Plunked by Michael Northrop Page B

you know? After a long day of changing the topic and maybe being overheard and maybe not, I just want to go upstairs, close the door, and kill something in a video game. But as soon as I drop my backpack onto the chair in the living room, there’s Dad. He’s working from home today, which he does sometimes. I guess I’d forgotten.
    â€œHey,” I say.
    â€œHey,” he says, but there’s a little smile creeping onto his face, and both of his hands are behind his back, so I know something is going on.
    â€œWhat?” I say.
    â€œWhat?” he says, and I start searching my brain.
    What does he have behind his back? If he’d seen me atpractice yesterday, or if I’d had the guts to tell him about it, it would be a gun to put me out of my misery. But he didn’t see me, and that wouldn’t explain the smile. Mercy killing or not, he’d at least feel guilty about it.
    And then I remember: It’s a new baseball season. I don’t mean Little League; I mean Major League Baseball. It’s a new season, and I know what he’s got back there. As soon as Dad sees it click in my mind, he brings them out. His smile is ear to ear now, and he’s holding half a dozen packs of brand-new baseball cards.
    Right then, my brain literally splits in half. Seriously, it’s like half of it squeezes out one ear and heads toward the stairs. That half is still bummed out and wants to be left alone. But the other half squeezes out the other ear and heads over to the couch. That half wants to see the cards.
    I just stand there for a second with no brain left in my head. The smile on my dad’s face twitches a little. Before it can collapse altogether, the bummed-out half of my brain gives in and heads for the couch, too.
    â€œCool,” I say, forcing a smile.
    Before long we’re sitting on the couch, and we have the coffee table cleared off to make room. It doesn’t require a single word between us. We’ve been doing this every year for most of my life. Dad gets me a big handful of the new cards each season.
    Then we spread them out and look for good players and, especially, rookie cards. It’s like some weirdcombination of Christmas morning, opening day, and an Easter egg hunt.
    The tabletop is clear, and the cards are in a little pile between Dad and me.
    â€œReady?” he says.
    â€œReady,” I say.
    â€œReady?” he says again, louder.
    â€œReady!”
    By now, the bummed-out half of my brain has given in, and it’s sitting there with a big doofy smile on its face, too. With no objections, I tear open the first pack. At the last second, I remember to wipe my hands on my jeans. It can mean the difference between near mint condition and mint. Then I start spreading the first pack of cards out face up.
    â€œOooh!” Dad says as I slap down a good one.
    â€œAll-Star!” I say a few cards later.
    A few clunkers later, Dad says, “Rookie card!”
    â€œGuy’s a scrub,” I say.
    â€œMight surprise you,” says Dad.
    â€œDoubt it.”
    But a few cards into the second pack, a good one comes up. It’s another rookie, for the Cubs, but this guy is supposed to be the real deal.
    Dad makes that Homer Simpson drooling noise and pretends to reach for it. My mouth is occupied trying to break down the fossilized bubble gum that came in one of the packs. I smack the back of his hand instead.
    â€œBut I wants it,” he says. He’s gone from Homer Simpson to imitating Gollum from the Lord of the Rings movies. “I wants it!”
    â€œGet your own!” I say.
    â€œI’ve got my own,” he says, and I know what’s coming next. “In fact, when I was just about your age now, I got my Ripken.”
    Dad’s Cal Ripken, Jr., rookie card … He brings it up every year. Ripken is in the Hall of Fame now, and the card is in the mini safe in the basement, along with the title to the house and some