A crack of the bat. The last thing I said to him. “That’s gone.”
There’s no reason for us to be at the ballpark. We never played catch. He never watched me play. I was a decent center fielder. Couldn’t hit for shit. But I hustled. Ran out every ground ball. Hard. I learned that from him.
“Finish what you start.” He ran a backhoe for years until he was moved inside to shuffle papers. He had a heart attack a month later.
We’re sitting behind third base. Drinking beer. He said he was tough on me because he loved me. We stood for the seventh-inning stretch, sang, and swayed.
Take me out to the ball game. We belted. Then sat shoulder to shoulder. Bone to bone.
My Dad died in the bottom of the ninth. He bowed his head. Strike three.
We stayed until the final out.
He would have insisted.