Catch

By Steven Hopkins

Daniel Coombs’ truck was eight years old now, and had 200,000 miles on it. The silver paint was bare on the hood and doors. Once Daniel bought a can of touch-up paint and carefully tried it out on a small patch on the passenger side. When it didn’t match up just right, he threw the paint away. Three years later, as Daniel got out of his truck to go in the house, he examined the little patch of mismatched paint and the rim of flakes around it and then kicked a dent into it with his steel-toed boot.
He entered his house and made his way to the living room, stripping his uniform shirt off and dropping it on the floor in the path through the kitchen. He sat down on the couch in his dirty tank top undershirt and flipped on the TV, letting out the last bit of air in his lungs that still remained from the lumberyard.
From his truck to the couch, Daniel had passed his wife Sharon and their nine-year-old son Michael. The two of them sat in the living room, his wife mending one of Daniel’s uniform shirts and his son rolling a new baseball between his legs.
Daniel leaned his head back so his Adam’s apple bulged from his throat and he closed his eyes. Two rooms away, Daniel heard his son’s small voice. Daniel squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples.
His wife entered the room, holding the shirt she had been mending like a shield.
“Honey?” she said.
“Yeah baby?” He ran his fingers through his hair with his eyes still clenched shut.
“Hi,” she said, and then sat down on the corner of the couch. “How was your day?”
Daniel rubbed his face as he sat up, blinking until he could focus on his wife. He cleared his throat. “It was long, and hard,” he said, rubbing his stubbly cheek. “And I only made 135 dollars minus tax, which puts me at about a hundred.”
Sharon tightened her lips into a sort of smile and blinked long and hard. “Are we going to have enough for rent?”
Daniel ground his teeth and shut his eyes again, like he was squeezing her question back out of his brain. He dropped his head into his hands again.
She grabbed the remote from Daniel’s side and turned off the television.
“What’d you do that for?” Daniel said, opening his eyes and raising his head.
Sharon laid down the remote, sat upright and held the uniform shirt in fists on her lap. “Our son just asked me to ask you to take him to the park and play catch with him. And I think you should do it.”
Daniel ran his fingers through his hair and turned his head enough that his neck bones cracked. He started to say something, but it came out like the sound someone makes after they get the wind knocked out of them. He cleared his throat and rocked back and forth.
Sharon felt her fingernails pressing into her palms through the shirt.
“Fine,” Daniel said. “But, we’re coming back before five o’clock.”
“Well good, because dinner’s at five.”
“But, I have a show I want to watch at five.”
Sharon didn’t answer. She tightened her lips again.
Daniel snatched the shirt from her and put it on as he went out to the garage to find his baseball mitt.
Sharon rushed over to Michael her son in the front room, which was filled with sunlight. “He said yes,” she said half-whispering to her son. “He’s finding his mitt right now.”
Michael’s eye’s opened wide and he ran to his bedroom to put on his shoes.
Daniel emerged from the garage with an old leather mitt, flattened and worn, and Michael came running from the bedroom, laces flailing everywhere.
“Come here,” his mother pulled him close for a hug. “Tie your shoes.”
He bent down to tie his shoes and looked up at his father. “You ready?” his dad asked.
“Yes, sir.” Michael said as he stood.
“Well lets get going.”
They walked through the garage to his truck. The park was a block away and Daniel would rather drive than walk. They stepped outside and the sun was warm and a light breeze was blowing, rustling the braches of the trees. They rode the first half in silence, Michael comparing his own mitt with his father’s that sat on the seat next to him.
“Daddy?” Michael said, watching his father shifting gears.
Daniel looked down at Michael.
“Did you ever play baseball?”
Daniel huffed a breath and continued after a moment, “Yeah. Yeah I did.”
“Really, Wow!” the boy pounded the ball in his glove as he saw them do on television.
“Yeah, we were uh… we were the state champions my senior year in high school.” Daniel said, wondering if his son knew what state champions meant.
“Oh, wow.” Michael said, trying to imagine his dad in a baseball uniform, taking off his hat and waving to thousands of fans in the stands.
“But that was before your mother and I got married and you came along. Before I started at the lumberyard. Before I had to start at the lumberyard to pay for the bills you made for us.” His father looked at the dashboard and picked at a place where the plastic was coming off and then made a sound through his teeth. He licked his fingers and tried to get the plastic to stick back down, but couldn’t. Little Michael rolled the ball in his hand.
