“Alright, give me a good one this
time,” I shouted to my nephew Nathan.
It was a warm Sunday night in
June and the empty street in front of my parents’ house made the perfect field
for an impromptu batting session.
After a half hour of pitching tennis
balls to Tate, Curtis and my teenage nephews, I figured I deserved to take a
few swings myself.
Sure, the teenagers could hit a
pitch or two. But there’s no way these young punks were going to show me up.
After all, I was a baseball All-Star…in 1992.
I hike up my shorts, tip my cap,
raise my bat, and point it to the outfield wall (which was really just the
neighbor’s front yard).
I tighten my grip around the
handle of the first-and-only bat I’ve ever owned, the 22-inch tee ball bat that
has lived in my mom’s hall closest since 1987. The War Lord (such a politically
incorrect name for a blunt object) has aged gracefully over the past three
decades. Though it lost its original grip years ago, my industrious mother
replaced it with blue painter’s tape. As good as new.
Nathan winds up. Throws. The ball
hurtles toward me. I lean back, twist my hips, and lurch forward. Hands at
ears. Then hands at torso. Then snap the wrists. Always follow through.
The ball rockets off the bat.
Instead, all eyes turn to the
aluminum missile sailing through air — straight toward Curtis’ head. In an
instant, his life flashes before my eyes.
The sound of his
first cry in the hospital.
The moment that
two-year-old Paige walks into the recovery room, sees her new brand new baby
brother and exclaims, “Put him back!”
The first day of
soccer.
The first day of
school.
The first day of
braces.
I see it all while the War Lord
spins through the air, en route to Curtis’ still-intact skull.
What have I
done?
I have killed my
first-born son.
His mother will
kill me.
And then the window of mercy blows
ever so slightly. The bat innocently grazes the top of his hat before meeting the
asphalt with a clank.
Before Curtis has time to consider
his own mortality, he is smothered by his father’s hugs and kisses and a
barrage of I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorr-ies.
War Lords and painter’s tape are
make a bad team.
