by Ginger Scott
“Josselyn!” My father’s nostrils flair, and I blink rapidly from his tone. This scolding is different. It’s full of authority. I crossed a line. I keep my stare on him, my eyes slits, because I’m still so angry I could punch him, but he’s right—that was a low blow. I don’t regret saying any of it, but I regret saying it in front of the team. I shake my head and kneel down under the scrutiny of everyone’s stare.
Coach Adams coughs a few times, moving the clipboard in his hands to rest against his chest as he straddles his legs out wider to stand in front of us. “Ladies, I’m sure some of you know Coach Winters,” he says, his eyes scanning over us, stopping on mine. I feel trapped by it, so I look away.
“Coach Winters is joining us for the rest of the season. I’ve had some things come up, personally. Nothing bad. Good things, actually. My wife and I are expecting twins, but the pregnancy is a risky one, so she’s on bed rest. I just want to be there, in case she needs something,” he says, and I can’t stop the laugh that escapes my lips, amused by the irony that one dad is stepping away to be there for his family while the other—mine—is doing anything he can to hide from his. I cup my mouth and hold up a hand in apology.
“Thank you for the introduction, Dave,” my father says, his lips pursed, and smile tight. He talks to our real coach as if they have some special respect or connection, as if my father hasn’t torn apart every single coaching decision Coach Adams ever made.
“Ladies, I see a lot of potential out here,” my father starts, and I tune him out, my eyes wandering over to the baseball field where the boys are now running. I catch a glance from Wes, and I shrug, not sure if he can see my small movement. His eyes stay on me for the first few steps when he turns to run the other way.
“Joss!”
My neck snaps. I’m sitting here alone. Seriously, Taryn? Couldn’t, like, nudge me or something. I stand and brush the dead grass clippings from my legs and socks and begin to run to join the rest of the team.
“You’re with me,” my father says. I halt and roll my eyes before turning to face him.
“Is this funny to you?” I fold my arms.
He stares at me, his eyes unwavering, his expression unchanged.
“Why are you doing this? I mean you’re taking things pretty far just to prove a point, that you can teach me how to hit lefty. You didn’t need to go and quit the baseball team just to prove you’re right. Could have saved us both some torture.”
He continues to stare. I hold his gaze, trying to outmatch him, but eventually I break and look to the ground, kicking my cleat into the dried grass.
“Fine, whatever. I’ll get a bat,” I say, stepping toward the dugout.
“No,” my father says.
I sigh and spin around with my arms out to the side, tossing my glove onto the ground. My head tilted up to the sky, I laugh in exasperation.
“No, he says,” I chuckle. “What is this, some test? What are we doing? Why are you here? What’s the point of this?”
My head falls forward, my eyes expecting to take in the same hard man looking at me seconds ago, but my father’s face has softened. It catches me by surprise.
“We’re going to talk,” my dad says.
I blink at him. Talking is not one of our strong points. Yelling—we yell. That’s what the tiny Winters family does. We don’t share. We don’t care. And we never talk.
“Fine. How was your day? Oh, wait…you quit the job you love just so you could ruin the only thing I love. Oh me? I’m fine. Or…I was fine. Now I’m not. You’re right, Dad. This talking thing—it’s awesome.”
“I made you this way,” he says, shaking his head.
My breath pauses while I think about his reaction. He’s right. He did. He made me this way. He fucked me up. My mom fucked us both up. Wes saved me, but only what’s left of me.
“Are you trying to go back? Is that what this is about for you, Dad? Making up for lost time? All those games you missed?” I ask, my voice lower. I’m not trying to be difficult with this line of questioning anymore. I genuinely want to know. Because there’s too much for him to make up for; there’s no rewriting our history.
“I guess I was…yeah,” my dad admits. My eyes grow wide with my surprise at his honesty.
“It doesn’t work that way,” I say, wrapping my arms tighter around my body. I look around us, scanning to make sure we’re alone. I don’t want anyone hearing us.
