A steady drumroll breaks out as I look around for the lucky player, but Dawson is staring at me. He’s in full dad mode too, with watery eyes and a trembling smile.
“Our little rookie, Cade Owens, was chosen as the shortstop reserve.”
Huh?
“Me?” I cough out. “I’m going to Atlanta?”
“Yes, rookie.” Dawson throws his head back and howls at the ceiling. “You’re going to the All-Star Game.”
His announcement doesn’t make sense. Not even as the bulking weight of Marcus tackles me to the ground, and I’m dogpiled by the rest of the team. The love from the men who have become my brothers is enough to distract me for a little while though.
“No twenty-four-year-old should have a landline. You know that, right?”
The frayed cord loops around my finger. “They’re part of history, Mom. In an emergency, you’ll be jealous that I can contact the world when cell phones don’t have service.”
She smacks her lips. “Son, I grew up in the age of landlines. Hush up.”
I laugh until the reminder of why I’m using it sobers me.
It’s ancient, with tan plastic and a spiral cord that I’ve stretched out over the years. Mom makes jokes about my favorite mode of communication, but it’s the easiest way for me to shut the world out while being able to reach the people who matter. This is the first time since leaving the stadium that I’ve been able to breathe. No texts or calls to congratulateme on the All-Star roster announcement. No passive aggressive texts from Jon saying it’s all because of his hard work.
Just me and my landline, hiding out.
“You don’t sound like someone who got life-changing news tonight,” Mom says when the silence stretches too long. “What’s wrong, golden boy?”
I flinch at the name, even though it can’t harm me.
Physically at least.
“I’m happy, Ma. I really am.” I just don’t know how to explain that the biggest moment of my career feels off. Groaning, I shove the box of Jon’s notes away and lean against the couch. “Hey. Why did you start calling me golden boy?”
“Simple.” Her laugh titters through the line. “You’re golden.”
The answer seems straightforward, but I don’t understand. “Would I still be golden if I hadn’t started playing baseball?”
My identity has always been rooted in the sport. Everyone encouraged me to forgo school to play baseball. When people around me were asked about their goals and dreams, I was passed over because they assumed I would go on to play professionally. There wasn’t anything I could do about it either because I loved baseball with every piece of me. Instead of fighting back, I buckled in and started on a road trip filled with other people’s hopes and dreams rather than mine. I don’t regret my decision to play, but damn. I’d kill for a little bit of autonomy.
No laugh comes this time. “Oh, Cade,” she whispers. “You’re my golden boy because it’s the best way to describe my favorite things about you in two words.”
I immediately try to backtrack when I hear the wobble in her voice. “Ma, I’m sorry. Forget I said—”
“No. You need to hear this.” She takes a deep breath. “When you were born, I felt like I had won the son lottery. As you got older, I only feltmore validated in that belief. And it had nothing to do with your athletic abilities. You’ve always had an unbridled joy that shines brightly. Your kind heart makes you a friend to all. Your thoughtfulness had parents constantly asking me how I got so lucky with you and how their child could be more like you. You were my golden boy long before you ever picked up a bat, and you will be until the end of time.”
My fingers reach for the piece of yellow paper with Jon’s rules for the golden boy, which are so different from everything Mom is describing.
One, smile at anybody who approaches you.
Two, answer all questions. No matter what.
Three, never say no.
Four, emotions aren’t for the public.
Five, if you feel like quitting, smile through it.
“Even if I didn’t play?”
Her words hum with a smile I can’t see. “Even then.”
