By Ben Morris

A few weeks into the season, Alex and I drove off the mountain to try the new Sports Land in Wilkesboro. His batting still wasn’t progressing like we’d hoped, and our first game of the season was around the corner. We took the Parkway and passed all the tourists smiling for pictures at the overlooks along the way.

“Bet some of them are live-streaming,” Alex said. He was more and more convinced that, to be anything in the world, you needed to be recognizable on YouTube. Liz and I weren’t crazy about our nine-year-old having an account, but we promised to revisit the topic again in the summer.

“I hope they don’t fall into the ravine with their selfie stick,” I said. Alex rolled his eyes. Bob Seger’s “Beautiful Loser” played on the radio.

When we arrived, Alex wanted to ride the go-karts, play a round of putt-putt, and hit the arcade. I insisted he hit a few dollars-worth of balls first, so he put on a helmet and chose a cage at the end of the row. His machine whirred to life as he stepped into the batter’s box. The first ball flew past him and he turned back to me.

“Recording?” he asked. I held up my phone.

“Action,” I said.

Storm clouds gathered back north over Bamboo Gap. It was probably raining at home. “You could also livestream it,” Alex said.

“Let’s just get in a few swings before we get rained out,” I replied. Alex shook his head. He swung and topped the ball. It bounced directly on home plate.   

I stood outside his cage, fingers hooked around the links, and did my best to encourage him. I was terrible at this part. The energetic chatter that lets the player know you are there for them. That you believe in them. I wondered if it was Alex’s fault. That if he were even a little bit better, a little more naturally confident, I would have an easier time of it.

I just went with what I overheard at the games from the other dads. “Whattaya say now? Whattaya say now, kid? Give it a ride!” Alex didn’t react. My arm started to ache from recording. 

~

From what I could remember, my own dad simply sat and smoked Winstons on the top row of the bleachers during my Little League games. That seemed natural enough at the time. He never said a word of encouragement that I could hear. I wondered if I ever gave him any reason to holler. And at least he was there, a flawed fourth-generation Appalachian father gradually giving himself cancer while his son struck out at the plate and let grounders roll between his legs in shallow left field. 

There was one game though, when I thought I caught my dad pleased. I was out in left and I managed to snag a pop-up that drifted into foul territory for the third out. As I proudly trotted to the dugout, downplaying my excitement the way we learned from our fathers, I saw him crack a little smile and nod in appreciation. It would have to be enough.  

~

It started to sprinkle and I could sense Alex tense up. He fouled one off. Missed the next two. “How about a couple of base hits before they pull the tarp out?” I said weakly.

That was authentically me, I thought. Can’t imagine anyone had ever uttered that sentence before. The machine fired fastball after fastball, mercilessly, right over the center of the plate.

“Turn it down! It’s too fast!” Alex finally cried out. He pounded the plate with his bat as another ball flew past.

“About the same speed as they are in the game, kiddo,” I said.

“Too fast!” he yelled. 

He must’ve missed at least six or seven in a row. I had honestly lost count because I was watching a boy, slightly younger than Alex, belt beautiful frozen-rope liners two cages down. The batter let out a satisfying little grunt after each hit. I thought for a second about recording from just the right angle and figuring out how to edit the footage later. The boy’s dad sat on top of a picnic table nearby and tapped on his phone without once looking up. A mixture of anger and sadness nearly dropped me to my knees. Alex also heard the rhythmic slapping of metal against leather and he let his bat slump against his shoulder. We both stood and watched the boy. Alex’s machine ran out of balls and went quiet. I selected Alex’s footage on my phone and tapped the trash can.