Aaron pointed at the glove.
“Do you know what makes this ridiculous?”
“No,” Noah said.
Aaron laughed without humor.
Aaron looked toward Mr. Vance’s empty house across the street.
“My son, Ben, played Little League at Franklin Field for five years.”
His voice sharpened.
“I invited Dad constantly.”
Claire said softly, “I know.”
“He always had an excuse.”
“Dad couldn’t come watch his own grandson play ball.”
Aaron laughed without humor.
“Too tired. Too hot. Bad knees. Didn’t feel like crowds.”
Then he looked at Noah.
“Dad could sit on that porch every Saturday watching you mow, but he couldn’t come watch his own grandson play ball.”
Noah flinched.
Aaron immediately looked guilty.
“I spent years thinking he didn’t care.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“I know.”
“It’s just…”
Aaron rubbed both hands over his face.
“I spent years thinking he didn’t care.”
Noah held out the glove.
At Franklin Field, we searched for almost half an hour.
“Then maybe you should come.”
Aaron stared at him.
Finally, he took it.
At Franklin Field, we searched for almost half an hour.
A groundskeeper finally waved us toward the concession stand, where Mr. Vance had left an envelope in a sealed box months earlier.
Inside was a letter.
Aaron read it silently at first.
You asked me to come watch Ben play.
Then he sat down.
“What?” Claire asked.
He handed her the paper.
Mr. Vance had written:
Aaron,
You asked me to come watch Ben play, and I kept telling you no.
You probably thought I didn’t care.
You deserved better than excuses.
After your mother died, I couldn’t sit in those bleachers. I tried once and turned around before I reached the gate.
You probably thought I didn’t care.
I did.
I came to three games.
I parked beyond the outfield fence where you couldn’t see me.
I should have walked closer.
I watched Ben hit a double in one. I watched him strike out twice in another and throw his helmet in the dugout. He gets that temper from you.
I should have walked closer.
I didn’t know how.
I’m sorry.
Aaron stopped reading.
