He was not sitting in the front row, and he was not wearing his suit. He sat three sections away, on the bottom plank of the bleachers near the green equipment shed. He had a paper cup of coffee in his hand, and he did not look at his phone screen.
Ethan was standing near shortstop, his knees bent and his glove open as the coach hit ground balls.
Every time the ball cracked against the wooden bat, Daniel’s head moved, following the white speck as it flew across the grass. He did not shout encouragement, and he did not try to coach from the sidelines. He simply sat there, watching his son.
When the practice ended, the boys gathered near the dugout to pack their gear.
Ethan walked toward the bleachers, his face red from the heat and his gray pants stained with red clay at the knees. He stopped in front of me, his breathing shallow.
“Did you see the play at second?” he asked.
“I did,” I said. “You stayed right with it.”
He looked over my shoulder toward the bottom bench near the shed. Daniel was standing up, setting his empty paper cup in the wire trash bin. He gave Ethan a small, brief nod, then waited by the gate.
There was no grand speech, and there was no sudden family dinner scheduled. There was only the schedule on the refrigerator and the child support that paid the electric bill.
Ethan reached into his pocket and pulled out his batting gloves, tossing them into his canvas bag.
The silver wristwatch resting on Ethan’s wrist as he grips his baseball bat, its steady ticking quiet against the afternoon breeze.
