Type 1 to be exact and it’s obvious by how this guy continually shifts that I must be the first potential player he has had with the disease. Bet he’s regretting asking me to lunch so he could convince me to play for him. This all leads back to traitor.
“Logan’s mother and I wanted to thank you for helping us get the approval from the athletic commission for Logan to continue to play baseball.” Dad always refers to him and Mom as separate. They divorced when I was six, but most of the time they’ve found a way to stay amicable.
“Yes,” Mom chimes in. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Mom has no idea what Coach Reynolds was helpful with, but she likes to feel included. Dad sighs when Mom goes overboard in the gratitude department—thanking him for his time, for this lunch, for being here. Mom’s a free-spirited talker and Dad’s the quiet, responsible one.
Out of those traits, I inherited Dad’s conversational skills and Mom’s need for a rush. I’ve also got Mom’s brown eyes, Dad’s black hair, and a body that doesn’t produce insulin. Mom blames Dad for that, saying his negativity must have blocked one of my chakras in the womb. Dad says Mom needs her head examined. I’m with Dad on this one.
“When’s your birthday?” Mom asks the coach. “It’ll help me figure out what stars you were born under.”
“Once again, thanks for your help.” Dad jumps in to save the conversation. He’s good at keeping joint parental meetings from making an unscheduled detour into Mom’s fascination with crazy. “The state doesn’t usually like it when students switch schools.”
“Wasn’t much of a problem. You share custody.” Coach Reynolds points the knife he had cut his hamburger with in Mom’s direction. “And you live in our district.”
It also didn’t hurt that this guy wants me on his team. This lunch—I feel for him because it’s possibly in vain. I told Dad at the end of last season I wasn’t playing baseball again, but he went after the commission’s approval anyhow in case I changed my mind.
Given my track record on things, he’s not wrong. My day-by-day attitude drives Dad insane. This time around, I’m firm on a decision. I have a goal for this summer and training camps, drills and commitments to weekend-long tournaments aren’t in the plan. Late nights, crowded bars, a guitar, and a trip to Florida at the end of the summer are in my sights.
“It didn’t hurt that Bullitt County High was encouraging during the process,” Coach Reynolds continues. “There aren’t many schools in the state that can surpass Eastwick’s academics.”
And there aren’t many schools that can surpass Eastwick in sports, but my teammates from Bullitt County High and I made Eastwick cry in the state tourney this past spring. Back in May, Coach Reynolds cursed loud enough for the crowd in the stands to hear as I successfully protected home plate three times in a row—as I cost his team the state championship.
“Academics is why I’m switching schools.” After Bullitt High informed my parents that my senior year would be me, a laptop, and the library, my parents switched me to Eastwick. Me and idle time have never been a good combination. Usually ends up with me in detention, suspended, in the hospital, and once in handcuffs. In my defense, the cow followed me home so I don’t consider that stealing.
Coach Reynolds cocks his head in amusement. “Of course academics is your priority. I would expect nothing less.”
He thinks I’m being cryptic, but I’m not. Dad told him I was considering retiring and this lunch was meant to convince me to change my mind. On the record, according to Coach Reynolds, it’s not that type of lunch. Just a meet and greet. Recruitment is illegal, but that doesn’t stop it from happening.
“Did you know that Logan finished all the courses Bullitt County High had to offer in his junior year?” Mom pipes up.
“I did.” Coach Reynolds smiles while sipping his Coke. “I’ve also heard he has exceptional ACT and SAT scores. Had a talk with your guidance counselor. She told me about the summer institutes you’ve been asked to attend. If you play summer ball for us, I promise practices and games will never interfere with any of that.”
Dad watches my reaction. He doesn’t get worked up by much. Believes what I do in my spare time is my hobby to choose, but me going to college—that’s his dream. Dad finished high school and isn’t quiet about wanting more for me than minimum wage and backbreaking work. These summer institutes promise potential college interviews.
Coach Reynolds picks up on Dad’s change in body language and pounces. “Our guidance counselor says Logan has a ton of universities hunting him down. Just think how much more marketable he’ll be with another baseball championship under his belt.”
Mom sits taller in her seat. “You should see his IQ scores. They’re off the chart. They say intelligence comes from the mother’s side.”
Dad chokes and Mom shoots him a rare dirty look. I drink to hide my smile. Mom’s smart—even has a fancy degree from a fancy university, but she prefers horoscopes to science.
“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,