he said.
We stopped in front of an apartment where Roger was waiting. And for the next couple weeks, Roger came and practiced with us. Afterward my dad would buy us both ice cream. I told no one, because I already wasn’t the most popular kid on the team, and the last thing I needed was to be associated with Roger.
At our second-to-last game of the season, my team played one of our better opponents. I had pitched the first three innings and kept the game close. Then Roger came in and pitched the fourth and fifth and shut them down, as we took the lead in the bottom of the fifth. In the sixth, as Roger walked out to the mound, one of the parents from the other team got up from his seat in the bleachers and stood behind the fence that was ten feet behind home plate. His name was Steve, and he was a burly guy with a large beer belly. He looked like someone Popeye would fight while on shore leave.
Every time Roger started to throw, Steve would try to rattle him. “He can’t throw strikes, just take the pitches! He’s going to walk all of you,” Steve yelled to his son and his teammates.
Steve shouted undercutting comments like that every single pitch to psych Roger out. And Roger kept throwing balls, each one worse than the last. Eventually, he was crying on the mound, throwing balls that were six or more feet out of the strike zone. Randy walked out to the mound and took Roger out, and when Roger sat down on the bench next to me in the dugout, he was sobbing. Randy put his kid in, and Randy’s son, also named Randy, threw just like his dad and gave up about six runs. We lost handily.
After the game, my dad approached me and said, “Wait here with Roger. We’re giving him a ride home. But I need to take care of something first.”
He walked over to the parking lot, where Steve was helping his son pack up his stuff. I waited about thirty seconds, then followed, even though he told me to stay, mostly because I didn’t want to hang out with Randy and Randy. They both always hugged everyone good-bye, instead of waving or giving high fives, and it crept me out.
As I approached them, I saw my dad and Steve talking heatedly. “It’s part of the game, Sam,” Steve said.
“Bullshit,” my dad replied.
“Watch yourself, Sam.”
“The kid’s dad’s a drunk. His family’s a goddamned mess, and you know that. And you’re sitting out there screaming at him, trying to rattle him like this is the goddamned Major League so your kid can win a Little League game? You’re a grown man, goddamn it. What in the hell is wrong with you?”
At that point, Steve mumbled a few more things, then got into his truck with his son, Kevin, and drove off.
My dad took me and Roger for ice cream before dropping Roger off. We didn’t say much on the ride home. I wasn’t exactly sure what had gone on, but I knew that my dad was angry at Steve, and I figured maybe I could make him feel better somehow.
“I don’t like Steve either, Dad. He’s fat, and so is Kevin, and they think they’re good at stuff, but they’re only good ’cause they’re fat and bigger than everyone else,” I huffed.
My dad was silent as he parked the car in our driveway. Then he turned to me. “Son, I didn’t understand one goddamned thing you just said. Take your cleats off before you get inside the house, I think you stepped in dog shit.”
On My Eighth-Grade Graduation Ceremony
“They’re celebrating you graduating from eighth grade? We just went to your sixth-grade graduation two goddamned years ago! Jesus Christ, why don’t they just throw a fucking party every time you properly wipe your ass?”
On Puberty
“How’s puberty treating you? . . . How do I know you’re going through it? Oh I don’t know, maybe it’s the three hundred dick hairs you suddenly leave all over the toilet seat that clued me in.”
On Asking to Have the Candy Passed to Me During
“What do you want — the candy? They’re throwing people in the fucking gas chamber, and you want a Skittles?”
On Accidentally Eating Dog Treats
“Snausages? I’ve been eating dog treats? Why the fuck would you put them on the counter where the rest of the food is? Fuck it, they’re delicious. I will not be shamed by this.”
On Trying Out for the High School Freshman Football Team
“I ain’t letting you try out, you’re too skinny. . . . No, I hate to break it to you, but you can’t do whatever you want, and you most certainly are not a man.”
On Bob Saget’s Demeanor While Hosting
“Remember that face. That’s the face of a man who hates himself.”
On Being Intimidated
“Nobody is that important. They eat, shit, and screw, just like you. Well, maybe not just like you. You got those stomach problems.”
On the Medicinal Effects of Bacon
“You worry too much. Eat some bacon. . . . What? No, I got no idea if it’ll make you feel better, I just made too much bacon.”
Try Your Best, and When That’s Not Good Enough, Figure Something Out Quick
“Oh spare me, being stuck in your bedroom is not like prison. You don’t have to worry about being gang- raped in your bedroom.”
My dad has always valued education and hard work. “If you work hard and study hard, and you fuck up, that’s okay. If you fuck up and you fuck up, then you’re a fuckup,” he’s said to me on more than one occasion. But there are a lot of other factors besides effort that go into a successful and enjoyable school experience. Probably the most important one is how you fit in socially.
When I entered junior high, I was five feet tall, weighed eighty pounds, wore gigantic glasses, and— according to my grandpa—sounded like a tiny woman. I sort of knew where I stood, physically, when on a trip to Sea World, a caricature artist drew a picture of me and it didn’t look all that exaggerated. I was basically a character a lazy screenwriter might come up with while half-assing a script: stereotypical nerd. My mom thought
