Chasing Impossible

“Moving schools between your junior and senior year—that takes courage.” Coach moves the conversation back to me. “Joining the team will help you make friends fast.”

Most people would be torn up about the decision to switch schools, but my best friends graduated this past spring and so did half my baseball team. Then a week after graduation, two of my three baseball coaches announced they were transferring schools. Within a heartbeat, I was left behind.

I yank on my baseball cap and push the salad around in the bowl. Being left behind. Can’t say that felt good.

“I don’t want to play this summer.” I cut to the meat of the issue. “I need some time off.”

Dad looks thoughtfully over at me. I hadn’t said this to him yet, just stated that I was done with ball, but like Dad’s already aware, I do change my mind. I’m not passionate about baseball like my best friends Chris and Ryan. They live for the game where I just enjoyed being with friends and the rush of playing catcher.

“You’ve been around enough,” Coach Reynolds says. “You know how we like to play on rec league teams during the off-season to keep the guys in shape.”

“I know.” My eyes meet his and he’s reading me. Nothing he’ll do or say will convince me to give up my summer goals.

“So explain to me again how the diabetes works,” the coach says, switching the subject either because he’s curious or because he’s buying himself time to convince me to change my mind.

Dad and I share a brief glance while Mom acts like she’s the authority on me. Coach Reynolds drenches his last French fry in ketchup as he nods at Mom’s basic explanation of sugar levels, glucose testing, and insulin shots.

My mouth waters when he pops that fry into his mouth. To play the “I’m responsible game” with my parents, I’m eating a grilled chicken salad. I hate vegetables. Can’t describe the undeniable amount of hate I have toward all things green, but lately, my blood sugar’s been off.

Doctor says it’s normal—my hormones fluctuating. Mom says it’s negative energy. Dad wonders how responsible I’m being with managing my diet, exercise, and testing routines. Dad and the doctor could be tied for the win.

“So you’re saying I don’t need to worry about anything?” Coach Reynolds balls up his napkin and tosses it over his empty plate. “That Logan’s responsible about all this and will be able to take care of everything if he plays for us?”

“Logan...” Dad pauses and I raise an eyebrow. Dad’s the one who convinced me to give baseball a try after the initial diabetes diagnosis when I was seven. It was his attempt to prove that I could do anything, even with type 1. I often wonder if he regrets that conversation. Bet he never thought his son with type 1 would become a daredevil.

Dad reboots and starts the conversation again. “Logan knows when to test and has been giving himself his insulin for years.”

It’s a politician answer. The truth without admitting the truth. Dad doesn’t think I’m responsible. Not with my diabetes and not with my life.

Coach Reynolds accepts Dad’s answer with a wave of his hand. “Sounds good. We’ll hold a team meeting if he decides to join. Explain the situation to them. Maybe if you have a pamphlet—”

“No.” I cut him off and his eyes snap to mine.

“What?”

“If I join nobody but the coaching staff knows.”

Coach Reynolds warily flicks his eyes to my parents. He’s searching for support but ends up on his own. “I’ll admit to not understanding your condition, son, but from what I understand, this is serious.”

It is. I crashed once on an ER table. Shit doesn’t get much more real and serious than that. “Outside of doctors’ offices, there are a handful of people who are aware of my diabetes. My last team won back-to-back state championships and my teammates never knew their catcher can’t produce enough insulin.”

My two best friends didn’t know and still don’t.

“There’s no shame in telling—”

I cut him off again. “Would you run headfirst into a guy whose body doesn’t work right? Would you purposefully hurl a ball full force at a guy if you thought he was broken?”

Coach Reynolds circles his wedding ring on his finger and my stomach bottoms out. Bet he’s got kids and he’s confusing his feelings for them with the idea of putting me on the field. “Should they? I have to admit, I’m questioning if this choice is wise.”

I rest my arms on the table and lean forward, never breaking eye contact. “I stood between your biggest guy and home plate in the championship a few weeks back. He hauled ass in my direction for home. I caught the ball, took the charge, and tagged his ass out. I’m sitting here and from what I hear, he’s still nursing a broken leg. I am not weak.”

