Morganton Winters
by Michael Robinson
“All set,” she said. She dabbed away the blood with a piece of his shirt. “I think I have some bandages in my box.”
“No that’s alright, I gotta get going,”
“It’ll only take—“
“NO, I have to go,” he said.
Bobby trotted back up the path. He knew his father wouldn’t be happy about what had just happened. He didn’t like the time Bobby spent down at the creek anyway. He couldn’t be late to baseball practice. His trot turned into a full out sprint. He arrived at the field which was a mile or so away and apologized for his tardiness.
“Sorry I’m late,” Bobby said.
“Son, you’re fifteen minutes early,” said Coach Parks.
“I know, but I’m usually twenty.”
“Well I won’t tell anyone,” said the coach. He patted Bobby on the back.
He could have been twenty minutes late for all Coach Parks cared; it was Bobby’s arm he’d be riding to the state championships that year. Best right arm anybody around there had ever seen except his father’s. Patrick probably would have gone pro had it not been for Lisa getting pregnant so young. He did his best to be a good father and husband, but there was always this chip he carried around, this air of what could have been. His father would smooth out sticks and have Bobby swing at pecans to train him on accuracy. By the time he was ten he knew that by hooking his wrist and releasing the ball close to his body that his fastball could be turned into a lethal curveball. He was told to never let up, because his future could be sitting in the stands. If Patrick couldn’t make a name for himself, he’d make sure his son would.
Coach Parks admired Bobby’s arm as he warmed up. He threw as straight and powerful as ever. But, for Bobby, something was different. He couldn’t keep his mind off that girl. I wonder what her name is, he thought. It didn’t really matter—girls were a waste of his time.
“What’s wrong with your arm son,” asked Coach Parks.
“What do you mean? Is my slider not breaking enough.”
“No, I mean your bleeding.”
Bobby looked down at his arm. Blood had seeped through his practice shirt.
“How’d that happen,” said Coach Parks.
“I don’t know, I must’ve hit it on something I guess.”
“Well, let’s get you cleaned up, Pat would kill me if he knew I had you out here like this.”
After Bobby’s arm was cleaned and bandaged, the coach sent him home to rest. Bobby took his time walking back; his father would wonder why he was home so early. He reached the front door of his house, as the sun was close on the horizon. He could feel the dull rays on the right side of his face as he turned the knob. This was good; it meant he would have some light to do his nightly chores. Ever since the accident, Bobby’s father didn’t allow much use of electricity. Their stove was gas; his father preferred it because it allowed for control. Most things that required light were either done during the day or could wait till the next. When he was younger, this way of living was hard for Bobby to get accustomed to but he never complained. Even then at age eleven he knew his mother’s death had changed his father. At the funeral, Bobby cried. He remembered seeing others cry too, but his father just sat there. He looked beaten as if he had been wronged.
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