Chapter 7 - The Baseball Diamond in the Rain
By late November, the first real snow of the season had begun to dust the cornices of the brownstones along Shore Road, turning the gray slate roofs into white wedding cakes.
The bookkeeping business had grown by two new clients—a local hardware store on Fourth and a pediatric dentist whose books were such a disaster even the IRS had given up trying to audit them until I stepped in. My rates had gone up forty percent. I had finally replaced my cracked iPhone SE with a newer model—paid for in full with cash, no carrier contract required.
Theo was doing better in school, too. His third-grade teacher had sent home a note saying his reading comprehension scores had jumped two grade levels since October, noting with mild professional bewilderment that he seemed "much more grounded and focused this term."
On a Saturday afternoon when the temperature hovered around thirty-four degrees, Theo and I walked down to the park near the Narrows.
The public baseball diamond was completely deserted. The chain-link backstop was frosted with white rime, and home plate was buried under two inches of wet, undisturbed snow.
Theo stood at the edge of the batter's box, holding a wooden bat we’d bought at the sporting goods store on Fifth for twelve dollars. He took a wide, clumsy practice swing, his wool cap slipping down over his left ear.
"Mom!" he yelled over the sound of the wind coming off the harbor. "Pitch one!"
I reached down, scooped up a packed snowball from the edge of the dugout, and tossed it toward him underhand, like a lobbed softball.
He didn't swing with anger. He didn't swing like he was trying to prove something to a room full of strangers. He just stepped into it with his whole weight, his clearance sneakers crunching into the frozen turf, and connected with a satisfying thwack that sent white powder exploding into the gray New York air.
The snowball disintegrated into a thousand tiny crystals that caught the low, slanting afternoon sun like diamond dust.
Theo dropped the bat, threw both arms up in the air, and let out a loud, triumphant cheer that echoed across the empty waterfront.
I stood there by the wire fence, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my wool coat, watching him run the bases—imagining the invisible chalk lines, the cheering crowds, the home run he’d hit entirely on his own terms.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out, half-expecting an automated bank alert or an unknown number from a family member testing the perimeter.
Instead, it was a notification from the Chase app: Your three-year certificate of deposit has successfully accrued its first monthly interest installment. Current balance: $24,412.03.
May you like
I looked at the number, then looked back at Theo as he rounded imaginary third base and headed toward home plate with his cheeks glowing bright red from the cold.
I didn't block the notification. I didn't delete it. I simply slid the phone back into my pocket, unzipped my coat against the crisp Atlantic wind, and smiled as my son ran home.