After two more minutes they came to the park. Daniel parked the truck on the road that ran along the far side. The park was the size of a small city block, with a big, covered dining area for family reunions. The grass was green and alive for the most part. There were tables scattered throughout, and a sand volleyball court to one side. On the far side of the dining area there was a wall, and Daniel figured they’d start with Michael’s back to it so he didn’t have to wait for him to chase the ball so much.
“Ok, you go stand over there by that wall.”
Michael silently agreed and ran over to it, his shoelaces again flopping with each step.
Daniel put on his glove. The old familiar feel of the inside hugged his hand and the glove still smelled like that last game ten years ago.
“All right, give me the ball.”
Michael reached back, closed his eyes, and threw the ball as hard as he could, sailing it over his father’s head. Daniel stood flat-footed and watched it soar. He puffed his cheeks as he turned around and started toward the ball. But as soon as he had taken a few slow steps, Michael ran by him to retrieve the ball. He picked it up and held it high. “I got it Dad.”
“All right, good. Now just bring it back here.”
Michael thought for a second, then stopped, stepped with his left foot, reached back and wrenched his elbow to throw the ball. This time, instead of flying over his father’s head, it flew far to the left. Daniel tried to jump for it, but it was out of his reach. He turned around to find the ball and heard running footsteps in the dry grass. He wheeled around. “Just…” he half-shouted, and Michael stopped. “Just go back and stand where I told you. I’ll get the ball.”
“Ok.” Michael said, and then turned and flopped his shoelaces back to his place.
Daniel shook his head as he walked back toward the ball. He picked it up and turned around to see his son with his legs spread apart, pounding his mitt like an outfielder. He laughed. At least he’s got spirit, he said to himself. “Okay, are you ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, I’m going to throw it.”
“Ok, Dad.”
Daniel reached back gently to throw to his son. He tossed it right at his son’s glove and watched it disappear in the folds. “Hey! You caught it. Good work little man.”
Michael smiled and felt a rush go through his body. He pulled the ball from his glove, reached back, closed his eyes and threw it again. The ball flew toward the road where the truck was parked. He opened his eyes and watched as the ball hit the door and left a dent. Michael shrunk at the thud and watched for his father’s reaction.
Daniel stopped at the sound. He slowly walked closer to the truck.
“Sorry dad,” Michael said, holding his glove in front of his face.
Daniel rubbed his neck. He leaned over and grabbed the ball that had fallen in the ditch next to the truck. He put the ball in his mitt, and rubbed the dent with his fingers, examining it closely. It was an exact copy of the dent he had just made in the other door. He spat on the ground and stood up. He rolled the ball around in his fingers and licked his teeth. He looked back at the dent in the truck and the patches of missing paint. He thought of the stack of bills on the table. He thought of his never ending job where he’ll never get any farther ahead unless he owns the company.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember that last championship game. He tried to imagine Sharon, so young and beautiful, running from the stands to be the first to hug him as the new state champion, and the rush of his love in his arms and the swirling thrill of winning, of taking off his hat and waving to the fans.
But all he could envision was that new dent in his old truck.
He reached back and threw the ball hard. Michael put up his glove with enough time to deflect it, but the ball hit him hard in the chin, slamming his teeth together so that he chomped down on his tongue. His eyes went wide and he dropped back on his rear. He shook off his glove, put his hands to his mouth and tasted the blood from his tongue.
Daniel dropped his mitt and walked to his son. “Move your hands. Let me see,” he said. Michael shook his head in a wide, slow sweep, holding his mouth tight and avoiding his father’s touch. Daniel rubbed his eyebrow and sat next to his son, who looked back up at him, his face now just two hands, two big eyes and rumpled hair. They both sat in silence for a long time. The breeze blew and rustled the leaves in the trees. Eventually, Michael pulled his hands away from his mouth and spit out a string of pink blood.
“Does it hurt?” Daniel asked his son.
“Um-hum,” Michael said, nodding his head. Michael stuck out his tongue and rubbed it with his fingers.
“Let me see,” his father said.
Michael leaned so and his father could look at it. There were two small pink dents in the top and bottom of his tongue.
“It’s not that bad,” his father said. “It’ll be healed before you’re married.”
Daniel leaned back and watched his son sniffle and lick up a tear as it fell past his mouth. He pulled up a few blades of grass and broke them in his hands. The sun shone through the branches to where they sat. He looked at the dent in his truck door, then looked at his sons little mitt.
“I’m sorry, son,” he said. “I’m real sorry.”