Slide - Kyle Beachy [97]
“It's a good thing you're doing for this kid.”
I stood from the bench but stayed where I was. A ball-collection buggy drove along one side of the range, then turned into the middle. The driver was encased by a protective cage of metal latticework as he drove from one side of the range to the other. Every so often a ball clanked off his buggy, adding yet another sound of collision to this place, all the more special for its infrequency
“Have a seat, son.”
Throat clearing. Ian hitting balls, each a little better than the last. My father's arm around my shoulders.
“Things happen. A big part of parenthood is watching your child make mistakes. I'm sure you can imagine the dilemma here. Do you step in and fix the problem? You could. Or do you let the child fail? Failure guides us, it hardens and teaches. It also causes damage and leaves a mark. So there's a choice to make, every time. Hands on, hands off.”
Sweat. Repeated blinking. I imagined myself folding into a compact little ball and being absorbed into my father's gaping armpit. The buggy driver maintained his course despite the football players now making a point of aiming for him.
“Your mother and I have worked like yeomen to not blame each other over the years. Sometimes we have found success, other times less so.”
By now it was apparent Ian was aiming for the collection buggy as well. He tracked its movement left to right, angled his feet and shoulders to where the buggy was going. My instinct was to rush over there and smother the jock-asshole mentality before it took over his worldview. But the kid! He was killing the ball! A stroke fluid and smooth, right in every way. He narrowly missed the buggy, then rushed to tee up a new ball for the next shot.
“I want you to promise one thing for me, Potter. No matter what happens, where any of this leads us. Promise to call me on the telephone. A father derives something huge and uplifting from a phone call from his son. You and I don't speak on the phone often. We never have. But I can't stress this enough, every single phone call will make me happy. I promise to be happy to hear from you, wherever you are, until the day I die. This is a promise I can make with the straightest of faces. Because the love I have for you eclipses anything you can fathom at your age. Know this much, Potter. We are a selfish species. I am outrageously selfish. I bet you don't know that. You want an explanation for almost every one of the world's problems? Overlapping selfish instincts. Name it. The only thing that breaks this selfishness is family. Especially your first child. People like to believe marriage is the big hurdle in terms of selflessness, but they're wrong. You are still two people with two sets of interests. A child, though, shifts the whole paradigm.”
Ian teed a ball, lined up his stance, checked the progress of the cart, and swung calmly.
And of course it goes without saying that you have to call your mother.”
I watched the ball shoot skyward, hang for a second, then fall. Ian leaned left. Breeze blew and a bird chirped. The ball came down squarely in the middle of the wire mesh protecting the driver's head. Ian gave a tiny hop, then turned to face us on the bench. He held out the club and smiled hugely.
“Your turn, son.”
I took the club and stepped onto the turf, teed a ball of my own. Ian sat on the bench next to my father. I loosened with practice swings and tried not to think about my arms or shoulders. I lined up my shot, inhaled deeply. I was going to OBLITERATE this ball.
My swing came in too low, caught more of the turf than it should have. The ball barely moved, trickling less than ten feet into the range. The club's head went much, much farther. In strobe motion I watched it detach from the shaft and soar end over end out into the grass, spinning in a way that could have even been beautiful if it wasn't my father's ancient seven iron. I stood for