“It’s okay,” I say. “I think baseball is pretty boring too.” I nod my head at Enzo, who is quite literally at the edge of his seat, watching the game. He loves sports, but even more, he loves to watch Nico play sports. “Helikes it though.”
“I’m readingStranger with My Faceby Lois Duncan,” she says.
“Oh, I loved that one when I was a kid. All her books, actually.”
I feel a twinge of sadness, thinking about my childhood and how it all went wrong. What might have happened if I hadn’t attacked that boy and ended up killing him? Then again, I have a good life now. I love my husband, and I have two amazing kids. If I had to suffer a little hardship (or alotof hardship) on the way to get there, that’s just how it had to be.
I take a swig from the water bottle I brought. It’s only the middle of May, but the weekend is shaping up to be extremely hot. My phone says it’s in the high eighties today. The kids look uncomfortable and listless.
Nico comes up to bat, so I nudge Ada to put down her book. He hasn’t had a hit all day, and he’s got that frustrated look he gets on his face sometimes. He is a pretty good hitter, so he must be getting in his head or something like that. I hope he gets a hit this time.
The pitcher throws the ball right over the plate, and I hear a crack as the bat makes contact. Enzo shouts with excitement.Yeah, Nico!It bounces once and rolls into the field. Nico tosses his bat to the side and makes a run toward first base.
The pitcher manages to grab the ball. With lightning-fast speed, he whips it in the direction of first base. Nico slides onto the plate just as the first baseman catches the ball. I cross my fingers and toes that he’s not out, but then the umpire shakes his head.
“No. No!” Enzo is suddenly on his feet, yelling. “Not out! No!”
Apparently, Enzo thinks this was an unfair call. Which doesn’t necessarily mean itwasan unfair call.
Nico isn’t any happier about this decision. The other kid is saying something to him, and he takes off his baseball cap and throws it on the ground. Nico is yelling something—I can make out the word “bullshit.” I hold my breath, willing my son to back off and return to the dugout.
And that’s when Nico throws the punch.
I could tell he was prone to getting angry—he’s gotten riled up during Little League games before. But I never saw him get violent before. He punches the first baseman right in the gut, and the poor kid goes down hard. My heart drops into my stomach as I watch it happening and scramble to my feet.
Enzo witnesses it too. He freezes, falling suddenly silent. He was defending Nico about what happened on the playground, but this is harder to defend. That other kid didn’t do anything wrong, and Nico punched him.
I don’t understand much Italian, but I can tell he’s cursing under his breath.
“Millie.” He turns to me, his brow furrowed. “Nicolas just punched that kid.”
“I saw.”
“Cazzo,” he mutters. “What is he thinking? We have to get him out of here.”
The two of us make our way down to the field. The other kid is on the ground, sobbing. Nico is standing over him, breathing hard. The coach, a man named Ted who is the father of one of the other boys, does not look thrilled. He’s got pit stains under both his arms, and he looks like he is not enjoying being out here in the heat and now having to deal with my son punching another kid.
“You gotta get him out of here,” Ted says to Enzo in his thick Long Island accent. “We got a no-tolerance policy about violence between the boys.”
“I am so sorry,” Enzo says. “It will never happen again.”
“Yeah, it won’t.” Ted holds up his hands. “Sorry, Enzo. He’s off the team.”
Enzo opens his mouth to protest, but then he shuts it again. He argued Nico’s case in the principal’s office, but this is different. We saw what happened. He punched that kid overnothing.
Instead, Enzo turns to our son, who is standing on the side, kicking his sneaker into the dirt. “Come on,” Enzo says. “We go home now.”
THIRTY-TWO
We don’t talk much in the car, partially because Ada is there. Enzo is the one driving, and his knuckles are bloodless on the steering wheel. Every time I glance over my shoulder, Nico is staring out the window. He doesn’t even seem upset over getting kicked off the team just a few weeks before the end of the season. It’s like it doesn’t even matter.
What is wrong with my son?
When we get into the house, Enzo instructs Nico to stay in the living room. Nico drops onto the sofa and reaches for the remote, but Enzo shakes his head. “No TV,” he says. “You sit there and be quiet. I will talk to your mother.”
I follow my husband to the kitchen, and when we get inside, he turns to face me. He takes a shaky breath. “Okay, that was not so good.”
“You think?” I sputter.