“I know,” my father says. He glances over my shoulder and I turn to see the baseball team starting to throw, Wes and Kyle moving to the bullpen.
“They’re the ones who really need you,” I say.
His eyes stay on them for several seconds, but eventually slide over to meet mine.
“You need me more,” he says.
It’s such a simple truth, and as much as I want to reject it, my gut knows it. I don’t answer him back. My throat feels dry and my body is beating with the thump of my nervous heart. As much as this is my nightmare, it’s also my dream. I just don’t want to jump into it, to live it, because I’m afraid it could change from one to the other at the blink of an eye. I’m not sure what I’m in right now—a fantasy or tragedy. Perhaps it’s both. Maybe it’s always been both. Maybe that’s what life is—a beautiful mess.
“Can we hit while we talk?” I ask, tucking my cheek between my teeth. It feels so unnatural to have a candid conversation with my father. I’m not sure it will ever feel quite right.
“We can,” he says, nodding toward the plate.
I walk to the dugout to put on my batting gloves while my father drags a large pop-up net around the backstop, placing it a few feet in front of the plate to give me a target. He spills the balls from the bucket, pushing them together with his feet before tipping the bucket upside down to sit on. When I step closer, he nods to the other batter’s box, urging me to step in.
I steady my feet, digging my back one into the dirt, ready for my swing, but my father spins the ball loosely in his hand instead of tossing it up.
“Your swing is fine. You’ve been late. I want you to force yourself to hold on, as long as you think you can, before the ball drops out of your zone. Then hit it,” he says.
I don’t react. He grimaces, and I know he thinks I’m going to ignore him like last time, but I’m not. He was right then. He’s right now. And he can make me better.
I want this.
I do as he says, and top the ball with my first swing, bouncing it into the net.
“Good,” he says, leaning to the side as he spits a cluster of seed shells into the dirt. He pulls another handful from his pocket and pokes some seeds in his mouth. He grabs another ball from the ground, spinning it in his hand, then speaks from the side of his mouth. “Again.”
I dig in and hold my breath, my lips pushed tight with my need to grunt with my swing, and I wait—just long enough. This time I hit the ball squarely, right up the middle into the net.
“Good,” he says. It’s the same good as last time. No false praise. No sugarcoated response or muted approval. I followed his directions and got the right result.
Good.
“Again,” he says, picking up another ball and doing the same. My hands tucked inside, I hit the ball squarely again, only with more power.
“Good.”
Our work continues, our conversation single words, small actions and tiny adjustments, until I’ve cleared every ball and the rest of the team is starting to move toward us for a water break.
“Let’s hit some live,” my father says, standing up and tipping the bucket over in his hand. I start to pick up the balls from the net, but he stops me, his hand squeezing the net closed.
“I got this,” he says, his eyes clear for the first time since I can remember. He looks at me, then toward the dugout. “Go join your team.”
I nod, and whisper thanks as I turn to jog away.
For the next hour, I hit balls from the left side, poking holes in our defense while my dad works to tighten them up. I hit wh
ere he tells me to, and I never let up—often showing our weaknesses. That’s what he wants. It’s what he’s good at. And after one day under my father’s guidance, we’ve turned a small percentage of our failures into strengths.
Coach Adams and my father put the heavy equipment back into the gated area near the backstop, and I pack up my gear. Bria stops at the end of the bench between Taryn and me.
“I’m sorry about your mom, Joss,” she says. Nobody else hears her, which I’m relieved about. But her small condolence also feels nice. I can tell she was nervous to say those words to me, so I suck in my bottom lip and nod.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “Nice job at practice today.”
She grins, and her eyes shift over to Taryn then down to her feet.
“Thanks,” she says, tugging her bag up her shoulder and walking up the path to the locker room.
“That was nice of you,” Taryn says.
“Shut up,” I joke. I glance at her and roll my eyes and return my attention to my shoes. I slip my feet from my cleats and pull out my slide sandals as Taryn wheels her equipment bag behind me, and I know she’s trying to leave before me, to force me to be alone with my father. At first, I hurry with my laces, wanting to catch up with her, but I realize quickly I won’t be able to.
