Last summer was the summer I started to hate my dad. I was seven and I loved him. But now I hate him. It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that it was summer. It didn’t have to do with anything except me and him. And maybe baseball.
I love baseball. Which is mostly why I love summer. Summer league baseball is the best and my brother was the best at summer league baseball. We both love baseball because of my dad. He played in the farm leagues. He was almost in the majors. Now he owns the best restaurant in our town in North Carolina. They make the best hot dogs. Dad and I would always get two hot dogs with everything on them before going to watch my brother play. He was the best.
One time on the way to my brother’s game, I told my dad I wanted to play baseball just like him. He laughed and said “You should play like your brother. He’s better than I was at his age.” I looked out the window and looked at the lights making the field glow as he parked the car and whispered so he couldn’t hear “I wanna play just like Brett.”
Brett took me to baseball games that summer. In the beginning of the summer, early in his summer league season. We would watch the minor league team from our town at all their home games. He would put me on his shoulders so I could see the whole field and maybe catch the ball. He would ignore the people whining behind us. Babies.
When the peanut guy came around, Brett would ask “Brody, do you want peanuts?” if I said no, he knew that I wanted cotton candy. I almost always said no and I would eat my cloud of sugar while on his shoulders, cheering on the team. I loved him.
Sometimes, I wouldn’t be with Brett. I would be with my friends from school at the lake. It would be fun to be at the lake swinging on a rope instead of being at school. And it was allowed because it was summer. After we were tired from swimming we’d lay on towels and rest. I would talk about Brett and how he was going to go pro. They would say it was impossible, that no one from our town has ever gone pro. I told them that at sixteen he already had college scouts looking at him. They didn’t believe me. I told them to come to his games. They were always busy on nights that Brett played.
About half way through the season Brett hit a home run. It wasn’t his first, but it was his most important. It was the bottom of the twelfth; game tied at 2-2 nobody on base, zero balls, two strikes, two outs. Brett hit it right out of the park. Way over the fence. The pitcher hung his head while Brett rounded the bases. There was a lot of yellow and black around the plate as his team waited for him. It looked like a bunch of bumble bees.
On the drive home, we stopped at dad’s restaurant. Dad bought everyone in the restaurant a hot dog to celebrate Brett’s home run. I had something else to tell my friends about.
I remember we sat in the drive way talking about the game. Dad said it was too bad that there were no scouts at that game. Brett said, “It didn’t even matter. When I was standing at the plate, I could see the fire flies flashing on and off beyond the fence. Like they were cameras from fans. I heard cheering in my head. I gripped the bat tighter and all I could think was ‘this is for you.’ And I thought about you, Dad. And you, Brody.” It made my heart hurt.
A week later, Brett took me out to get ice cream. He got plain vanilla. I wanted to get what he got, but vanilla wasn’t enough. I added chocolate sprinkles. We sat at the wooden tables outside. It wasn’t humid anymore because it was almost night.
I watched Brett eat his ice cream for a little then said “Brett, I wanna play just like you.”
He smiled and said “These are pretty big shoes to fill, Brody.”
“I’ll fill ‘em.”
“You think so?”
“Yup.”
Brett smiled and said, “I hope so.” I smiled back.
More and more scouts came to Brett’s games as the season went on. Brett’s team was going to be in the State Summer League play offs. Dad told him all the time not to get stressed out. Brett promised he wouldn’t.
Me and my friends had spent an entire day at the lake. The sun was behind the trees but we could still see bits of light, cut up by the leaves.
One of my friends said “I saw your brother in the paper.”
“Yeah. My dad saves all the clippings.”
“The papers say he’ll be better than your dad if he keeps playing the way he’s playing.”
“Yeah. My dad says that too.”
“Can I come watch him play?”
“You want to?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.”
We decided they’d come to the first playoff game.
The night of the game, dad caught Brett on the phone with our mom. He made me go into the other room, but they ended up yelling so I could hear everything.
“It isn’t any of your business, Dad!
“Of course it’s my business! She’s my wife!”
“Ex-wife.”
“What did you say?”
“I said she’s your ex-wife. Ex.”
I heard dad slap Brett across the face.
