Page 26 of The Show

I was the owner of a baseball team.

It wasn’t a very good team, but it was a team.

And as much as I hated to admit it having watched, scrutinized, poured over hours and hoursand hoursof Lions games in the last three months, they weren’t actuallythe worst.

I mean, statistically they were, but they weren’t. They were a jumble of downtrodden, not quite washed-up players, some of whom still had a lot of potential, combined with terrible ownership and bad press. Couple all that with half-assed management and lackluster coaching, and it had added up to a permanent spot at the bottom of the standings.

For three months I’d been trying to figure out what to do. I’d probably still be trying to figure it out if Lauren hadn’t stuck her nose in, because fuck knows I had no clue what day it had been yesterday. However, the situation I was in then would have been a lot worse if I hadn’t shown up last night, though given I hadn’t seen or spoken to the majority of my family in three months, I’d still been expecting a total reaming.

I’d spent the afternoon and the journey mentally preparing my response to anyone who asked about Nancy taking over the business instead of me, because as far as the world was aware, I was next in line. As it was, I managed to avoid nearly everyone at the party asking, mostly because Murray and Rafe spent the evening as hired rottweilers gatekeeping everyone.

More importantly, I’d also prepared a carefully crafted argument for my grandfather when he brought up The Lions, because there was more certainty of that happening than of me taking my next breath.

I was right, sort of.

What actually happened was my indignation going to shit and me digging myself into a far deeper ‘fuck my life’ situation.

When my grandfather had taken me off last night, he told me a story I’d never heard before.

He told me once upon a time my dad had come to him as a teenager and announced he wanted a career in baseball. He’d known he wasn’t good enough for the Majors, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to play ball, be around the ball, the field, the game. He wanted to run a team.

They’d had a huge argument because as far as Gramps was concerned, he was supposed to be inThe Business. Gramps told my dad he was being ridiculous, and his future was already mapped out for him. My dad stormed off, and didn’t speak to Gramps for the whole summer. But then he met my mom, and at some point, my dad had backed down, gone to Harvard, got his MBA, then went to work.

Except he never forgot about baseball. The whole family knew that, given once I’d come along it reignited his love of the game, and before my eleventh birthday, they’d had another argument; that my dad wasn’t going to push me into the business like Gramps had pushed him. Nancy was ten years older than me, and she already knew she wanted to work for Gramps once she finished law school. Dad had said he could have Nancy to guide into the leadership role instead.

After my dad died, Gramps was the one who took me to The Yankees. He was the one to come and watch me at Little League, and even though I knew I wanted to work in baseball, I wanted to follow in my dad’s footsteps more; to make him proud. And my grandfather never encouraged me otherwise.

For the first time last night, he admitted that one of the biggest regrets he ever had was making his son come to work in the business when he didn’t want to; a mistake he didn’t want to repeat with me.

“Every time I look at you, I see your father. I miss him every day, and it’s time I made things right,” he said, cupping my face to look at him so I could see the sincerity, the sorrow, and the grief in his eyes.

It was the most vulnerable he’d ever been with me. The great Lucian Shepherd, holding back the tears.

At which point I started bawling.

(I should point out, I’m not a crier. Though I have cried an awful lot in the last three months.)

So, apparently, this shitty baseball team at the bottom of the standings wasn’t evidence of my grandfather going senile.

It was a peace offering.

The Lions were for the three of us; as much for Gramps and me, as for my dad.

My grandfather had made the lowest possible blow, and not only tugged on my heartstrings – he’d yanked them so hard I’d barely stayed balanced.

“Gramps, I still don’t think I can do this.”

“Of course you can!” he scoffed. “You know more about baseball than almost anyone I’ve ever met, besides your father. I’ve seen the numbers; they’ve been run on a shoestring. They just need some love and time, which you’ll give them. You’ll rebuild them and make them great. You’ll win the Trophy.”

Then – THEN - my grandfather pushed another one of his less-than-genius ideas on me. This one worse than buying The Lions in the first place.

“… and you should get Lowe to help you.”

I blinked at him. Maybe I’d been wrong, and he actually was going senile.

“She hasn’t got a job; you’d be helping her out.”

It was my turn to scoff. I knew Lowe had a trust fund of forty-million dollars; she wasn’t going to starve. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

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