Maybe those were valid arguments. I didn’t know. All I knew was what I really heard Dad saying was, “Why can’t you be like me?”
“I might play ball for a career. You never know.” I shouldn’t have said it, but I did.
Dad gave me a sharp look. “And I was going to go to the moon.”
Ouch.
“Listen,” Dad sighed. “I just want you to be realistic about your future.”
“I am.”
“Are you?”
Macaroni and cheese never tasted so bad. I didn’t answer.
“Your mom sent me those videos going around on YouTube.”
“They’re not on YouTube,” I muttered. Dad was disconnected from life as my generation knew it.
“Baseball and girls? That’s a pretty low bar, Brooks.”
I kept eating. Not because I was hungry. I wasn’t. Not anymore.
“Think of it. You could be a lawyer, a doctor, a psychiatrist—”
“I’m not interested in those things.”
“Fine. An electrician, then. There is a lot of money to be made in trades these days.”
“Sure. Fine. I’ll be an electrician.” It sounded better than a doctor to me, and if it got Dad off my back . . .
“Baseball isn’t going to—”
“There’s a recruiter interested in me,” I interrupted. I gave Dad the only thing I could think of that might lend credibility to my dream.
Dad raised his brows. “What does that mean?”
“It could mean—” I stumbled for words. “Scholarships, maybe? Umm . . . opportunity for college ball? Minor leagues?”
Dad contemplated that for a moment. “One recruiter?”
Of course. He’d diminish any hopes to the odds of success.
“I don’t know,” I kept my answer vague.
“You really think, Son, that one recruiter will change your future? That you can be some—some media sensation and that will get you noticed?”
Wait. I lifted my head and stared at Dad. “I’m not dating Brielle to get instafamous so recruiters notice me.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then why are you allowing all those videos to go out there and make you look like a player—in more definitions than baseball, I might add.”
I stared at Dad. I was angry. Dumbfounded. Completely knocked off guard. “I’m not playing Brielle.”
“So you’re serious about this girl?”
