“Ready to go, Slugger?”
He ruffles my hair, an unnatural move for him. He’s attempting to bond, to show camaraderie, to make up for the fact that every other moment of my life, I don’t exist.
The drive in is spent in silence as he listens to people on the radio tell him what to think. I listen, and I know what they are saying is what Granny would call “codswallop,” but I don’t tell him that. He’s best when he’s not angry, and I want funnel cake.
As we pass by people—parking lot attendants, ticket takers, ushers—he lays on the charm. Everyone is his friend. To the rest of the world he is a glowing beacon of charisma, a shining flame to their moth minds. To me he is the man who is always looking down.
I know the top of my father’s head like the back of my hand. If he’s not angrily replying to messages he’s studying news feeds for things to disagree with or laughing at things he won’t show me. His phone is his connection to the world, and with it in hand he is disconnected from me, right next to him, and I have to pee.
“What’s that?” he asks, dragged from his electronic world into reality by my squeaky pleas. He begrudgingly takes me back up the steps to the restroom, waiting outside the door and staring at his phone. When I’m done, we retake our seats. He got us good seats, right behind the home team’s dugout. He tells me they are good seats, and then he bows his head and disappears from everything again.
I don’t even like baseball. I only go because it’s the only time he will spend time with me. Even in this he fails, though, because what is meant to be a bonding exercise becomes something else entirely. Determined to get some benefit from the day I study the field, the players moving in syncopated rhythm with the antics of the ball. I see the effort they put into every movement. I see how much they want to be there on the field, and I find inspiration in it. Now I want to be there, even if my father does not.
“Can I have funnel cake?” I ask at the bottom of the fifth. I am hopeful. I have been good and not bothered him.
“It’s bad for your teeth. And you’ll ruin your dinner,” he answers, and then he is gone, again.
Disappointed, I return to the game. I feel the fever of the crowd, hoping for victory. I desperately want that victory. With each pitch I hold my breath. Every fly ball I watch, hoping they will drop it, or we will catch it. I am one of the team now, joining in their movements, shifting in my chair.
The game is almost over. My team is down by one. The other team is likely done, their chances of advancing further ruined by a captured pop fly. We are at bat. We can do this!
“Let’s go,” he says, “I want to get ahead of the traffic.”
How can he do this to me? Can’t he see that it’s all down to this? If we score two runs the day isn’t a loss after all. We can’t leave now! I have to see it!
He stands and gestures for me to stand with him. The crowd gasps and I feel like they are on my side, defiant of the man who wants to ruin the only good thing coming. The crowd points, and I look to where they are pointing.
My father, impatient to leave, looks up quickly to see what has caught my attention, so he can dismiss it. He chooses the absolute worst moment to look up.
A shower of blood rains down as the foul ball hits him square in the nose. I hear the sickening crunch of demolished cartilage and see him fall backwards clutching his face, his phone abandoned as his senses reel.
Then there are people all around us, scrambling to grab the ball. I reach down and pick up his phone, tucking it in my pocket so it doesn’t get crushed. The ball is found and the crowd disperses, leaving the two of us alone for a few seconds before the medics pull us away. My father is looking for his phone.
In the medical office I happily eat the funnel cake a nice man brought for me. My father complains, and I reach into my pocket to retrieve his phone, handing it to him and smiling to myself as I see the spiderweb of cracks that cross its cursed surface.
Love it! Just Deserts!
Also loved it!
Best of all the interplay and attention and inattention, a human experience, with or without phones. I love it.
Nice work!
Great story!
I loved everything about this story. More, please!
Terrific read. It does read well aloud, which I have just done to a friend who understands baseball. I understand the kid. It’s poetry. Not an excess word. Thanks for writing it.
What a wonderful portrayal of a disengaged father and a very perceptive son. Loved it!
Perfect karma! So believable in our lives today. Wonderful read.
Thought provoking! Congratulations on getting it in print!
So true in today’s world. Wonder how many dads will read this and have it resonate with them.
Poetic justice
This brings back memories. My grandma didn’t have a cell phone and was usually attentive, except on scary movie night. She would tell me to go to bed if I didn’t want to watch. In the turn of the century old farmhouse with bats flying around outside looking at the chair my great grandma died in. I was already too scared to walk up the dark steps. I would reluctantly watch the movie. 15-20 mins. before the end, she would turn off the tv and go to bed. I never saw the conclusions. This is a great story to remind us not to turn off to the needs of those around us, even when we need a break from reality.
This piece is very palpable. I want funnel cake now.
This should be mandatory reading for all people with children. And all people with phones…
Thank you. Story for the ages. I am in my mid-60s, so the title of my version would have been Transistor Radio, though not nearly so well told.
Fabulous story idea for our times, imaginatively and expertly executed!
Damn. Well done.
Great story!
Wonderful. I love that he got his funnel cake!
Wonderful story. Sharing on Twitter.
Excellent story ! I was right there with you man….
I loved this story. You really feel connected, just like you are experiencing it too. Wonderfully written.
Every moment is so vivid. Your story paints a clear picture. And the thing is, every time I read this, the ball hitting the dad’s face catches me off guard and sickens me. Every single time. I also really love that the dad and the phone end up with cracked faces. Nice detail. So well done!
Nice. I really appreciate it when a child’s perspective isn’t dumbed down. Just because you’re young doesn’t mean you don’t see the world around you.
Wow. Terrific short story, Brett. I could imagine every thing in my mind. You definitely have the gift for writing. Keep it up.