Game four of the World Series was about to start. We were in the living room, floral green wallpaper, cheap wooden coffee table. After many years of disappointment, the Detroit Tigers were leading the San Diego Padres two games to one. When he was younger, my father wanted to become a professional baseball player. He even played one season in the minor leagues, but after my brother Jeffrey and I we were born, he’d given up on that dream. He lifted the cat and brushed the fur from his pantleg. He was still sulking from our neighbor having parked his new boat in our driveway that morning. “It’s because Leonard doesn’t have kids,” he said. “When you don’t have kids you can afford those luxuries.”

Jeffrey and I jumped up and down on the sofa, pretending it was a boat.

During the game, Alan Trammel hit two homeruns to give the Tigers a three-games-to-one lead over the Padres. My father hooted and hollered, but when it was over, he said he wouldn’t watch game five. He no longer cared about baseball, he declared. My mother went and sat with him in the recliner. It was a tight squeeze. He put his
arm around her.

We stayed up late watching Knight Rider, then the news, long past bedtime. Head lights washed through the window. Jeffrey and I opened the curtain and saw Leonard struggle with the hitch. My mother stepped out on the porch, arms crossed. My father crushed his can.