Maybe he’ll punch me again, and I’ll have a reason to swing back.
“When will it be enough?” He demands. “At what point have you paid enough?”
Suddenly, the weight becomes too much.
“I don’t know, man,” I yell, slamming my hand down against the steering wheel. Quieter I say, “I don’t know. When I find a way to get rid of the guilt. Every day, I wake up, and it eats at me more and more. It’s chipping away at my soul, and I don’t know how to get rid of it. Maybe I’m not supposed to.” I shake my head. “I can’t do this anymore, man. I can’t carry all this weight. I’m going to lose against it. The addiction is like a monster lurking in the dark, waiting for me to mess up. It’s always there.”
Tears track down my face, and my breaths come out in harsh gasps. I’m no father. I’m not even a good man. I deserve every bit of punishment handed my way for the rest of my life because I’ve failed. I’ve failed so many times and in so many ways.
“How many times would you take a hit for Tanner?” Hayes asks with an abrupt change in his tone. He’s not annoyed, just direct, like he’s frustrated that I can’t see what he wants me to see.
“All of them. I’d take them all.”
“Yeah?” he asks. I nod, and he continues. “Well, so would God. Except he doesn’t have to take a hit every time we screw up.Jesus took the burden of those hits the day he died on the cross. In one fell swoop. He took it all. God sent his son, and that’s what it means to have a father’s love, and a father’s love doesn’t keep making us pay for mistakes.”
Suddenly, what he has been trying to say to me makes sense. No matter how often Tanner messed up, I wouldn’t ever love him less because of it.
“You’ve got to forgive yourself, man, because even though Tanner might not say it, he already has, and so has God.”
______________________
The baseball diamond is silent as I step out onto it. Practice isn’t until tomorrow, but I’m not here for that. I’m here for me, finding a place to go that isn’t a punishment.
After my conversation with Hayes, I knew it was time to make some changes. They won’t happen overnight, but I finally heard what Hayes was saying. I’m working on forgiving myself.
Although, I hate that it had to be Hayes who knocked some sense into me. He’s going to be unbearable to be around now.
With a bucket of baseballs in hand, I step onto the pitcher’s mound, sitting the balls far enough away that they won’t be in my way. I already warmed up my shoulders, but I pick up a ball and throw a soft pitch anyway, just in case. The loudthunkof the ball hitting the fence is satisfying, and I throw another and another until I’m breathing hard from the effort.
I glance down to grab another ball, only to realize the bucket is empty. When I look back up, I see Morgan standing on the other side of the fence, right behind home plate.
His jaw is a tight line, and his features are a war between anger and agony.
I don’t speak, and neither does he. We just stare at each other until he finally says, “I need you to take me somewhere.”
And then I’m off the mound. I don’t care where he needs to go. I’ll take him.
We don’t speak until we get to my truck, and once we are settled in, I turn to him and ask, “Where are we going?”
His eyes are steely when he says, “To see my dad.”
Luckily, Zeb is still in the county jail. They will hold him there until his bond hearing in a couple of days, and whether he is moved or released will be determined then. From what I hear, his release isn’t likely, seeing as they found several drugs on him when they arrested him at the ball game.
By the time we arrive at the jail, Morgan’s face is drained of color, and he sits staring straight ahead.
“Hey,” I say, shutting the engine off and facing him. “You don’t have to go in there.”
Morgan gives a resolute nod of his head. “Yeah. I do.”
I follow him out of the truck and into the jail. He shakes so badly I’m surprised he can stand, but I don’t try to talk him out of being here again. If this is where he feels he needs to be, I’ll stand behind him.
Security waves us through, and we walk down a long hallway where prisoners can have visitors. Zeb is already waiting at a table, a sneer marring his face when he sees us coming.
Morgan hesitates, and I place a hand on his shoulder. “I’m right here, kid. You’re not alone.”
I have no clue what Morgan is here to talk Zeb about. It’s not my business. All I know is that he asked me to come, and here I‘ll stay until he’s ready to leave.
Zeb speaks first when we’re close enough, and I debate how much trouble I’d get in for knocking a prisoner out.