“Never again, Brett. You will never talk to me that way again. And don’t you ever call that whore again.”
“Fuck you.”
There was a lot more hitting.
Brett didn’t go to the game that night.
The next day at practice Brett told his coach that he had fallen down the steps and had to go to the hospital because he got knocked unconscious. The coach told him to take the day off and go and rest. Brett took me to the lake instead, but he didn’t speak to me at first. It had been a long time since Brett spoke to me. We sat at the lake without going in the water. Brett stared at nothing; I stared at his swollen lip and black eye, then at nothing with him. I listened to the early crickets. They were quiet. Kind of like they were respecting Brett’s thoughts. Finally, Brett spoke.
“Hey Brody. Promise me something.”
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll love Dad no matter what.”
I didn’t say anything. I was angry with Dad for what I knew he did to Brett.
“Brody.”
“What?”
“Promise me.”
“No.”
“Brody…”
“He hit you.”
“I know…But he just wasn’t thinking.”
“Why’d he call mom a horse?”
This made Brett laugh a little, I don’t know why.
“Because she did something to upset him. Because she left us. But don’t you ever call a girl a horse. OK?”
“OK.”
“And promise me you’ll love him no matter what.”
“Fine.”
Brett smiled at me.
“Don’t smile,” I said.
“Why not?”
“You look weird with a fat lip.”
He laughed and threw me in the water. That wasn’t why I hated him.
Brett’s team made it to the semi-finals while he was getting better. They went to the 13th inning with the team they played in the quarter finals and everyone knew if they wanted to win the semis, they needed Brett. The coach told Brett he should only play if he wasn’t in any pain and felt he could. Brett said he was ready.
The night of the game, Dad apologized to Brett. I listened from the living room while they talked in the kitchen.
“Are you apologizing because you mean it or are you apologizing because you don’t want me to screw up?”
“Both.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Brett…I really am sorry.”
“Ok, Dad. Let’s just go, we’ll be late.”
“OK.”
They played in the stadium where the local minor league team plays. There were stands and everything. They played under the lights. Everyone from our town and everyone from the other team’s town were there. There were also a lot of scouts, all for Brett. It was loud as people started chanting. When the game started, I lifted my arms to be put on Dad’s shoulders. He didn’t notice. I watched the game standing on my seat. It was close.
In the top of the 6th, the other team scored two runs. The pitcher was good and everyone had lost hope. In the bottom of the 9th, with a man on second, and two strikes, Brett hit a home run. It was like he knew the pitcher would give him a fast ball right down the middle. The game went into extra innings.
Both teams put on relieve pitchers in the 11th. At the top of the 13th, a player on the other team hit a home run. Nobody knew who he was, and nobody cared, because Brett would bat third when his team was up. The first kid got out, but the second kid hit a double. Everyone was cheering. Even Dad was going crazy. Brett would put them in the lead. The catcher ran to the pitcher with the coach, and everyone in the stands started booing. The pitcher was shaking his head, and when the catcher went back, he got into position instead of standing off to the left. Everyone was cheering. The pitcher threw two balls. The third everyone thought was a home run. But it went foul. And so did the fourth. Just before the pitcher pitched, Brett stepped off the plate, giving the bat a few practice swings. He looked right at Dad. Finally, he stepped up to the plate. He swung with everything he had at a horrible pitch. His stance was all wrong and so was his follow through. He was out. The other fans started cheering. The next kid at bat popped out. The other team ran out and lifted the pitcher on their shoulders. He had struck out the best hitter in the State. And they won. Our side was silent.
On the drive home, the car was quiet for a while. Then Dad spoke.
“How did you misread that, Brett?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? You read one of the best pitchers in North Carolina’s fast ball but couldn’t read a relieve pitchers’ ball? It was textbook. He was obviously going to throw a ball.”
“I guess I’m just not as good as people thought.”
“Yeah. That’s definitely what those scouts think.”
Brett whispered “Good.”
While driving, Dad started hitting him. He was swerving the car.
“Good? You swung on purpose didn’t you?” Dad yelled while he was hitting Brett. Dad knew he swung on purpose. So did I.
Lights flashed in the car just before the other car hit the passenger seat.
Brett didn’t make it.
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