Chapter 11
I returned to baseball practice two weeks after the championship.
My stomach hurt the whole car ride.
Dad drove.
He didn’t play music.
He didn’t give a speech.
He had started learning that silence could be supportive if it didn’t hide anything.
When we reached the field, I stared at the dugout.
“What if they think I’m weak?”
Dad turned off the engine.
“Then they’re wrong.”
“What if I mess up?”
“Then you mess up.”
I looked at him.
“That’s your advice?”
He smiled sadly.
“You’re allowed to be a kid who messes up, Ethan. A missed ball should never cost you safety.”
My throat tightened.
I nodded and got out.
Coach Thompson was waiting by home plate with a bucket of balls.
No crowd.
No team yet.
Just him.
“You’re early,” I said.
“So are you.”
“I thought practice started at five.”
“It does. This is not practice.”
“What is it?”
Coach tossed me the new glove.
“This is catching again.”
My hands shook when I put it on.
He stood twenty feet away.
“No gear. No pressure. Just catch.”
He tossed the ball underhand.
Easy.
Slow.
It came toward me.
For one second, I saw the championship line drive.
The webbing breaking.
The ball slipping through.
Karen’s slap.
I froze.
The ball hit the dirt in front of me.
My face burned.
Coach walked over.
“Good.”
I stared.
“I missed it.”
“I know.”
“How is that good?”
“You stayed.”
He picked up the ball and moved back.
Again.
The next throw hit my glove and bounced out.
Again.
I caught one, then dropped the next.
My hands were sweating.
My chest felt tight.
Coach never raised his voice.
Never sighed.
Never said focus.
Just again.
By the time the team arrived, I had caught twenty-seven throws.
Coach counted.
I pretended I didn’t care.
I cared.
Lucas ran over.
“You’re back!”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.”
That was it.
Cool.
I loved him for not making it bigger.
Practice was hard.
Not because of the drills.
Because every time the ball came fast, my body expected betrayal from leather.
Coach let me move slowly.
Some parents watched from the stands.
Dad sat alone near the dugout.
Aunt Laura sat two rows behind him with a travel mug and the expression of a woman daring the universe to try something.
After practice, Coach gathered the team.
“We’re not talking about the championship every day,” he said. “We’re moving forward. But we are saying this once. What happened to Ethan was wrong. Equipment matters. Trust matters. Teammates matter.”
Everyone looked at me.
I wanted to sink into the dirt.
Coach continued.
“If anybody has a problem with Ethan being here, say it now.”
Silence.
Then Lucas raised his hand.
Coach sighed.
“Lucas.”
“I have a problem with Karen being on Earth.”
A few kids laughed.
Coach tried not to smile.
“Noted.”
The tension broke.
I breathed.
When practice ended, Noah, my pitcher, asked if I wanted to throw on Saturday.
Just us.
“No pressure,” he said quickly.
I nodded.
“Okay.”
In the car, Dad asked, “How did it feel?”
“Bad.”
He nodded.
“Also good.”
He nodded again.
“Both makes sense.”
I looked at him.
“You’ve been in therapy.”
“I have.”
“Naomi says that too.”
“Naomi is smart.”
“Yeah.”
We drove home through orange sunset.
For a moment, life felt almost normal.
Then Dad’s phone rang.
Unknown number.
He let it go to voicemail.
A minute later, a message popped up.
He played it on speaker only after asking me.
Karen’s voice filled the car.
Soft.
Crying.
“Michael, please. I know you’re angry. I know Ethan is confused. But I love you both. I made a mistake. Don’t let them turn you against your wife.”
Dad’s jaw tightened.
The message continued.
“Ethan needs structure. Sarah would understand. She knew he was sensitive.”
I felt sick.
Dad pulled over.
He stopped the message.
Then deleted nothing.
He saved it.
Sent it to his attorney.
Sent it to Detective Ellis.
Then he looked at me.
“Your mother would not understand abuse.”
My eyes burned.
“She called me sensitive?”
“Yes.”
“Am I?”
Dad took a breath.
“Yes.”
I flinched.
He continued.
“And that is not an insult. Your mom was sensitive too. She noticed when people were hurting. She cried during commercials. She rescued spiders from the bathtub. She loved hard.”
I stared at him.
“Karen made it sound bad.”
“Karen makes anything she can’t control sound bad.”
That sentence stayed with me.
At home, we found another envelope in the mailbox.
No stamp.
No address.
Just Ethan.
Dad did not let me open it alone.
Inside was a baseball card.
Mine.
From little league picture day.
Someone had drawn a red X over my face.
May you like
On the back, Karen had written:
A catcher who drops the ball gets replaced.
