
“Do you want Uncle Derek there?”
“Yes.”
First practice, Noah stood beside home plate gripping the bat too tightly.
Coach pitched slowly.
Noah did not swing.
Again.
Nothing.
Third pitch.
He swung.
Missed.
Then laughed.
Derek clapped once.
Not loud.
“Good.”
Fourth pitch.
Contact.
Tiny line drive.
Noah ran like he had just won the World Series.
I cried behind the fence.
No shame.
Derek pretended not to notice.
May you like
Also love.
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