Page 4 of Praising the Pitcher

My father was supposed to go pro but injured himself right before the season started and wasn’t able to make a full recovery in his arm for pitching. He knows the game, and if he says I’m not doing good, I have to believe him.

Deciding to change the subject, I exhale in attempt to settle myself.

“Mom’s birthday is next week,” I say softly. “I was thinking of putting something Christmasy by her stone. I think she’d like that.”

My dad blinks a few times, as if he’s trying to process if I’m joking or not.

“Thanksgiving isn’t for a month, Gigi,” he finally says. “Why would you want to put Christmas décor out.”

“Because Mom loved Christmas and it’s her stone.” The words fly from my mouth with ease, but the second they leave my lips, I know he’d consider it me talking back to him. And there’s nothing he hates more than being talked back to.

His eyes are narrowed slightly now, and I know I’ve pissed him off.

“I think you living at that house with all those girls with bad attitudes and lack work ethics is making you forget your manners, G,” he answers, slightly gritting his teeth. “Perhaps it’s time for me to see about you moving home or into a private dorm.”

“No,” I blurt out fast. Probably too fast.

Definitely too fast …

My dad lives about half an hour away, and while I wouldn’t want to drive here every day, the biggest reason I wouldn’t want to live with him is because frankly, I don’t think I could take the constant criticism and unrealistic expectations. Truthfully, nothing I do is ever going to be good enough.

“I just … I think for the morale of the team, it’s good I live with some of my teammates.” I shrug. “It helps our bond—you know.”

Thankfully, the waitress drops our food off before he can answer. That’s another thing I love about this place; it’s so fast, which makes it a great spot for me to come between class and training.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he utters, clearly unimpressed.

This isn’t the first time he’s threatened for me to move out of The Nest where a bunch of other female athletes at NEU live. It won’t be the last, I’m sure.

“Thank you,” I say as she slides the plate with an omelet and toast toward me. When I look at her tray, I realize she still has one more plate on it. And when she smiles and grabs a plate of French toast, I chew my lip nervously because even though she’s probably trying to be nice, I wish she hadn’t done that.

“Since you couldn’t make up your mind, the cook and I agreed you should have both.” She winks at me. “This one is on the house.”

“Thank you,” I can hardly squeak as she sets it down, knowing my dad is probably fuming. My father has always been a man who wants to be in control. My mom didn’t have a voice the entire time I was growing up. She never argued, never disagreed, just kept her mouth shut. I have no doubt he hates this waitress, even though he doesn’t know her. Because women who aren’t afraid to take charge? He hates that.

Which is why I’m weak. I may appear strong on the mound, but that’s the only place where I feel that way. It’s the only place I’ve ever felt in control. Even when my pitching coach is telling me what pitch to throw next, it’s up to me to deliver. I can throw as hard as I want because it’s my body.

“Is there anything else I can get you two?” Her eyes dart between me and my dad, and I had gotten so lost in my own thoughts, I sort of forgot she was here.

“No. I think you’ve done enough, thanks,” my dad mutters, and when her eyes widen, I half expect her to say something back to him, but instead, she nods awkwardly before backing away from the table.

I know better than to even look at the French toast, even though I can smell it, and that alone has my mouth watering. My dad would be infuriated if I ate it, so instead, I unwrap the napkin from my silverware and hold my fork above my omelet, ready to dig into it.

“No,” my dad says, yet the one quiet word still comes out as sharp as a knife. “You made our waitress feel bad for you, and now we have a plate of sugary, fattening bread sitting here.” He lifts a hand, pushing it toward me. “Eat all of it. And then let’s see how you feel at practice today.” His icy gaze holds mine. “Don’t forget strength training after.”

This is the type of stuff Cal Jacobs does. He makes an example out of people when he wants to prove a point. The point here being, I should have just ordered the damn omelet to begin with—it’s what I eat every day. I can trust the omelet. I can rely on the omelet. It’s filling. It’s predictable. Instead, I tried to push back, and now, I’ll probably feel like crap at practice later.

“No, Dad,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t want French toast. You were right. I want⁠—”

“Eat it, G.” He cuts me off. “Every single piece.”

Taking a bottle of syrup, he plucks the cap free before bringing it over the top of my plate. Drowning the bread in it, he finally sets it down between us. “Can’t forget the syrup, right?”

I gulp back a swallow, and my eyes move from his to the stack of four pieces of French toast. I know I screwed up. But when he tells you to do something, you do it. Or else he’ll only make you feel worse.

So, sliding the plate in front of me out of the way, I bring the other in front—feeling him judging me as I take the fork and cut a piece off. Bringing it to my mouth, I push it inside.

And even though it tastes like heaven, I know I’m about to learn yet another lesson. But it’s my own fault because I should have known better.