It’s not long before the endless starry sky and the crackling fire work its magic, lulling us all into a reflective mood. Maria asks Joseph about his professional baseball career, in which I findmyself wholly consumed. He gives some insight into MLB life—how he tripped on the turf the first time he ran out on the field in the pros, how his World Series ring is so big that he never wears it but instead has it in a dusty drawer at home, how he taught Tyrone to throw his first curveball at the ripe old age of three, and how he’d felt becoming one of the most famous baseball players of his generation.
Next to me, Missy’s head bumps into my shoulder. I look over to find her eyelids half closed. “You good?”
Missy nods, her sleepy little eyes reminding me of a newborn puppy. It pulls a smile from my lips. But when her head leans on my shoulder again, I put my arm around her and steer her head onto my lap. She doesn’t protest; instead, she nestles her head until she finds the most comfortable position.
“If you were so successful, why’d you quit?” Heartbreaker asks Joseph with all the tact of a preschooler.
Joseph chuckles, but sadness tugs at his features. “I left the pros because I had to, not because I wanted to.”
Joseph doesn’t add more, but I don’t need him to tell me what happened. It was all over the news. He was forced to retire early after allegedly gambling on his own game. Come to find out, years later, that he didn’t and his name was cleared, but by that point, his career was over.
“I just hope my son will never have to leave his career the way I had to. I might be his dad, but I’d say he has a long and promising career ahead of him.” Joseph pats his son on the shoulder, and Tyrone grows three feet under the praise. “Anyway, enough about me, what about the former Olympians? Maria, I know you played singles in tennis at two Olympic Games. But Bill, I don’t think I heard what year you went. Or did you go multiple years like Maria?”
Maria stands up and kisses her husband’s head. “I’m going to use the restroom. Just let me know when you’re ready to go on our stroll.”
“What? You don’t want to hear this story for the hundredth time?” Bill says.
“I love you, Mi Amor,” Maria coos.
Bill chuckles and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “Love you. I’ll come meet you for our walk soon.”
Maria gives us a parting wave and heads toward the plane.
Suddenly, I hear something crunch. I look down to spy the culprit—Missy’s yellowing bracelet. It’s one of many trinkets she’s made from fallen palm leaves, but this specific one is now squished between her head and my lap as she tries to use her hand as a pillow. Careful not to wake her, I wrap my hand around her small wrist and gently tug her bracelet out of harm’s way, knowing how attached she gets to little knickknacks like these. But just as I think I’ve successfully saved her bracelet while managing not to wake her, Missy moans, her head flipping uncomfortably back and forth before settling once more.
“Missy?” I ask.
She snores in response, fast asleep. Between the long days of sun exposure and the constant rustling of our plastic-covered mattresses at night, I know all too well how tired she is. With all of her position changes, her hair’s broken free from its braid, and soft golden waves spill across my lap. A tendril brushes my hand, making me wonder what it would feel like to run my hand through it. I twist the smallest bit of her hair between my thumb and forefinger. It’s soft and makes me think of the strawberry-scented shampoo she uses when we’re at home.
Before I know it, I’ve given into temptation, and I comb my fingers through her hair once, then twice. Then Missy hums out a contented sigh, so I do it again, finding joy in the way her features relax with every brush. And for a moment, I think Imight be happy doing this all night long if it means seeing her so at ease.
“So you went to the 1992 Olympics in Spain? Wow. What was it like?” I hear Joseph ask Bill, pulling me back to reality.
Bill smirks. “It was pretty spectacular. I’ve never seen so many people come to watch a tennis match. But unlike Maria, I only went tooneOlympic Games.”
“Only one Olympics. You say that as if it’s not one of the highest athletic feats,” I say.
“No, it is. And it was an honor to be there. But to my coach, one time was not enough. He’d wanted me to keep going,” Bill says.
“Why didn’t you?” I ask.
Bill lets out a long breath. “A week after I’d arrived home from the Olympics, my best friend, Randy Martinez, got into a car crash and passed away.” Bill swallows hard. “Randy would always say he wasn’t anything special. He had a minimum-wage job and struggled with several mental health issues. Yet, every day he lived his life to its fullest. He made everyone around him laugh, and he often forced his baked treats on me even though they went against my diet.”
Bill chuckles. “He’d always tell me‘You get one life, so make it your best.’His words stuck in my mind for months after his passing. They really made me think how, even with the notability of the Olympics, I wasn’t happy withmyone life. Every day I would wake up, force myself to choke down a disgusting green smoothie that was part of my rigid diet, and I’d go to practice for hours. Then once I was exhausted from that, I’d go to my side job at a local pizza joint, only to go to bed and do it all over again.
“Then to top it all off, after Maria and I met and started dating at the 1992 Olympics, Maria retired and moved to Dallas to be near me, yet I rarely ever saw her or any of my friends. I was miserable.” Bill’s face saddens with the memory.
My fingers freeze in Missy’s hair. “What did you do?” I lean in for his response, needing to know the rest of his story, feeling that, in some ways, this part of Bill’s life is a mirror of my own.
Bill picks up a small stick at his feet and rubs it between his fingers, a smile lighting his face. “I quit, and I’ve never looked back.” He tosses his stick in the fire, watching the flames latch onto it. “It took me a while to piece my life together after that, but with some hard work and Maria’s help, I started living the way I really wanted to. I got a job that I enjoyed, I married the love of my life, and now we have a beautiful daughter. Maybe I could have gone further in my tennis career, but I’ve never regretted my decision. I’m happy with the person I am and the life I’m living today. And that’s something I couldn’t always say before.”
My heart pounds as I transpose Bill’s story onto my life. Am I proud of who I am? I feel a tug, urging me to answer this question, as painful as it might be. Like Bill, I wonder if I’m truly living my one life to its fullest potential—not the life that is expected of me by others, but the life I expect of myself.
All too soon, I find myself alone at the firepit with a sleeping Missy on my lap. One by one, everyone had disappeared into their various places, some taking a nighttime swim and others going for a walk. But I can’t bring myself to move, not when I feel the questions press down on me with unnerving weight.
Just when I feel miles deep in my own head, the whirs of a nearby drone swoop down on me, snapping me from my mental spiral.
Once more, Missy shifts in my lap, resettling into a new position. My focus turns to her. Aside from her snores that mimic the roar of a souped-up Chevy, she seems at peace. However, as soft as she might find my legs at the moment, I know she’d be far more comfortable in her bed.
