On a sunny Saturday morning, he was seated in the bleachers, watching the baseball game. It was a picture-perfect day, with warm sunshine and fluffy cumulus clouds dappling the sky. His eight-year-old son, Billy, was at bat, looking very professional and grown up in his Little League uniform. Papa’s three girls and his wife were at his side. It doesn’t get any better than this, he thought happily. Why can’t all families be like ours?
It was the bottom of the eighth inning, the score was tied, with two outs and the bases loaded. Billy was at the plate, three balls and two strikes against him.
Papa called out, encouragingly, “Get ‘em, Billy! Over the fence!”
Billy waited for the pitch. It was fast and low, and Billy swung wildly and missed.
The umpire yelled, “Strike three!”
The inning was over.
There were groans and cheers from the crowd of parents and family friends. Billy stood there disheartened, watching the teams change sides.
Papa called out, “It’s all right, son. You’ll do it next time!”
Billy tried to force a smile.
John Cotton, the team manager, was waiting for Billy. “You’re outta the game!” he said.
“But, Mr. Cotton…”
“Go on. Get off the field.”
Billy’s father watched in hurt amazement as his son left the field. He can’t do that, he thought. He has to give Billy another chance. I’ll have to speak to Mr. Cotton and explain. At that instant, the cellular phone he carried rang. He let it ring four times before he answered it. Only one person had the number. He knows I hate to be disturbed on weekends, he thought angrily.
Reluctantly, he lifted the antenna, pressed a button, and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Hello?”
The voice at the other end spoke quietly for several minutes. Papa listened, nodding from time to time. Finally he said, “Yes. I understand. I’ll take care of it.” He put the phone away.
“Is everything all right, darling?” his wife asked.
“No. I’m afraid it isn’t. They want me to work over the weekend. I was planning a nice barbecue for us tomorrow.”
His wife took his hand and said lovingly, “Don’t worry about it. Your work is more important.”
Not as important as my family, he thought stubbornly. Dan Quayle would understand.
His hand began to itch fiercely and he scratched it. Why does it do that? he wondered. I’ll have to see a dermatologist one of these days.
John Cotton was the assistant manager at the local supermarket. A burly man in his fifties, he had agreed to manage the Little League team because his son was a ballplayer. His team had lost that afternoon because of young Billy.
The supermarket had closed, and John Cotton was in the parking lot, walking toward his car, when a stranger approached him, carrying a package.
“Excuse me, Mr. Cotton.”
“Yes?”
“I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment?”
“The store is closed.”
“Oh, it’s not that. I wanted to talk to you about my son. Billy is very upset that you took him out of the game and told him he couldn’t play again.”
“Billy is your son? I’m sorry he was even in the game. He’ll never be a ballplayer.”
Billy’s father said earnestly, “You’re not being fair, Mr. Cotton. I know Billy. He’s really a fine ballplayer. You’ll see. When he plays next Saturday—”
“He isn’t going to play next Saturday. He’s out.”
“But…”
“No but’s. That’s it. Now, if there’s nothing else…”
“Oh, there is.” Billy’s father had unwrapped the package in his hand, revealing a baseball bat. He said pleadingly, “This is the bat that Billy used. You can see that it’s chipped, so it isn’t fair to punish him because—”
“Look, mister, I don’t give a damn about the bat. Your son is out!”
Billy’s father sighed unhappily. “You’re sure you won’t change your mind?”
“No chance.”
As Cotton reached for the door handle of his car, Billy’s father swung the bat against the rear window, smashing it.
Cotton stared at him in shock. “What…what the hell are you doing?”
“Warming up,” Papa explained. He raised the bat and swung it again, smashing it against Cotton’s kneecap.