We Are the Light(53)

But it wouldn’t make me feel any less alone.

Jill put her kitchen assistant, Randy, in charge of supervising all the cooks for the film crew. So many people from Majestic volunteered to help shop and cook and serve food that Jill was able to make me her number one priority, especially since the Cup Of Spoons had closed for the duration of our creative endeavor.

“Jill will see you through,” Isaiah would say to me whenever he caught me hiding in the shadows of the sprawling movie production. Then Isaiah would slap my cheek lightly and add, “That woman’s got you, my friend. And God’s got you.”

But Isaiah’s praying and Jill’s handholds on the hammock didn’t do much for me. I know that sounds ungrateful and ugly, but it’s the truth.

It’s funny, because lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad and this one spring when he volunteered to coach my Little League baseball team. We had pine-green uniforms and hats and were called the Centaurs, which, now that I think of it, is a strange name for a baseball team, although I don’t think my dad chose the name. The other teams had regular names like the Lions, the Bears, the Tigers, but we were the half-man-half-horse team for some reason.

I wasn’t a very good baseball player and my father had never really seemed all that interested in the sport, so I was surprised when he told me he would be my coach. The first thing he did was take me to a sporting goods store to pick out a bat and a glove.

“Choose wisely, because you need to look the part,” I remember him saying.

I didn’t know which specific glove and bat would make me look like a baseball player. Wouldn’t any and every glove or bat do that? I remember feeling extremely nervous as I looked at the great walls of baseball equipment in what used to be Majestic Sports but is now a Starbucks. A black glove with gold letters caught my eye, so I pointed to it, but my dad frowned and said, “Baseball gloves should be brown, Son. Only a show-off wears a black glove.” Dad plucked a brown glove off the wall and handed it to me. “See if it fits,” he said. It was tight and hurt my hand, but when he said, “Fits like a glove,” I did not protest.

We repeated the scene above, only standing in front of the wall of bats this time. I guessed that a metal bat would send the ball farther away from home plate, which was technically true, but Dad said, “Real men use wooden bats,” before picking out the one he wanted me to use, which was too heavy for me to swing properly. “After a week or so of push-ups, it’ll be fine,” Dad said.

That afternoon Dad and I tried to have a catch in the front yard. He had an old first baseman’s mitt from back in the day when he played for Majestic High. I remember being surprised when I saw his well-worn glove, because we had never before had a catch. For some reason, I got really nervous and every inch of my skin began to tingle unmercifully. Plus, the new glove was killing my left hand, squeezing all the blood out of my fingers, which I had jammed into the small holes.

I had no problem throwing the ball to the other boys in my grade. I could hit their gloves pretty much every time, but when it came to my dad, no matter how hard I concentrated, the ball always sailed over his head. He tried to jump up and catch it, but I’d accidentally throw it so high, he had no chance. When he’d land, he’d scream, “What’s wrong with you, Lucas? I’m not getting that. Go!” With my heart pounding, I’d run through the neighbor’s front yard and into the street to retrieve the ball and on my way back, Dad would say, “Just because you have my last name doesn’t mean I’m going to play you. You have to earn your position on the team. And you’re off to a terrible start.”

I remember thinking if I could only hit my dad’s glove consistently, I’d never wish for anything again as long as I lived. I had never wanted anything as much as I wanted to make the baseball travel directly from my hand to the webbing of my dad’s first baseman’s mitt. But every time I tried, the ball left my fingers early and flew twenty or so feet over Dad’s head.

“Lucas!” Dad screamed after the fourth or fifth time. “I’m done!”

Dad stormed into the house and wouldn’t make eye contact with me for a week.

When the season started, I noticed that Dad was much more patient with my teammates, who actually seemed to like my father. He was nice to all of their parents too. And he never yelled at me in front of any of the people involved with Majestic Little League. Dad didn’t encourage me as much as he encouraged the other kids, but I didn’t mind. Not being yelled at was nice enough. It was always better when Dad’s attention was focused on other things.

Dad played me in left field, because almost everyone on the other teams batted right-handed and no one could pull the ball to the opposite field, and so the action never came to me, which was wonderful. I could stand out there in left field and sort of disappear. And in the dugout, Dad would make everyone stand and clap and cheer on whomever was batting, so I could hide behind all of that noise too. The only time people really saw me was after everyone else had batted and the ninth hitter was called to the plate. I always batted last because I almost always struck out. Everyone in the dugout would clap and cheer me on, but my dad never said a word until we were in the car driving home, at which point he’d lecture me in a yelling voice about my “potential as a baseball player” and “wasting opportunities” and “grabbing life by the throat.” He’d say he was only trying to inspire me right after he’d told me I was embarrassing him.