Colleen would show him some Popsicle-stick doll she made in preschool and he’d act like he never knew someone could do such amazing things. Brendan would explain how even though it’s not his fault Chad Beckerman caught the football with his face, he’s sorry anyway. Dad would tell him to try and do better tomorrow, then ask me how the Yanks were looking for their next series in Boston or if those IRA guys were still on that hunger strike in Northern Ireland. That’s not how it is now. Friday night, hours after dinner, I’m on the bed in my room, filing baseball cards into shoe boxes—one for the American League, one for the National, and one that’s all Yankees. My dad knocks on my door and walks in, his work clothes still on. “Got anyone good there?” I shuffle through them and hold up a Willie Wilson card. “He’s not too bad.” My dad reaches out to grab it. His hand is scrubbed clean but it smells oily.
