That sounded real friendly and honest. Not. “I was calling about the e-mail I just got regarding the schedule,” I tried to prep him.
The deep sigh that escaped him made me feel like I wasn’t the first person to reach out to him today about the same exact thing. “Okay,” was his answer that pretty much confirmed that suspicion.
So I just went right for it like I would have with Josh’s old coach. “Look, I don’t know what you guys were smoking when you put the schedule together, but this is way too busy.” I was doing it. Fuck it. I was a terrible bullshitter. “Three practices a week? He already has coaching two other days. All that with weekend tournaments multiple times a month isn’t going to work either. They’re kids. They need some time to do… kid stuff.”
There was a pause on his end, a controlled exhale. “I get what you’re saying—”
This wasn’t going to end well. I needed to go ahead and accept that.
“—but this is just preparation for when they’re older, playing more competitive ball.” He ended in that deep tone that sounded like he’d lost his voice once and never regained it.
“I think we have three or maybe four more years for that. I think they’ll be fine playing tournaments once or twice a month, and practicing two times a week. There’s no way I’m the only person that this isn’t working for.”
“Three other sets of the parents approved the schedule before we sent it out,” Dallas said in a voice that reminded me how Ginny had mentioned him being in the military. He wastellingme this information.
Unfortunately for him, I had a problem with people telling me what I could and couldn’t do.
“Well, those three parents must only have one kid, no lives, and that one kid must hate them because they don’t do anything that isn’t baseball related,” I grumbled back, surprised at what he was telling me. What the hell was wrong with these people?
There was a shout in the background that sounded surprisingly like “Boss!” Then a muffled shout back that I was pretty sure came from Dallas before he returned in a cool, quick voice. “I gotta go, but I’ll think about what you said and somebody will get back to you about the schedule.”
That was it? “Somebody” was going to get back to me? Not him? “Please think about it—”
“I gotta go, sorry. Bye,” he cut me off a split second before the line went dead.
With a groan that came straight from my gut, I pressed my finger against the screen and ground down on my molars. “Damn it.”
* * *
When three dayswent by and I hadn’t gotten a new e-mail about the schedule being changed for the better, I started to get a little frustrated. When another day went by, including a practice, with half of the parents complaining to one another about their outrage regarding practices and tournaments, andstillnone of the staff commented about anything being done… I got more frustrated. But it wasn’t until four more days passed, including another practice, with nothing changing and no one saying anything, that I realized the truth.
Nothing was going to happen.
And that just wasn’t going to work.
I’d already talked to my parents and the Larsens about Josh’s insane schedule and they had all assured me we could make it work between all of us, but that wasn’t the point. What about the parents who didn’t have four extra people to help them out? What about the parents with more kids, who all had other sports and activities? What about my Louie who liked going skateboarding and riding his bike from time to time?
I understood how highly competitive sports worked. I had family members who had grown up to be professional athletes, but a ten-year-old completely sacrificing all of their free time? That didn’t seem like the best idea to me. They needed a couple more years to be kids, didn’t they?
So between clients, I picked up the phone and redialed the numbers I had saved in my contacts a week ago. And when it went to voice mail, I left a message. Four hours later, when I still hadn’t gotten a response, I called Trip again and left him a voice mail. In my desperation, I called again and left another message on Dallas’s phone. I may or may not have been making faces the entire time it took me to get home from work at seven that evening, making up all kinds of random excuses why I hadn’t gotten a call back from the team’s head coachwhen I lived across the street from himand worked with the assistant coach’s cousin, who worked down the block. The only thing that had kept me from walking to the mechanic shop where I’d overheard Trip worked was that would be creepy and crossing the line. A work place was a work place.
“This is bullshit,” I finally whispered to myself as I sat in my car before opening the door and heading up the path to my house. Unfortunately for Dallas, I dropped my keys on the ground and it took forever to wipe the fob off on my pants, otherwise I might have missed him getting home. The fact was I didn’t miss anything. As an old, Ford pickup rumbled its way down the street and turned into his driveway, I stood there. In the cab, I spotted that familiar buzz-cut dark head of hair behind the wheel of his big, old F-350.
I stood there, watching and debating whether to leave Dallas alone or not.
I went with not leaving him alone.
Before his truck had even disappeared into the garage set back along his driveway, I was already crossing the street and making my way over, hands tucked into the back pockets of my black jeans.
“Hi,” I called out to him as I approached. He already had one leg hanging out of the driver side, the door flung open wide.
“Hey” was his response as he got out, his eyes going a little wide into what I knew couldn’t be exasperation, right? Dressed in a long-sleeved, button-up, navy blue work shirt and khaki cargo shorts with more holes in them than pockets, Dallas was dusty as hell. I still hadn’t figured out what he did for a living, not that it mattered or that it was even my business.
I smiled at him, trying to be as sweet and nonthreatening as possible. Myabuela, God rest her soul, had always told me you get a lot more out of life being nice than being acabrona.God, I had loved that woman. “I wanted to see if you had changed your mind about the schedule,” I said, still smiling, trying to be all nice and innocent.
Almost as if sensing my bullshit, Dallas narrowed those hazel eyes at me. “It’s been brought up, but nothing has been decided,” was his political bullshit answer.
I was a lot of things, but a quitter wasn’t one of them. “Okay. In that case, I hope you guys see reason and change it because it’s crazy.”
