Making It Up As I Go Along - Bud Pfohl

“He’s leaving. Aren’t you gonna say goodbye?” Glenn asked as he let his bat fall to his shoulder.

“He’s not going anywhere. Pick up your bat and hit,” I replied as the wet tennis ball dripped from my right hand.

Glenn lowered the bat from his shoulder. The wood echoed hollowly as it hit the driveway. “I think you need to say goodbye.”

“Come on and play,” I continued, “How far can he go, it’s El Cajon? Besides, he’ll be back.”

I never turned around as Glenn turned and walked to his garden hose. He threw the bat on the grass and turned on his garden hose. The water splashed into the wispy ferns as he began to slurp water from the hose.

I threw the ball and admired the wet splotch inside the taped strike zone, “Strike One,” I said as I bent to catch the tennis ball as it left wet tracks on its rebound.

I dipped the ball in the bucket and stood up to pitch again. The drops fought against the hot driveway, drying almost as quickly as they hit the pavement. “Pick up your bat or you’re gonna be down two strikes before you even swing,” I said.

“Buddy, come here for a second son,” my dad called from across the street.

I wound up and threw the ball inside the tape again, “Strike two,” I yelled over my shoulder as I ran across the street.

“Where you going,” I asked as I stopped at the bottom of our driveway.

“I’m going to Aunt Sis and Uncle Tony’s for tonight,” my dad replied as he dropped his overnight bag in the bed of his yellow truck.

“OK. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Probably not tomorrow Buddy, but I’ll call.”

“So, you’re divorcing me too,” I asked as I saw my mom looking through the kitchen window.