Maybe, I shouldn’t.
Talk. He wants to talk.
The baseball team is still practicing, but I know they’ll be done soon, so I stay in my seat, twisting my body to face my father as he steps into the other side, taking a seat on the opposite end of the bench.
“Great work today, Joss,” Coach Adams says as he passes.
“I know,” I smirk, making my father chuckle. Coach Adams is already well on his way to his car, to his home, to be with his wife and unborn children. He couldn’t have cared less about my response.
“You know, arrogance isn’t a great team-building trait,” my father says, pulling the bag of sunflower seeds from his pocket and raising it in an offer to me. I nod and he tosses it to me.
“Yeah, well, we’re cocky sons of bitches, us Winters,” I say just before dumping a handful of seeds in my mouth. I push them to the side and break them apart letting the salt coat my tongue. My father chuckles.
“Yeah, we are,” he says, snapping for me to throw back the seeds.
“Wow, what are you, an addict or something?” He frowns at my joke. He probably should. It wasn’t really a joke. I was being snarky.
“Chewing on something keeps me from having cravings,” he says, pouring another handful into his mouth. I spit out a few of my shells and work the remaining ones open in my mouth. He’s right—chewing on something works. I’ve gone through sixteen packs of gum since I’ve quit smoking.
“You planning on sticking around the house tonight then?” I ask, one eye squinting as I look up at him, the sunset reflecting off the metal fencing.
“Gonna try to. It’s been hard though,” he says. I laugh once quickly, and it catches his attention, his eyes landing on me. I chew harder on my remaining seeds, then bend to the side to spit them out.
“Yeah, it’s hard to stay sober when you keep slipping up and sneaking out to the bar at night. But I gotta hand it to you, you haven’t called me from Jim’s in days,” I say, squeezing the bench sides in my hands, leaning forward and waiting for my dad’s excuse to come back to me.
“I haven’t been at Jim’s,” he says.
I laugh again, but he doesn’t protest. The longer I look down at the graffiti marks on the bench, the more curious I grow, until I peer up at him. He’s fidgeting with his watch, twisting the metal band around his arm, clasping and unclasping. It’s a nervous habit he’s done since I was a kid. I remember he threw a surprise party for my mom once, and all I remember was him standing in front of the kitchen window doing just this.
“Where have you been then? Gotta new place?” I ask, blinking as I look at him, my eyes moving from his wrist.
“I’ve been visiting a friend,” he says.
My gaze narrows. My father sighs, moving his hands behind him and leaning back on the bench.
“She’s an older woman. Her name is Meredith. She…” he pauses, smirking at the face I’m making. My father is dating an older woman. I’m a little freaked out. “Ha…no. Not like that. She runs a group. You know, for recovering alcoholics?”
Oh.
“So you’re in, like, the twelve-step or whatever?” I ask. My stomach is fluttering with my heartbeat. That’s hope I’m feeling. I hate it.
My father chuckles.
“I guess, sort of. Though, it’s not really anything formal. I tried formal, Joss,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. His self-disappointment worn like a mask. “I’m not good at groups and sharing in front of others. It’s too much for me to overcome on top of my problems.”
I look down, twisting my hands together as I nod. I understand.
“But I failed enough that the last time I went to a meeting, Meredith gave me her number. She told me when I wanted to really try, to call her. She just sort of listens. Sometimes, ha…” he breaks into a small laugh, looking off to the side. “Honestly, sometimes I just call her up and go over there to fix things around her house. It’s old, and her husband passed away years ago. I think she knows it keeps me busy, so I swear she breaks things just to make sure I have something to fix.
“Sometimes we talk too. She’s been here—rock bottom? She lost her daughter in a terrible car crash when her little girl was only four or five. Meredith was hurt pretty bad, and she got addicted to the pain pills. Her husband threatened to leave many times, and one day, he had a heart attack. She went in for treatment after that. I guess she was strong enough to know she couldn’t function at all on her own…not like this.”
