Page 89 of Elevator Pitch

I didn’t want to be anywhere else. I’m proud of my boy and it’s on the tip of my tongue to remind him when someone calls his name and Harley turns his head.

He exaggeratedly waves his arm in the air before turning back to me. “I’ve got to go.”

“Of course.” Not going to lie, it stings that he is eager to rush off. I stare after him as he runs toward another young man, his arms pinwheeling at his sides before the two collide and embrace. Holding each other while tipping side to side.

Quickly, I glance back at Vee who is observing me, not watching Harley. I clear my throat. “My son has a boyfriend,” I state, holding my head up high, prepared to go to battle, if necessary.

But Vee looks me directly in the eye, similar to the way Harley had, only she holds longer, more intently. “And you love him.” Simple. Direct. Honest.

“Deeply.” I exhale.

As an athlete, the stereotype of determination and grit comes with a perception of aggression and competition which includes diminishing those weaker or different from us. A man is a man, but that’s an archaic attitude. What makes a man? Accepting all others? Being a good dad? Acting as a gentleman?

In sports, we take sexual orientation and mental health more seriously than ever before, especially with the number of former athletes coming forward about their past negative experiences.

When my son came out to me, my only response was that I love him. I had no other words. He is who he is. But I was upset because my son seemed hesitant to tell me, to open up to me, like he was afraid I wouldn’t accept him, and that’s the moment I knew I’d done a poor job of being his father.

“I know it’s late, but do you want to grab something to eat?” I’m not ready for our night to end. With a glance back at Harley, I add, “He’s busy.” I make the excuse more for myself than him. I understand there are cast parties and time needed to unwind after a performance. The sensation is no different than playing a game, wanting to revel or commiserate with your friends after a win or loss. Teammates, cast members; there isn’t any difference. People are people.

And as much as I want Harley to spend some after-the-performance time with me, so I can tell him how proud I am of him, maybe take him out for a celebratory dinner, I know he’d rather be with his friends.

Vee slips her hand around my bicep. “I know a great burger place nearby.” Her tone expresses her understanding.

Being a parent is hard. You need to know when to hold tight and when to let go.

When we reach the burger joint, I express my gratitude. “I know you get it. Your girls are grown.” I sigh, dangling a French fry from my fingertips. “Where does the time go?”

Dropping the fry onto my plate, I swipe my hands together. “I missed a lot when my boys were younger. Even more when Patty passed, and I moved on to coaching.” I squint toward the window at my side as we sit in a booth across from each other. “Sometimes I worry I’ve missed too much.”

Glancing back at Vee, she offers another compassionate smile. “It’s never too late, Ross.”

Patty comes to mind again. “Until it really is.” Until you don’t have another minute to make things right. To say what you should have said.

“My wife wanted me to quit.” I lower my head, blindly staring at my nearly finished burger. “She hadn’t been feeling well, maybe she knew internally something was happening. Women often have a sixth sense about things. She asked me to leave baseball for the boys.” I shake my head, unable to look up, certain there will be judgement in Vee’s eyes. “I didn’t do it.”

I was aging out of the sport but felt like I had one last year in me.

After this season. Always my excuse.

Slowly, I lift my head and glance at Vee. “Instead of honoring Patty’s request, I threw myself into the game, disappearing within it, and had one of my best pitching years. The Anchors won the pennant that year.”

I swallow thickly, Vee allowing me a minute. “I’d suggested I quit after she passed. Been given leave to give myself a break. But my coach knew I was struggling.” I wave a hand around my ear, signaling my head. “I was messed up and needed something to focus on. The game gave me the outlet I needed. My coach was right, but I’d done wrong by my boys. They needed me and I failed them.”

After the season. I promised myself if the Anchors won, I’d leave the game, and I did. Took a year off and floundered. Baseball kept me grounded. When the offer from the Flash came in, I jumped at the chance to coach and moved my boys to Philadelphia, which was another change for them.

“My son needs the stage like I need a sandy diamond-shaped lot with a grassy outfield. And while some might argue baseball is just a game how would you feel if someone told you never to write again?”

Vee sucks in air. “Like I couldn’t breathe.”

“So, you understand me.”

Vee does get me on a level no one else ever has. Her heart is huge. She listens and she cares. And she can make me laugh. She chases away dark thoughts. Her presence casts a warm glow in my life. I want to be able to do the same for her. I want her to know she’s appreciated and adored, listened to and seen.

Vee and I are silent a second before she sighs and sits up straighter. “There’s no way to measure grief or guilt. Is it a minute, an hour, or a season of our lives? Does it define us, or do we define it? Is grief only about death, or is it about time? Time lost. Time never used.” Vee pauses. “I think, we allow ourselves the time we need, beat ourselves up if we have to, wallow if we must, but that needs a time limit. My grandmother once said she allowed herself two weeks at the loss of my grandfather. Then she forced herself out of bed, and it was one step at a time. One minute, one hour. A season.”

Vee licks her lips. “We can’t live with regrets, and yet the truth is, we all do. Regret over what we said or didn’t say. Regret about what we did or didn’t do. Remorse is part of life, and that’s what’s important to remember. We need to continue living, and be thankful time is in front of us right now, in this moment, and to make a change, if you wish.”

I stare at Vee as she continues. “If you want a better relationship with Harley, tell him. Or better yet, show him. He’s adult enough to understand that your job is demanding but maybe he doesn’t understand why you love that job, or need it, or value it. Not value it more than him, but because it’s something for you, like he has the theater for him.” She tilts her head. “Which, by the way, why didn’t you tell me he was in a play or that we were going to his play?”