Page 92 of Imperfect Player

“I am,” I reply, eyes darting between my dad and the little boy.

His smile only grows as he begins to spew a million questions at me. What’s it like to be a baseball player? Why did I become a pitcher? Do I think he’ll be able to play one day?

“If you work hard enough,” I tell him.

If he survives whatever cancer he has, I think to myself.

“Can you give your dad and me a second?”

Ben nods enthusiastically and walks down the street a few steps. When he’s far enough, I give him a thumbs up.

“What are you doing here? Why did you bring him?”

“I thought that maybe if you met Ben, you would . . . ”

“I would what?”

“Understand.”

“Understand what, exactly?”

“Why I’m doing this. Why I came back after all this time even though I know I shouldn’t have. You’ve built yourself an amazing life, Ethan. I had no intention of ever tainting that for you in any way, but . . . ”

“Then don’t. Go.”

“He’s sick, Ethan. He needs a bone marrow donor.”

“And what, you thought bringing him here would guilt me into getting tested?”

“Your mother and I thought—”

I hold up my hand. “Woah. Wait a minute. You and . . . You’re still with her?”

He nods.

“And he’s your son? Both of yours?”

Another nod.

Holy fuck. This has to be a joke. A sick fucking prank. They had a replacement kid? One that was, what, better than me? Smarter? More well behaved?

What made them think that round two would be any better?

“Mr. Ambrose?” Ben’s soft voice fills the momentarily silent air.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think you could sign a piece of paper for me? I don’t have my ball. I didn’t think I would be meeting you today.”

“I, uh . . . ”

“Please? My dad takes me to every single home game. He has since I was a baby.”

My eyes fly up and meet my father’s.

“Like I said, I never wanted to interfere.”

I take the pen and scrap paper from Ben and scribble my name on it.

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