Page 3 of The Curve
“Yes. Definitely.” She raises a fist in the air and pumps it. “Go Mavericks!”
“How’d you like our big game with the Reno Weasels?” I say.
Her eyes widen as her eyebrows lift.
“Oh, that was a good one. What a game! We really enjoyed that, didn’t we Mallory?”
The kid and I lock eyes and then we both start laughing.
“What?” Charlotte says.
“Mom, there is no Reno Weasels! Who’d name their team the Weasels?”
I like this look. This face right here. She’s smiling and then laughing with us.
Her shoulders rise in embarrassment and she bites her full bottom lip. “Sorry. I didn’t want to admit I don’t like baseball.”
I put my hand over my heart and lean against the column. “That’s a fatal blow, woman!”
Both she and Mallory giggle at my overacting.
“I’m gonna have to change your opinion, you know. Baseball’s the greatest sport there is. It’s America’s pastime after all. Don’t you know that?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her. It’s hopeless,” Mallory says.
The fact that the kid’s enjoying herself has turned the mood of the mother. Now’s my chance.
“So, Mallory, you coming tomorrow?”
“Where?”
“The picnic. My brother was supposed to invite you two. Didn’t he tell you about it?”
“No,” they say in unison.
“It’s gonna be great. Have you heard of Athletes for Heroes?”
“No,” Charlotte says.
“They work with the children of fallen heroes, policemen, firefighters, military. Those kids who’ve lost a parent…” Out of my peripheral vision I see one of the kids point at me. Shit! When I look, the news has spread. I’ve been discovered. There’s only a few seconds left of our private conversation before we’ll be surrounded. “It’s a national charity the Mavericks are involved in.”
I spot Brick approaching. “I’ll let my brother explain. He’s the expert. But please come. I’ll get your number from him…”
“Atticus!! Atticus!” Voices call my name and bodies press around me, pushing me against the column and Charlotte and Mallory to the side. I lose sight of them almost immediately as pens and balls and tickets are shoved at me for my autograph.
* * *
Whenever I drivedown the tree-lined entrance to my parents’ property, I feel my body relax. Today’s no exception, minus my already-broken clavicle which that fucking kid hit with his head when someone pushed him into me. Today it’s throbbing in perfect time with Carrie Underwood’s wronged woman anthem that I’m blasting. I’d like to take a Louisville Slugger and hit myself over the head for not avoiding that tipped swing, ball to clavicle.
At least I’m partway through my recovery. I don’t like to think of how many weeks I’ll be out, how many games I’ll miss. All I know is it’s an eternity in baseball years. It doesn’t take long for some fresh-from-the-farm-system kid to show management he’s better than me.
The hills of Tennessee are lush and green with the summer season. This holy place on earth means so much to all us Swifts. It’s a birds-in-the-morning and crickets-in-the-night kind of spot. That hasn’t changed since we were kids. But it’s one of the only things here that hasn’t. I was proud to be able to build a new house on the land that my parents bought in the eighties. It was always their dream, but three children’s educations later they were still in the 1500 square-foot house on seven acres.
I was able to give them everything they wanted, and some things they hadn’t thought of, because the best is what was deserved. It was the first big purchase I made after signing my major league contract.
The flowering white and pink Dogwoods I drive past and the sunlight coming through makes it look like I’ve entered a Disney cartoon.
This first glimpse of the house is impressive. The sweeping lawn, the brick circular driveway that leads to the front steps and the wide wraparound porch of the white two-story Southern style home. Purple and lime-green hydrangeas follow the lines, front to side. And then there’s groupings of trees, trees, trees, everywhere you look.
