With a six-pack of Sam Adam’s tucked in my arm, I take a deep breath and march onto the porch of the white and gray Craftsman home on the corner of Fifth Street and Gully Ranch Road. I glance to my right and note the long ramp that appears to have been built more recently, probably after one of Dale’s strokes. I rap my knuckles on the screen door, then take a big step back to make some space. I can hear the hum of a television behind the door. It sounds like one of the afternoon news programs, or maybe commentary from a daytime game.
“I’m coming!” I recognize Dale’s voice from the day before, so I pull the screen door open in anticipation.
A chain sliding from a lock precedes the wood door’s opening, and when Dale spots me waiting on the other side, he laughs so hard it turns into a coughing fit.
“I’m not sure why my visit is so funny, but can I get you some water, Coach?” I’m proud of myself for remembering his title request.
He coughs a few more times into his fist, then scoots back from the doorway, pulling his walker with him.
“I had a feeling . . . you’d be by . . . is all. And screw the water. Hand over one of those beers.” He nods toward my hospitality gift.
I promptly hold it up and step inside.
“Coming right up, Coach.” I scan the wide-open living space, and smirk when I see the Yankees game on the television in the other room.
“Put the rest in the fridge, after you take one for yourself, of course,” he says. I guide myself into the kitchen, pulling a single beer out for him and tucking the remaining ones next to a gallon of orange juice and a wrapped head of lettuce.
“Wish I could, but I’m throwing tomorrow. I like to detox the day before.” I unscrew the cap and toss it in the trash before handing the cold one to Renleigh’s dad.
“You pitchers are . . . a weird bunch. If you think . . . drinking a single beer . . . is going to screw up your rhythm, you’ve got bigger problems.” He brings the bottle to his lips and tilts his head back, taking a big drink before releasing an, “Ahh.”
“You’re probably right,” I relent, sliding onto one of the nearby stools.
Dale rests his elbows on the high-top portion of the counter and cradles his beer, his walker tucked into his belly. He’s thin, but there’s muscle to his arms and chest, probably from the rehab work he’s been doing.
“So, I’ve been schooled on all things Coach Blackwood,” I confess.All thingsmight be a bit overboard, but enough.
“Is that . . . so.” He smirks at me over the lip of his beer before holding it to his mouth and tipping it back.
“Yeah, Roddy McKinney is a big fan of yours.”
Dale chuckles.
“He is now. He sure . . . wasn’t a fan of mine . . . when he played for me.”
I narrow my eyes as I mentally piece it together. Makes sense that Roddy would have grown up here. And that he knows the Blackwoods better than most because of it.
“Don’t suppose you have tips for how to handle him?” I quirk a brow, and Dale sucks in the right side of his top lip. I don’t think he has full control over it.
“Just listen to what he says.” He sets his beer down and fixes his hands on his walker.
“Yeah, I’m learning it’s better to have him on my side.”
Dale maneuvers his walker toward one of the leather chairs in the main room. He awkwardly glances over his shouldertoward his beer, and I gather he means for me to bring it with me, so I do.
I set it on a wooden Maverick’s coaster on the nearby end table, then sit on the sofa across from Dale.
“How long have you been working with the walker?” I glance at the fancy contraption he’s parked next to him.
“About thirty-six . . . hours.” He chuckles, a bit out of breath.
I nod.
“I thought about going into physical therapy my freshman year of college, but then I topped a hundred miles per hour with my fastball. Talk of anything other than going pro seemed silly. Besides, it turns out I don’t like blood.”
Dale’s expression morphs into an almost suspicious smile. He probably thinks I’m feeding him bullshit so I can get the secret code to crack his daughter’s armor. I really did set out to be a physical therapist at first. Mostly because being an MLB pitcher seemed like a pipe dream. I grew two more inches when I turned nineteen, though, and something just clicked.
“The girl likes . . . her steak medium rare.” He folds his hands over his belly and tilts his head as he continues to smirk at me.
