Page 17 of Mom Ball

“The man is wise beyond his years,” Daddy comments.

“No offense, Austin, but didn’t you quit ball when you were on JV?” I ask.

“I had to help here. If I played ball, it wouldn’t give me any time to fish and date all the cute girls.”

I roll my eyes.

“Priorities.” He winks at Timothy.

Yeah, he’s probably not the best role model.

“Thanks, Uncle A, but I already got a helper.”

“That’s right, Ethan was helping you the other day,” I comment.

“Not him, Mama, the real baseball man. The Nate the Great guy.”

Mama drops her massive spoon and it clanks against the pan on the way down. Apple goo oozes down the side of the stove to the floor. All the adults stare at me with wide eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Nate did offer to help the day we ran into him by the pasture.” I say it loudly in a clipped voice to get everyone off my back.

As usual, nobody cared to make mention that Nate moved close enough to hit the broad side of our barn with a baseball.

When you live in a small town that makes gossip an Olympic sport, it’s nice to have a family who doesn’t air your dirty laundry. I especially appreciated it at nineteen when I came home one weekend with a load of dirty laundry that included a few pregnancy pants.

They never pushed me for answers, just loved me and offered to help.

But in some cases, a little heads up would be nice. Like when your ex, who they all loved and wanted you to marry, buys the mansion at the end of your property.

Austin walks to the sink and wets some paper towels to help Mama clean the mess. I look at Timothy, whose eyes are wider than a Pixar puppy.

I squat so we’re eye to eye. It doesn’t take much, since he’s getting taller by the minute. “Timothy, if you really want to play baseball, like for you, not because your friends are playing, we can sign up.”

His cheeks raise into a wide smile that quickly fades. I frown.

“Can Mr. Nate the Great help me too?”

I sigh and straighten. “We’ll see.” I force a smile, then catch Mama’s and Austin’s reactions across the kitchen.

They both give me a pitying face. I appreciate the gesture, but it only increases the guilt of my ultimate secret. One that I think they might be on to.

I pat Timothy on the shoulder. “One thing at a time, sweetie. We’ll start with signing up.”

His big smile returns, and my anxiety lowers the slightest bit.

I take a seat at the island and whisper to myself, “One thing a time.”

* * *

The last thing I want to do on Saturday morning is sign my son up to play baseball.

Yet here I am.

It’s true, you really will do anything to make your children happy. Timothy’s face is evidence of that.

He hangs on to the back door of the car like a dog approaching the park. As soon as I stop, he jumps out and runs toward the crowd.

There’s a line of kids and adults in front of a folding table at the entrance to the ballpark. Morgan sits behind the table and waves like a madwoman when she spots us. We both wave in a much milder manner.

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