As soon as I step out of the elevator, I see one of the tubs Joey was hauling away for donation. Shit. He was trying to do it all himself, and I was in such a rush to catch him before the doors closed this morning that we both missed it.
My head really isn’t on straight today. I’m not sure if it’s because of the early-morning phone call from my manager or the conversation I had with Joey last night. Maybe a little of both.
In a blink, I’ve changed my plans again. I’d be a heel if I went to my workout without making sure he had those donations.
You know. For the kids.
I unlock the door and jog up the staircase that leads to the master bedroom. I’m almost positive I left my dime on the soap dish.
Before I get to the bathroom, the bookshelf in the corner catches my eye and I pause mid-stride. I’m not sure why. There’s nothing out of place there. The squat shelf is still crammed with political biographies, books on criminal psychology and Agatha Christie novels. It makes me think, though. I should take Rue to the bookstore soon. Maybe fill up our own shelf with stories about wizards and that other book Joey was talking about. I wonder if he’d make me a list.
Or you could stop bothering him since you’ve already asked him for one favor today.
Is he right? Is Rue named after a character in a book I’ve never even heard of? I hate that I don’t know the answer. That I didn’t think to ask someone who might have been there when she was born.
I’ve been caught flat-footed for months now. There’s no ball in my hand, no mound beneath my feet and no one’s offering any calls to guide my way.
They are. You just don’t agree with any of them.
Everyone thinks I’ve lost my mind. My manager. My mother. Even George, though he’s not as vocal about it. All they see is a man at a point in his career most never get to, in the best shape of his life, with three years of MVP titles under his belt and a bright future. The only thing left is the World Series, and we’ve been close. This could have been the year for it, if I hadn’t left midway through the season to deal with a family emergency.
I have a daughter.
Six years ago, I went out to get drunk after missing my father’s funeral for a game. I ended up at a nice restaurant with a pretty hostess who didn’t like baseball. Now I’m a dad.
I don’t have to wonder what my father would say if he knew. My parents always made their priorities clear. I missed his funeral, my niece’s birth and God knows what else because my job in our family was to be the best at the game. To win.
I was groomed for it. Educated around it. As far as my father was concerned, it was never a game. It was the goal.
I didn’t realize how dysfunctional we were until I went off to college. Didn’t realize other people might think it was strange that I wasn’t allowed to have a pet growing up, out of concern that it might split my focus.
My mother’s initial reaction to learning about Rue nearly ended our relationship. She wanted DNA tests. Tried to convince me I was being conned for my money and fame. Thankfully, once she saw my little carbon copy, she couldn’t help but relent. I know she loves her grandchild. More importantly, I know my sister, Joan, and my niece, Adria, love her, and Rue deserves to have a family. It’s the only reason I’ve been willing to let her visit without me.
I’m not saying I’m perfect or that I didn’t have my own doubts when I first heard the news. But the second Rue looked up at me, I knew everything had changed. More than that, I knew I wanted it to.
In that moment, it was like a fog lifted. I saw my life as an endless instant replay, a continuous loop of practice, play, ice and repeat. The predictable pranks on the bus. My sad collection of small shampoo bottles from hotels all over the country. Interviews I could do in my sleep.
“How do you feel about your win?”
“I’m proud to do my part for this team. We played our hearts out.”
Or
“Why do you think you lost?”
“It happens. What’s important is our team is united. We played our hearts out.”
It was starting to feel like I really had played my heart out. That what I loved about the game—and I had loved it for as long as I could remember—had started to fade. It wasn’t a blown elbow, a better player or a scandal that was going to bench me. It was the soulless monotony. A growing feeling that there was no life in my life. That something had to change.