“But Daddy, you missed the game… we always watch them together.” I’m trying to make the tears go away but they start to fall, anyway. I miss him. I miss who he was before the accident.
“I don’t give a shit about the game!” he yells, causing me to flinch, but still, I don’t move from where I’m standing.
His eyes meet mine and they aren’t the eyes of my father, they’re the eyes of a man who wants nothing to do with the person in front of him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking out a bottle of Advil and taking two pills dry. He’s been getting more and more headaches lately and Mom has been begging him to go see a doctor, but he refuses.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. This was a mistake, he’s in one of his moods and I should have known to just stay away. It’s better for both of us when I just stay away.
He says nothing as he gets up from behind his desk and makes his way toward me. I try to stand tall, but the closer he gets, the angrier he seems to become. He opens the door and waits for me to move. The heaviness in my chest grows as more tears start to fall. This man isn’t the man that would tuck me in before bed, this isn’t the man that would take me to the park and push me on the swings.
This is a man I barely know anymore and before I think better of it, I open my mouth and say, “We don’t have to watch baseball, we could do something else?” Before the last word leaves my mouth, I know it was a mistake.
The hardened look in his eyes shows me exactly how useless my words are. They won’t make a difference, they never do. Mom says the anger is just a side effect of the accident, but it’s been a year and he hasn’t gotten any better and I wonder if he ever will.
“Don’t you get it?” he sneers, pushing me out of the room. “It’s not just baseball that I don’t want to see anymore…” Even at my young age, I know what he left unsaid and as he slams the door in my face, I shut my eyes, wondering if he knew that all I wanted was to be enough. Enough to make him see the life he still had to live.
I wake with sweat covering my entire body and my sheets soaked through. I wipe away the stray tears that must have fallen while I slept and I stare at the ceiling. This isn’t the first time I’ve dreamed of my father, or the night he died, and it probably won’t be the last. Sometimes the words are different, but the sentiment is the same. I’m not important, he doesn’t care about me anymore. That’s the part that haunts me no matter how many hours of therapy I have. You would think after ten years, the memory of that night would get easier, but honestly, the older I get, the more I question everything I thought I knew.
After a few deep breaths, I turn over and see that it’s just after five in the morning. I might as well get up since I know from experience that I won’t be able to get back to sleep. I grab a pair of old boyfriend jeans and a plain white T-shirt and bring them into the bathroom. I turn on the shower, making sure the water is scalding since the heat is heaven for my mind, the steam seems to take away the memories of that dream and I relish the sense of calm that washes over me.
When the water cools, I turn it off before getting out and getting dressed. I make a point not to look myself in the mirror, knowing it won’t be a pretty sight and not caring enough to do anything about it. I hurriedly brush out my tangled wet hair and twist it into a bun at the top of my head as I head into the living room where I grab my purse and my keys as I make my way to the one place that seems to calm my nerves after a night like this.
Hard Ball is dark and empty when I arrive. Walking through the doors, my whole body relaxes and I let out a shaky breath on the way to my office. I set down my purse and keys, looking around for something to do, but I know my mind isn’t up for it. I find myself walking toward the field and head straight for the mound. My footsteps echo with each and every step I take and the second the ground changes beneath my feet, I stop, standing there for a second. Although this field is a bit smaller than the one my father saw on a regular basis, this exact spot was where he was the happiest. On a mound just like this one, is where he became one of the best pitchers of all time. This was his home away from home and where he was meant to be for the rest of his life. I sink to my knees as the tears form.
“Hey Dad…” I whisper, hoping he can hear me wherever he is.
I sit in the dirt, my finger instinctively digging out the coin I buried there after he died. It was the same coin he used to bury in this same spot before every game. He told me the coin represented the two sides of life, what you can control and what you can’t. He was never a man that believed in chance but for some reason, the symbol of the coin
