Aycock sets the box down at Dad’s feet like a sacrificial offering. Then, he grabs scissors off Daisy’s desk and slices into the tape across the top of the box. My father reaches down and holds up a blazing red T-shirt.Kiss of Death, it reads in cursive writing.
That’s our team name.
A few years back, Dad partnered us up with the law offices of D’Aleo and Strauss down the hall. They’re divorce attorneys. Their practice is a little bigger than ours, but together we’ve got enough bodies to create one complete softball team for the Corporate Slow-Pitch League in Central Park.
That was how I met Dom D’Aleo. He became my divorce attorney.
So I guess the team’s not a total wash.
They’ve got Dom, his business partner Richie Strauss (who’s about forty and jacked out of his mind), a handful of paras—Jessica, Courtney, and Mark—and two assistants (because Dom doesn’t like to share), Rachel and Raoul. They’re all young and in pretty decent shape. By contrast, we bring to the table Gordon Aycock (who is about my age but looks like the only sport he might have played in high school was chess),my sixty-nine-year-old father, and my girl Daisy, who packs us all snacks on game days but hasn’t had a hit in three years. And me.
We’re a fucking dream team.
When Dad took the company over from his father, it was just him and Daisy and a revolving door of paralegals who came and went on their way up the ladder.
Gordon Aycock was one such paralegal. Only he never left.
You would think estate planning was fun, the way he behaved. He was in law school at NYU when I was at Cardozo. On ascholarship. Making my family proud, or so you’d think.
I’ll never forget the day my dad hired Gordon. He came home from work late (as usual) and, while Mom and I were having dinner, announced, “Colin! I found a diamond in the rough today. He’s going to give you a run for your money, son. I cantell.”
Wondering what the hell he was talking about, I pushed for more intel.
4.0 out of Georgetown, born and raised in Manhattan, went to Bronx Science (excuse me, as if I was nothing just because I didn’t go to aspecializedhigh school), and justdyingto study estate law, pun fully intended. I was focusing on law school during the day and working for a construction company off the books on the weekends, so I didn’t meet Gordon Aycock until after I passed the bar and started working at the firm as a junior partner.
I assumed, wrongly, that I would be his boss. I quickly learned that Gordon worked for nobody but my father. He was like a feral cat protecting his food source, but with an added layer of passive-aggressiveness reserved for little bitches. He’d smile at my face while misfeeding my copies on purpose, ask how my weekend was while conveniently forgetting to give me my phone messages, and run to Starbucks for my dad without asking if I wanted anything.
He passed the bar the following summer and, to my surprise, immediately earned the title of junior partner as well.
When Dad retired, he left the firm to the two of us. I never thought about changing the name; I was used to it being called Yarmouth Estate Planning from all my years of childhood. So, you can imagine my surprise when Gordon hired a web developer to give us a “rebrand,” complete with a new name, new business cards, and new email addresses. It was viaemailthat I learned our new name was Yarmouth Aycock, P.C., and when I called my father to discuss that change with him, he responded, “Ah, that’s Gordy for you! Always a go-getter. Always taking the bull by the horns.”
I updated the company policy after that. We don’t hire paralegals anymore.
“Ilovethe color, Jack,” Gordy says now.
“You would. It brings out your eyes,” I mutter.
Daisy smirks. “Thanks for the outfits, John,” she says.
“They’re notoutfits! They’reuniforms!” Dad says.
“They’re great outfits,” I sidebar to Daisy.
“Make sure you’ve all got a shirt that fits, and I’ll deliver the rest down the hall,” Dad says. Gordy picks out a medium shirt for himself, then holds another up against my dad’s chest. “Whaddya think, Jack? Large? Or XL for you?”
“I’ve got it, Gordy. Thanks though, son.”
Aycock steps back and returns the shirt to the box. Daisy walks over and grabs two large shirts, tossing one to me. It barely makes it over the reception counter.
“Sorry,” she says.
“Nice throw, Daisy. We just need to work on your form a little before Sunday’s game.”
She smiles.
“Practice is Wednesday, 5:30 sharp. Colin! Make sure you hit the bench before then!”
“Hooyah, Master Chief!” I say with a mock salute.
