Page 88 of Switch Pitching

“Dad.” My voice comes out sharper than I meant it to, but I can’t help it.

The resemblance between us is hard to miss. We lock eyes, the same sharp green staring back at me. Right now, if his eyebrows weren’t as relaxed as they are, I’d think I was in a face-off.

“Thanks for meeting me here,” he says. His tone is uncertain and tentative.

I shrug, trying to appear indifferent, but my heart’s pounding in my chest. “I figured it was as good a place as any.”

He nods again, gazing out at the field. “You remember how many times we came here?” he asks, sounding almost wistful.

My throat tightens. “Yeah. I remember.”

We stand there in silence for a moment, the tension between us, thick as the coastal fog. Finally, Dad clears his throat and looks me in the eye. “Ethan, there’s a lot I need to say. I know I messed up, but I need you to know that I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

I blink, taken aback. Dad never apologized for anything, ever. I was ready for excuses, even anger, but this? Never would’ve seen it coming. His words hang in the air, heavy and painful.

Keeping my hands shoved in the pockets of my jacket, I try to stay composed. “You called me every slur that exists and threw me out four years ago. There’s no undoing that,” I retort, my voice cracking. I’m being harsh, but I’m not wrong. “There’s no undoing the fact that after I blocked you, you grabbed Mom’s phone and kept spewing your vile messages at me. She told me everything.”

Dad flinches like I’m about to throw hands, and for a second, I almost feel bad. Almost.

He sighs. “I was brought up religious, Ethan,” he says, straining. “Ever since I was young, I was told that being gay was one of the worst things anyone could be. When you came out to me and your mother, I reacted the way I was taught to. I thought I’d failed you as a parent.”

He’s just standing there, and I don’t know what to do with everything he just dumped on me. I stiffen even more, my jaw clenching, and I don’t say anything.

Because I’m not the one who has to explain myself. He is.

Dad continues. “I was an idiot. Back then, I thought that you had been hiding something terrible, that you weren’t who I thought you were, and that you had deceived me.”

He lets out another shaky breath, his frustration obvious. “But the more I thought about it, I realized there was no real reason why you being gay should change how I felt about you. I couldn’t find any justification for rejecting someone I loved, someone I was so proud of.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and I see the raw emotion in his eyes. “But by the time I realized, it was too late,” he continues. “The damage was done, and I’d torn down the one person who least deserved it.”

“Not a single day goes by where I don’t think about you growing up.” His gaze bores into me, and I can sense it even though I’m not looking at him. “The first thing you’d do after winning a game was run straight to me, all smiles. You were always such a kind kid, and when you got older, you were probably the most patient and well-adjusted teenager to exist. You’re smart, capable, and so damn talented. I was so proud of you, Ethan, and I can’t believe I was stupid enough to throw that away.”

Again, he’s saying all the right things, but my mind keeps going back to what Mom said yesterday, about how Dad can’trun away from being reminded that I exist. Would he even care if I wasn’t some kind of public figure?

“What if I wasn’t successful?” I ask before I can stop myself. “What if I didn’t end up playing professionally? Would you still say you’re proud if all of Machias wasn’t talking about me?”

He frowns, taking a step toward me, his hand almost coming out of his pocket before he stops himself. “It’s not about your career?—”

“But what if it is?” I cut him off. “What if I wasn’t someone people know? Would you still have tried to reach out? Or would I just be a son you’re ashamed of because I didn’t turn out how you imagined?”

Dad rubs a hand over his face. “Ethan. I know it’s hard for you to believe me. But this isn’t about your success. I reached out because I was wrong, and I wanted you to know that. It just took me way too much time to realize how badly I screwed up.”

I turn away to face the water, closing my eyes so no tears come out. Dad is what I needed to hear, but it’s four years late. Opening my eyes, I stare out across the bay, a sharp wind from across the blue water blowing in and hitting my face.

His shoulders slump just a bit, and I let myself see regret in his expression. But I still see the man who threw his can of beer at me, yelled in my face, called me every name under the sun, and shoved me out of my childhood home. I feel like an asshole for not reacting and just staring ahead, giving off exactly zero hints as to what I’m thinking. But I can’t bring myself to forgive. Not yet.

I take in a lungful of cold, salty air and let it out. “Dad,” I start. “I appreciate you telling me this, and I’m glad that you did some thinking.”

There’s a pause as I come up with the best phrasing for what I’m about to say.

“I need time,” I continue. “Just letting you know, I want things to get better, but we’re not there yet.”

Dad gives me a tiny smile. “I understand, and I’ll be here when you’re ready,” he says.

And for the first time today, I start to believe him. Letting his words sink in, I keep my face fixed in a neutral expression. Even though things between us are tentatively better than they were when we first got here, I still don’t want to drive the conversation. The silence between us remains.

“Right,” Dad starts, clapping his hands together. “Thanks again for meeting me.”

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