Out of Control by Richard Reece Read Free Book Online Page A

was baseball. Now it’s law. But he’s the same guy, loving to do something he’s good at.”
    I nodded. But Pop and Wash coming over to talk to me sort of blew me away. I couldn’t get a word out of my mouth.
    â€œCome to practice today, okay?” Wash said. “Have fun. If we get to San Diego and you feel like sitting, that’s fine. We just want you with us.”
    â€œSure,” I said. “Thank you.”
    Pop said, “Do you need anything? I’ll be at the practice.”
    â€œNo, thanks, Pop. I’ll pick up my stuff at home.”
    â€œI know what you’re thinking, Trip,” Pop said. “There’s still your dad. He’s very proud of you, you know?
    â€œHe thinks that pushing you is his duty. Heck,” Pop laughed, “he thinks that pushing
everyone
is his duty. But you’re growing up into your own person. Julio’s going to have some trouble with that. I did. I was not happy with idea of my youngest daughter—who was a very talented softball player, by the way—I was not happy with her deciding she wanted to be a shrink. Today I’m very proud of her.”
    All in time, maybe. But right now the idea of seeing Dad at practice, with his current Yankee obsession, made me a little sick. If I had known what would happen in a few hours, I would have felt even worse.

CHAPTER 17
    I drove home and got my stuff, then drove to the field. I was hardly out of the car when I heard Dad’s voice calling me from across the lot. He was all smiles.
    â€œThis is going to be a tough practice,” he said. “You’ll all need to be at the top of your game in San Diego.”
    He was right about that. The Beach Blowout was an invitational, and the best teams from the United States, Mexico, and the Caribbean would be there. Just to be included was special.
    We ran a few laps, stretched, and started our various warm-ups. We usually had a few spectators at our workouts. Some were parents of team members. Sometimes there were college scouts. And always there were a few kids or old people with time on their hands who just wanted to see some good players. Hardcore guys like Dad and Pop Mancini came whenever they could.
    When my brothers and I were little, Dad actually helped coach some of our teams. Unfortunately, as we grew up, he never completely kicked the habit. It was pretty common for him to wander down on the field and ask the coaches questions—or even offer advice. Mostly Coach and Wash humored him; he did know baseball, and he cared about the team’s success.
    I was waiting my turn for batting practice when I noticed him jawing with Wash down by the dugout. He had on a glove, and he was demonstrating something with it while Wash nodded his head and smiled tolerantly.
    Shotaro was throwing B.P. when my turn came. I started slow, trying to get down my timing. When I started hitting line drives I picked up the power a little. We always had a little fun seeing who could hit the farthest or put the most pitches over fence. The little kids would hang out on the other side with their gloves, shagging the balls that left the park.
    I was just about at the end of my turn, so I thought I’d try to rip one really hard. That’s something any batting coach from Pee Wees up will tell you is counterproductive. But I didn’t care. I jumped on Shotaro’s pitch way too soon and hooked a screaming liner right at the third-base dugout. I heard a shout and turned just in time to see the ball hit Dad in the head right above his left eye.
    He dropped straight to the ground as Wash tried to break his fall. People, including me, came running from all directions. Somebody was yelling, “Call 911!”
    The next twenty minutes seemed like hours. Dad was on his back, completely unconscious. He was breathing, you could see that, but blood was coming from a nasty gash on his temple and his face was starting to swell. Wash knelt beside