“Does anyone have any questions?” she asks in that way she has, like any questions would be a great inconvenience to her.
Mark scowls down at his glove.
“Does anyone have any experience playing softball or baseball?” I ask.
A couple people raise their hands and the group laughs nervously.
“Well, don’t worry. I’ve played baseball my whole life,” I say, looking at Ms. Blunt as I do. She bites the inside of her lip. It feels like confirmation that she assigned this to me because she didn’t know I was born with a ball in my hand.
But the feeling in my gut isn’t smugness at her mistake, just excitement to show her what I can do.
“I’ve been coaching kids’ teams since I was eighteen, so I think we probably won’t completely embarrass ourselves in front the rest of the building.”
Almost three hours later, my throat is sore from yelling instructions across the diamond and the supreme confidence I felt coaching this team has floated away like diamond dust. Half the team could barely catch the ball with their gloves on, and only three people hit the ball in a semi-forward direction. At least when I coach children, they assume I have some sort of authority. This team would barely listen to me. Everyone stands in groups, sipping from water bottles and laughing. I feel like a pimple. Big and a little sore and totally obvious on an otherwise unblemished face. No matter how bad I want to, I don’t know how to get up from this bench and join a group.
Abila makes eye contact with me across the dugout. I stretch out my neck and shoulders and check my phone in an effort not to look at her. There’s a text from Amy reminding me of dinner tonight with our dad.
Thanks for the reminder, I text back. I don’t think I’m going to make it tho...have work to do once I get home from practice. :S.
The text dots appear in our chat window, then Amy texts back a sad face and:
If you’re not going then I’m NOT going.
I’ll call him, I assure her. I can’t deal with a pissed-off Amy today and if anything is going to piss her off it’s going to be our father.
I pull up my dad’s contact.
“Yeah,” is how he answers his phone.
“Hey, Dad, how’s it going?” He grunts a non-answer and when he doesn’t say any more I push on. “I’m going to have to cancel our dinner tonight.”
There’s a pause and I wave goodbye to a few people in the silence. I check my phone screen to see if the call dropped. “Dad?”
“What dinner?” he barks.
“Amy and I were supposed to meet you for dinner tonight, Dad.” I try to keep the impatience from my voice.
“Okay. Fine.”
I drop my head into my free hand. “Dad, wait... I’m saying wecan’tmeet you. Can we reschedule?”
“Why?” he asks contemptuously. “Does she have to waitress?”
I sigh, not bothering to muffle the sound. “Amy’s opening her own restaurant, Dad. She’s not a server anymore.” I pause. “And even if she was, why does it matter?”
He ignores my question. “Well, then why the fuck are you cancelling last minute?”
Forget the fact that he didn’t even remember we were supposed to have dinner together thirty seconds ago.
“I have to work,” I say bluntly. “I’ll email you about next time.”
I end the call and text Amy: Dinner is cancelled.
Good, she writes. And then,I have a surprise for you when you get home. Make sure it’s at an actually reasonable time. And don’t bail.
My neck flushes at the reminder that I bailed on her dinner last night. She left an encyclopedia of messages on my phone, ranging from angry to worried, this morning. I guess I should just be happy she’s even talking to me.
Amy, I have so much work to do.
