When Dad Came Back by Gary Soto Read Free Book Online Page B

Why aren't you wearing uniforms?”
    Gabe led his dad from center field, aware that he might have halted the game on purpose—had he wanted to stand in center field and bask in everyone's attention? They parked themselves at a picnic table under a tree. Gabe became uneasy when he noticed three homeys grouped near the little kids’ pool. They were staring at Gabe. Was it a warning?
    â€œYou know, I played ball,” his dad said. His good eye twinkled as he remembered.
    â€œI know you did. You were good, huh?” Gabe thought of his dad's high school uniform, which was hanging next to a deflated inner tube in the garage. He recalled three of his trophies layered with dust, the shine of their glory years long gone.
    â€œI was OK. Played second base. My arm wasn't strong.” He looked down at his wrist and turned the plastic hospital bracelet so that his name showed. “In all my years, I only hit one homer. Sad, huh?”
    â€œThat's better than me. I can barely get it out of the infield.”
    â€œOh, come on, a boy like you?” His injured eyed opened and closed almost immediately.
    â€œI'll be right back,” Gabe told his father. “Don't leave.” He hustled to the dugout to retrieve the bags of clothes and personal items. Coach Rodriguez eyed him, not so much with anger but with suspicion, as if asking, “Who's the man?”
    The players in the dugout watched Gabe for a few seconds, then turned their attention back to the game when another player got clocked—a ball hit him between the shoulder blades.
    He returned to find his dad hoisting a cigarette to his lips. He was striking a match when Gabe said, “You can't smoke here.”
    His dad lifted his heavy brows. He appraised his son, and tucked the cigarette behind his ear. He looked up when the crowd shouted. “Looks like someone scored.” Two players were chugging around the bases.
    Gabe, straddling the bench with his back to the field, had to turn to see. He should have guessed: Pablo was touching first base, holding for an instant, and then digging for second when the center fielder overthrew the cut-off man. Gabe was drawn into the game, almost becoming one of the players. Then he remembered why he was at the table: private time with his dad.
    â€œI got some things for you.”
    â€œâ€˜Things’?” his father asked. “That's nice, Gabe.”
    â€œDad, just tell me. Are you really sick?” He didn't want his dad to be sick. He only wanted to know the truth.
    â€œI know there's something wrong,” he answered.” I can't keep food down.”
    Gabe let this piece of information filter through his mind. Could his dad be lying? He confronted him. “You're not like, really sick?”
    â€œGabe, I'm just tired. I can't do this anymore, living like I do on the street.” He paused. “Look at my eye.”
    Gabe winced. The eye was red and weepy.
    â€œI wish I could say that I hurt it doing something good. But it got damaged when I fell over and hit a doorknob in Eugene, Oregon. I was drunk.”
    Gabe wasn't sure if his father was being truthful, even though he wore a plastic hospital bracelet, got around on broomstick legs, and had an injured eye. Still, he placed the shopping bags on the picnic table and studied the names and cusswords etched in the wood. He recognized one of the names—Frankie Torres. For all Gabe knew, Frankie was one of the dudes hanging out like a vulture by the kiddie pool.
    â€œI brought you clean clothes,” Gabe said. “And I got other stuff for you.” He set the two shopping bags on the table.
    His dad seemed indifferent—no smile, no mirth in his good eye. His attention had returned to the cigarette that he pulled from behind his ear. It had to be a temptation, for his lips were slightly parted and trembling.
    â€œI got to go.” His dad rose and touched the brim of Gabe's baseball cap. “I'll see