Chapter 18 when the ghost returns

I once dreamed that my father came back.In the dream, he moved to a neighboring town, and I rode my bicycle to his place.I knocked on the door and he came out and told me it was all a big misunderstanding.Then we rode our bikes home together, me in the front seat and my father pedaling hard in the back.My mother rushed out the gate, crying tears of joy. It is amazing to say that the human mind can piece together all kinds of things into fantasies.In fact, I never knew where my father lived, and never asked.I would go to his shop after school, but he just wasn't there.Now the person in charge of the store is his friend Marty. He told me that my dad is working in the new branch in Collingwood.It was an hour's drive away, but to a child it was like the moon.After a while, I stopped detouring to his shop; I stopped fantasizing about riding my bike home with him.I graduated from elementary school and then through middle school and high school with absolutely no news from my father.

He is a ghost. But I still see him. Every time I swing a bat, I see him; every time I throw a ball, I see him.So I've never given up on baseball, so I've played every spring, every summer; I've been on every team, every baseball league I can.I picture my dad standing on home plate, and I picture him nudging my elbow to correct my batting position.I ran up to catch the bouncing ball, and I heard him yelling: Low save, low save, low save! A boy will always see his dad on the baseball field.Sooner or later, I thought, my father would show up. So, year after year, I put on my new team uniform, the red socks, the gray pants, the blue top, the yellow hat, and everything made me feel like I was wearing it because someone was coming to see me.I divided my adolescence between the pulpy smell of books that came from my mother's passion and the leathery smell of a baseball glove that belonged to my father.My body grew out of his profile, same broad shoulders, but I was two inches taller than him.

As I grew up, I clung to the game of baseball like a lifeboat on a rough sea, and I clung to it, riding through the waves together. In the end, baseball turned me back to my dad. I knew from the beginning that baseball would give me back to my dad. He disappeared for eight years, then reappeared.He came to see me play my first college game in the spring of 1968.He sat in the front seat behind home plate to the left, and from this position he could take a good look at me. I will never forget that day.It was windy that afternoon, the sky was dark gray, and it looked like it was going to rain.I walk toward home plate.I don't usually look over my seat, but for some reason that day, I did.He is there.His temples have turned gray, his shoulders seem to be a little narrower, his waistline seems to be a little thicker, and he seems to have sunken into himself.Other than that, he doesn't look different.Not sure if he felt uncomfortable; if so, he didn't show it.However, I'm not sure I can see the uncomfortable expression on my father's face.

He nodded at me.Everything seems to freeze.eight years.For eight full years.I feel my lips trembling.I remember a voice in my head: Don't you try it for me; Chick, don't cry, you bastard, don't cry. I look at my feet.I force my feet to move.I kept my eyes on my feet and just walked all the way to the strike zone. The first pitch came and I hit a home run.The ball flew over the wall on the left side of the court.