Dad pulls a letter out from a folder and slips it across to the coach. “It’s a letter from his doctor. Logan’s cleared to play. He has to test more when he’s practicing and during games, but there’s no reason for his diabetes to hold him back.”

When Coach Reynolds’s eyes stop the back and forth proving his reading, he simply stares at the bottom of the page, weighing his need for a catcher over the burden of responsibility of having a kid with diabetes on his team.

He knocks the table two times and finally meets my eyes. His desire for a championship team won. “I just saw and heard passion. You sure you’re done playing ball?”

A hundred-mile-per-hour fastball being thrown at me or taking the brunt of a guy in his hunt for home as I tag him out? That’s some crazy shit and I need a dose of crazy—daily. There’s something wrong with my brain. There’s a constant itch under my skin, a twitch in my mind, and if I don’t find a rush, then I feel like I’ll go insane.

Am I done with baseball? Who knows. But... “I need the summer off.”

Coach nods with a victory smile on his face. “All right. I can respect that. Fall ball practice starts the first week of school. I expect to see you on my field.”

A waitress drops a tray full of food, the entire restaurant gawks, and when Coach Reynolds returns his attention to the table, Mom starts telling him about an herbal tea at the organic foods store she manages that would be great for the team during training.

“You sure about this?” Dad mumbles in my direction.

He’s used to me following whatever path I like at the moment. It’s predictable that he’ll second-guess and ask me if this is what I really want. Has nothing to do with baseball. Me playing ball—that’s not what’s important to him. My health is. My mental stability.

“Just need the summer.”

Dad shoots me a look that suggests later he and I will discuss everything I’m not saying. It’ll be a hell of a conversation. One he won’t want to have, but one I’m determined will go my way in the end.

Abby (#ulink_81994384-09af-5d49-bab0-3837c68644ee)

Rule number one from my father: never let them know you’re scared.

I cradle my cell against my ear, shut the upstairs bathroom door of my house, lock the knob, then use the chain I added for extra security. “Next you’ll tell me the stars realigned themselves to foretell my doom and a voice called down from the heavens telling you I should stay in bed.”

Ricky laughs. He always laughs. At least with me. I make him nervous, and in our line of business, trusting the wrong person can be a fatal mistake so he chooses not to believe I’m crazy and instead chooses to think I’m funny. By the way, I’m not funny, but I am crazy.

“I’m telling you that you should cancel your plans for the evening,” he says.

I move the plastic shelves that hold our towels to the side, roll up the wallpaper that was held in place with Velcro, then use the screwdriver to take the wooden “door” in the wall off. “Because your fortune cookie warned you off from bad business meetings. If you’re going to listen to the crap, at least do it right and read your horoscope in the paper like the rest of us.”

The loud background laughter and conversation on his end fades and I wonder if he’s also entering his private space that includes his personal cubby hole full of cash. “I heard from reasonable sources there are people going after some of my assets this evening. You need to stay in.”

“Tough, because I’m going to a club tonight.” True. After I meet a few clients to sell them what they’re interested in buying, I’m hanging with friends and then I’m meeting with a new potential client. I interview potential clients before I sell because I’m paranoid like that. “I’m going to be the teenager that everyone, even you, keeps reminding me that I am.”

Four screws out and the door loosens. Every time I open this little compartment I’m half relieved and half sickened. Too many stacks of cash for someone my age, but at the same time, not nearly enough.

“It’s Sunday night,” he says. “Friday and Saturdays are your paydays.”

“I’ve got regulars who get cranky when I don’t meet their expectations, plus it’s summer. I try for a faster turnover rate now because school can eat into my delivery time, and I like for them to have memories of a time when I delivered immediately. Maintaining a high level of customer satisfaction and retention while getting my beauty rest and finishing my homework isn’t as easy as I make it seem. Flawless takes work and planning.”

“The honor roll employee with the customer’s-always-right attitude.” He fake cackles and it’s the type that swamps me with the urgent need to shower and clean myself of filth. “It’s always a pleasure to speak with you. Maybe I should force everyone to adopt your customer service philosophy.”

“You said it.” My customers are right unless they try to cheat me and then I’m nasty.