I take in my father’s words, and I picture Meredith in my mind. I hope she’s strong, because Eric Winters has sunk below bottom. He’s one foot in the grave.
“Did Grandma Grace tell you where she was? Where she’s been?” I keep my eyes low for this question. Rock bottom is tricky territory, and I hesitate asking questions while my father’s dwelling there for fear it might push him deeper. But…I want to know things.
I spare a glance up and my father tilts his head up at the exact same time, his mouth curling in a smirk when our eyes meet. He looks out to the baseball field and his eyes grow distant.
“Tucson. I guess. At least, that’s where the funeral was,” he says, kicking his foot into the grass below our bench, digging a small divot with his toe. “I couldn’t go. It didn’t feel right. My goodbye, it’s…complicated and different.”
Mine too.
I look down at my fingers and think about how I would have felt—walking into a room full of strangers, knowing I have the right to be there to send my mother off to heaven or hell, but also knowing everyone’s eyes would be on me, pitying me, or wondering about my real story and how my mom exited it.
“I don’t blame you for not going,” I whisper.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, the only sound my father pulling the bag of seeds open and dipping his hand inside one more time. The crack of the bat a hundred yards away gets both of our attention, and we look to where Wes is standing on the mound and Levi is rounding first base, pumping a fist over the fact that he’s gotten a hit off his brother.
“You would have liked Grace—your grandmother?” my father says, his eyes staying on the team he left—the team he left…for me. “You have her name, but you’ve got so much more of her…ya know? I wish…” he sighs. “I wish you would have gotten to know her, at least. I should have kept that relationship there—for you.”
His eyes dart to me. I don’t respond, but I look at him long enough to ease some of that guilt away. I always wished I knew her better too. My dad’s parents—they’re like him. Short with words, cold on love. I wonder if Grace is warm?
“Well,” my dad stands, kicking one leg over the bench as he gets to his feet. He tugs his pants up. His belly is thin—too thin. It’s bec
ause he rarely eats, and his body has been his source of abuse for years. “Looks like practice is over. I’m gonna go make nice with the boys a little. Maybe you can take care of Wes for me?”
He winks, and I smile because that small gesture is one that I’ve yearned to see him make for so long. He rounds the gate through the dugout and starts to step over the dirt berm that separates the two fields when I stop him.
“Hey Coach?” I say. He turns on his heels, but keeps making small steps backward. “Welcome to the team.”
His feet stumble, just enough that I notice. He pulls on the brim of his hat with a slight nod and his lips begin a smile that never fully manifests. When he turns, he puts his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slump a little. This change is killing him. But it isn’t selfish or greedy.
This was for me. I see that now.
Wes and my father pass one another and have a short conversation, but soon Wes is walking toward me. I pick up my things and step out of the dugout, meeting him halfway.
“Looks like you’ve got a new coach?” He tilts his head to the side, lifting his hat a little to scratch at his hairline, his lips cocked in a half smile.
“Seems so,” I say, sucking in my bottom lip.
“Big game tomorrow, I hear. You all are traveling north to play Los Banos. Chico State folks coming out to your game to see what you can do,” he says. My stomach flutters with the anticipation, and the brief fantasy that I could do this—play college ball one day—flashes through my mind.
“That’s the rumor,” I say, stepping closer to him. His hand reaches for mine and the entire thing feels like habit. I notice it—the way our fingers fold together, naturally, as if this is how they were meant to exist. I’ve never been comfortable with someone like this. I’ve never trusted, or cared how someone felt. But when I’m not with Wes, my hand is cold. It’s always looking for its other half.
“You nervous?” he asks as we get closer to his truck. I drop my bag into the back and turn into him, shrugging. “Liar,” he laughs.
“Yeah, okay. I’m a little nervous,” I say. He pulls the door open to let me inside, but before he closes the door, he steps in between my legs, his hands rushing through my hair, loosening the tie from the back and letting my strands fall free. His thumbs run along my cheeks as he cups my face and urges my chin up so he can kiss me lightly.
