Apology by Jon Pineda (books to read this summer .txt) 📕

to make it so. If given the chance, he could open himself up. He knew he could point to what needed to be there, what was essential. Even what needed to be removed.

Opening day began with team pictures. Micah had chosen the number 10. It was his age. It was also the number on the jersey he had found in the closet at his dad’s apartment. The jersey wasn’t for baseball, but he wouldn’t hold that against his father. The cool thing was that it was shimmery and gold. His father had let him wear it to bed that night since he had forgotten to pack his pajamas. Just before his dad had shut off the light, he told Micah a story about a boy who played on a field, who kicked in the winning goal.

“Who was that?” Micah said, laughing.

“You,” Tom said. He placed his hand on the boy’s chest. “Inside there.”

Tom had watched Micah run to catch up with his teammates. The kids were taller, with scowling faces. Some had modified uniforms. Longer pants with belts like the pros. Tom remembered it was Rachel who had insisted they not go all out, since this was just a trial.

“Don’t let your guilt buy him an expensive bat,” she had said.

“But I can get an employee discount,” Tom had said.

“I don’t care. There’s nothing worse than seeing a kid with everything, all new equipment, get up there and strike out.”

He knew she was right. But the impulse to provide for the boy was too great. He had compromised and had bought Micah a batting glove and a mouth guard and wrap-around safety glasses.

Orange and black jerseys bounced up and down. Micah’s Orioles uniform looked too big for the boy; the large, freshly screened number 10 covered most of his back. The jersey had been scrunched down into the bunched elastic waistband of his bright white polyester pants. The entire ensemble could have been a construction sign, it was so large and at odds with the boy’s frame.

They gathered in the dugout. Tom made sure not to stand near the chain-link section. He would not call Micah over to him. They had worked on his swing earlier.

“Drive it,” Tom wanted to tell his son, as if that would mean anything now.

The boys horsed around on the bench. They raked sunflower seeds with their cleats. Wet shells were smeared on the concrete. The boys were laughing.

Tom didn’t want to take him away from that.

He climbed the bleachers and took a seat. He saved space for his family. Rachel was going to make the next game. They had already worked out the details, how they would trade off throughout the season.

It was better this way.

The boys went out onto the field and removed their caps.

Tom took off his old UVA baseball hat. One of the fathers had turned around and asked him what year he’d graduated, pointing.

“I didn’t,” Tom said. “Sorry.”

As the prerecorded “Star-Spangled Banner” played out over the brittle speakers of the PA system, Tom glanced back at the parking lot. He could see his mother and father. He searched quickly for Teagan. He was relieved she wasn’t with them.

Micah was right in the middle of the lineup, which surprised Tom. He thought for sure his son would have been at the bottom.

“How is he?” Manny said.

“They just started,” Tom said. “Where’s Sissy?”

Tom’s father didn’t say anything. Tom leaned over and looked at his mother.

“She wanted to go to one of the craft classes,” Elinor said. “That’s all.”

“What craft class?” Tom said.

The pitcher for the other team, a barrel-chested kid, was throwing hard. He had a gun, but he wasn’t very accurate. If anything, it would be a long game. Lots of walks until this boy was traded out.

“It’s nothing,” Elinor said. “She said she wanted to go to the center, so we dropped her off just to see. We’ll get her after the game.”

“That’s right,” Manny said. He was giddy now. He called over to Micah, who was on deck. “Don’t swing like a sissy!”

He had meant it as a joke, but the boys in the dugout had picked up on it and were chanting, “Sissy! Sissy!” at Micah until their coach, standing near first base, asked them what their problem was.

The bases were loaded when Micah stepped up to the plate. He banged the rubber pentagon. Micah looked over into the bleachers for his dad’s approval. Tom gave him a thumbs-up, and Micah laughed.

Before he fixed his stance, a ball flew past his shoulder.

“Strike!” the ump said, turning to the side.

“Come on, Blue!” Tom said.

Micah had jumped out of the batter’s box.

“Get back in there, son,” Manny whispered, his leg bouncing.

Elinor put her hand on her husband to calm him.

The pitcher started his windup.

“Ball!” the ump said.

“Good eye!” Tom yelled. It had been the third straight.

A little boy had been milling at the bottom of the bleachers. Someone’s younger brother. “Good ’ay, good ’ay!” the little boy said. He didn’t look up from the small dump truck he was pushing across the gravel. He had sounded Australian.

Manny laughed.

“What’s the count?” Elinor said.

“3–1,” Manny said. “Come on, Micah. He’s all yours now. Get your elbow up!”

Tom felt guilty for having filled the boy’s head with too many things.

If you’re behind with strikes, work your way back.

Watch for junk.

Only swing on what you can hit.

Micah had stayed in the box through the last three pitches. Now all he had to do was settle in and wait for the next one. It would have to be a strike, or else he’d get walked.

Swing for the fences.

“It’s all you, Micah,” Tom said.

Micah looked back at him and smiled. He pounded the plate hard and pulled up the new bat, locking the bright barrel into place. There was a slight swagger in his stance. Tom hadn’t seen this side of his son. He would have to mention it to Rachel,