The Dugout(91)

“How is he?” she asks, handing me a Diet Mountain Dew. It’s cute how she remembers my favorite drink still. Aunt Carol is the closest thing I had to a mom growing up, but I didn’t see her that much, maybe once a year in the summer, because she lived two hours away and Dad never had the time to drive me to visit. But during the summer, when Aunt Carol wasn’t teaching, she picked me up and I spent time with her, but only for a few days because my baseball schedule didn’t allow for much leisure time.

“Same,” I answer, taking what I know is an Italian sub on wheat with extra provolone. I hold it up to her and say, “Thank you. I was starving.”

“You can leave his side to get food, maybe take a walk, get out and stretch. I’m sure your high school coaches would let you go into the cages and loosen up a bit.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to leave. I know that’s what everyone says in these positions but I really don’t.” I unwrap my sub but leave it in the paper as I lean back in my chair and take in the frail man in front of me. How didn’t I see it? The deeper wrinkles in his face, the gray in his beard, the lack of hair on top of his head. He looks like he’s aged by at least twenty years, and for what? I was set in college. I had a full ride, he didn’t have to pay for any more of my trainings, so why didn’t he slow down?

I scratch the back of my neck and say, “Aunt Carol, can I ask you something?”

“Anything, sweetie.” She doesn’t touch her sub either, but instead uncaps her iced tea and takes a small sip.

“Why didn’t he slow down? Why did he keep working all hours of the day?”

Aunt Carol’s eyes soften as she takes in her brother on the hospital bed, the silent beep of the machines connected to him filling the silence. I watch as she slowly scans her similarly weathered eyes over his aged body. Wrinkled skin, crow’s feet, sun spots, he’s only fifty, so he shouldn’t look like he’s seventy. Finally, Aunt Carol softly says, “He has a lot of debt, honey.”

“From what?” What could he possibly be in debt from? He always said we were fine, especially when I asked about certain field trips with my team to different events in high school, where he’d pull a twenty out of his wallet and tell me to have fun. If he was in debt, would he really do that?

Aunt Carol nervously wrings her hands together, staring at her lap. “I don’t know if I should tell you this, as your dad was always very secretive about his expenses and I’m sure he didn’t want to share any of it with you. He didn’t want to burden you with his troubles.”

What troubles?

I’m so confused and maybe I’m being na?ve, but he never indicated there was any trouble. I think back over the last few years, my childhood, growing up with everything I needed—baseball was expensive, I knew that because I saw the worry in my dad’s eyes whenever I came home with a new invoice from my coaches. But he always took care of it . . .

I chew on the inside of my lip and ask, “Does it have to do with baseball?”

That’s when she shuts her eyes and tears slip down her cheeks. From her crocheted purse, which I’ve always known her to carry in the crook of her arm, she pulls out a white embroidered handkerchief and dabs at her tears.

Fuck, was it baseball? Did my sport do this to my dad?

“It was a lot, sweetie.” She answers on a deep breath. “Your mom’s medical bills were a giant burden accompanied with the baseball expenses. He took out a loan to help ease the burden, thinking compiling the debt would ease his wallet, but he didn’t read the fine print, and is paying so much interest that it’s more than the payment itself. He’s in way over his head.”

What? How is that even possible? My dad is a smart man, and I thought he had always ensured his affairs were in order. It’s one of the things he always stressed: make sure my bills were paid before I had fun. All Brentwood baseball players have full-ride scholarships and when you live off campus, you get a giant check at the beginning of every semester for room and board. Since Brentwood is an expensive school, we received a hefty check. When Dad helped me open a bank account for the first time, he stressed to me to save as much as I could. To have fun, but not to waste my money on frivolous things. And because I lived off campus for three years out of the four, I saved a really nice chunk of change thanks to splitting the grocery bill with a bunch of guys, low rent with utilities included. Because my dad filled out the financial-aid packet, I was granted extra money for clothes from the NCAA. I learned from him, so why didn’t he learn from himself?

“Wh-why didn’t he say anything? I could have given him money, taken on another job at school, done something to help. Why did he keep sending me ‘fun’ money when he didn’t have any for himself?” My heart plummets considering all the times Dad texted me to tell me he’d put some more money in my account and to go have fun. He made it seem like everything was okay when in fact, he’s been slowly killing himself to provide for me. I never needed that money. He did.

Not hungry anymore, I put my sub to the side and bury my fingers in my hair, trying to comprehend this new information.

“He loves you so much, Carson. You’re his pride and joy, and I know he has a hard time expressing that sometimes, but you should see how proud he is, the newspaper clippings he had me put together in a scrapbook for him, the pictures he’s printed of you online, the articles. There is nothing that makes him happier than seeing you happy.”