My Kind of Crazy - Robin Reul Page 0,22

off as if it were trivial, just a bunch of drawings. I was so upset that I told him I thought baseball was boring as shit, that I didn’t want to play anymore and he couldn’t make me. He was so furious that his jaw clenched and a vein bulged in his forehead as he yelled at me that I didn’t make the rules. So at the game, bottom of the ninth inning, bases loaded, score tied, with everything riding on my at-bat, I decided to show him who’s boss.

When the pitcher threw the ball, I didn’t swing. I could see my father out of the corner of my eye, yelling at me to hit the ball. He was on his feet, pulling his baseball cap on and off his head, practically having a frickin’ coronary. With each of the next two balls, he kept yelling, asking me if I was a moron, then reprimanded me in front of the crowd, but I didn’t move a muscle. I stood my ground. I had to show him I wasn’t—and would never be—like him and Mickey.

While I felt like a jerk for throwing the game and letting down the team, I was tired of my dad trying to mold me in his image. I felt proud of myself for standing up to him. But happiness was fleeting, because when the game ended, the entire team—including my dad—completely iced me out. I’d humiliated him publicly. I’d pushed things too far with him, and I tried to apologize the entire ride home, but he didn’t want to hear it.

There were no more family trips to Fenway after that. He’d still go, of course, but he’d only take Mickey. Mom loved baseball, but Dad was adamant that I not “subject myself to that boring-as-shit game,” and Mom worried about leaving me alone, so she stayed home with me. I could see in her eyes how disappointed she was to miss it, which made me feel worse. I tried explaining to him that I didn’t really feel that way, that I had just been upset, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done. And after Mickey died, Dad stopped going altogether.

Most days Dad makes it clear that sharing a house doesn’t mean we have to share a conversation. So last year when he invited me out for a pizza and we found ourselves at the comic store, it was kind of a big deal. That night, Monica was working, there was no game on, and Dad wanted company. Sure, he spent most of the evening draining a pitcher of beer, ranting about how the Pats weren’t gonna be able to take it all the way to the Super Bowl, and checking out the boobs on our waitress, but it was progress. He didn’t ask me a single question about myself, but I was glad to be there with him. He’s pretty much all I’ve got.

On the way home, we passed Metropolis Comics. They were getting ready to close, and Victor, the old guy who owns the place, waved at me as we walked by.

“Who the hell is that?” my dad asked with a belch.

I waved back. “That’s Victor.”

My dad leaned in to me and grabbed the inside of my arm near the elbow, steadying himself. “He a friend of yours?”

“Kinda.”

He snickered and added, “Ain’t he a little old for you, Hank? What’s a guy his age interested in some young kid for?”

“Dad, he owns the comic book store. I come here a lot. He knows me.” Probably better than you do, I’d thought.

Dad stopped in his tracks and eyed the neon sign as if he was noticing the store for the first time. “Metropolis Comics, eh? I used to like comics when I was a kid. Who’s your favorite?”

I tried to play it cool. “That’s a tough call. So many great ones, but I’m going to have to go with the Silver Surfer.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? That the guy on a skateboard?”

“Surfboard, actually. That’s why they call him the Silver Surfer.” Dad had shared so little of himself with me, and now that we were finally speaking the same language, I didn’t want to mess it up. “Who was your favorite?” I asked him.

“Jeez, it was so long ago. I was about your age, maybe younger.” Dad shook his head.

I tried to imagine my dad as a teenager. I saw a photo once a long time ago. He actually looked a lot like I do