Page 83 of A Whole New Game

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Why?”

A laugh escapes me, but the sound is anything but amused. “That’s all you have to say? After all these years?” I don’t know why I’m surprised. Or why part of me is hurt. I learned long ago that the man who helped give me life isn’t one for sentiment. Or affection. Or anything aside from drunken anger or apathy.

“What do you want me to say?”

I’m of half a mind to get up and walk out, but then I think of Carlee. I need to do this for me… and for her.

“Nothing. I just want you to listen.”

He stares at me.

I take a breath and lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees. Staring at my clenched hands, I state, “You were an abusive father.”

A beat passes. “I know.”

I keep going, “You were a drunk who could barely take care of yourself, let alone a kid. You had no business taking custody of me.”

This time, the words sound more subdued. “I know.”

I look up and meet his gaze, surprised by the remorse flickering in eyes the same color as mine. “But if I hadn’t moved to Texas…” I exhale and shake my head. “If I hadn’t started playing ball as a way to get out of this shitty trailer, I have no idea where I would’ve ended up.” That’s something I’ve thought about a lot lately.

I barely remember my mother, but I’m sure my childhood would’ve been better had she lived. But if that were the case, I wouldn’t have the life I have now. I never wouldn’t met Carter or his family. I never would’ve met Carlee.

And while baseball is big up north, it’s nothing like in the south. There’s a very real chance that I never would’ve been scouted in Wisconsin. There’s no guarantee I would’ve even played ball in the first place.

“You would’ve been fine,” he replies gruffly. “You’re made of tough stuff.”

“Because I had to be,” I say with a hard edge. “I wouldn’t have survived being raised by you otherwise.”

He makes a disgruntled sound. “Is that why you came here? To tell me I was a shit father? Hate to break it to you, Corey, but I’m aware. However, I’d like to point out that while some deadbeat dads would try to pry money out of their successful sons, at least I can say I never asked you for a damn dime.”

He’s technically right. I paid off his trailer and the mortgage on the land, but he never asked me to. I only did it as a preventative measure. I didn’t want him to eventually reach out to me when the time inevitably came that he needed something. I figured as long as he had a place to live, I could live with a clear conscience and never speak to him again.

Now, curiosity has me asking, “Why haven’t you ever asked me for anything?”

I expect him to say something profound—like he realized what he’d lost when I moved out, and the smallest piece of honor he had left kept him from reaching out and asking for anything. That he was happy for me and didn’t want to do anything else to make my life harder than he already had.

But no.

Instead, my top-notch father tells me, “Because the moment you were no longer my responsibility was the best day of my life.”

The words are a blow. They ring in my ears, making my head ache, while they simultaneously puncture my lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

I hang my head and tell myself to remain calm—to hold it together. I hate the display of weakness, but I can’t help it.

I’m Corey Johnson, widely acknowledged as one of the best pitchers in the MLB, but some part of me is still a helpless child,confused why his father chooses to drink every day and forget about him.

Alcohol is an addiction. I get that. But the man sitting across from me never even tried to kick the habit so he could be a good parent to me. I wasn’t worth the effort. And now he’s finally admitted what I long feared. He didn’t ever want me. That truth hurts more than I expected, but it’s a pain that I can bear. That Iwillbear.

I don’t have to be like him. I don’t have to let my past control my future happiness like he did. I’ll never know the details of what led him to become the man who drank a handle of vodka in a single day, or why I sometimes found him crying when looking through an old photo album that had pictures of him and my mom from when they were young, but I don’t need to. I don’t need to know the extent of his suffering to be able to conquer my own. I won’t repeat his mistakes. The cycle ends with me.

I take a deep breath, look up, and say, “I don’t owe you anything.”

“I never said you did.”

I ignore his clipped response. “You, however, owed meeverything. I didn’t ask to be born, Dad. And maybe you didn’t ask for that, either. Regardless, you were mydad.After Mom died, the least you could’ve done was be there for me.”

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