“Maybe not—”
“Seriously, man?” He starts flipping through channels on his sound system. “I’ve known him since the prospect league. He expects you to play until they have to take you off the field in a wheelchair.”
I glare at him. “I’m almost thirty-fucking-years-old. Maybe it’s time to do what I want to do.”
“Damn,” he says, turning up the music, “don’t kill the messenger. I’m not telling you what to do, but you know how your dad’s going to react. Do what you want. I’ll miss you, but you have to do what’s best for you.”
“You’re going to more than miss me. You’re going to lose it. You know I’m the only one who can talk you down when they’re hitting your fastball.”
“It’s a good thing that rarely happens then.” He shoves my shoulder. “Man, cheer up. You’ve been in a bad mood for months. And don’t bring this attitude to the wedding. You’re the only person who I can have fun with down there.”
“The only person? Are you forgetting your wife’s coming with us?”
“Nope,” he says, “trying really hard to, though.”
* * *