moving on to the next round of the playoffs.
The Blue Jays walk off the field, dejected. Jakeâs teammates mob him when he reaches home plate. The last one to join them is Devon.
19
Then
Normally, weâd stop at Dairy Queen after a victory like this, but Devon says heâs not hungry. Mom tries to talk him into it but only gets one-syllable responses, and eventually, she gives up. I sit in the front seat, fuming.
Devon goes right upstairs as soon as we enter the house. We hear his door close.
âChrist, youâd think they lost,â Mom says.
I march toward the stairs.
âWhere are you going?â Mom asks.
âTo talk to him.â
âDo you think thatâs a good idea?â
âI thought you wanted me to talk to him.â
âMaybe not now. Heâs obviously upset.â
I start up.
âChris, itâs just a game.â
âItâs not just the game.â
âChrisââ
âMom, Iâm doing this!â I continue up the stairs without looking back. She gives up trying to stop me.
I find Devon on his bed, still in uniform, with his Nintendo DS in his hand, the familiar sounds of the Mario brothers coming from it.
âI want to talk to you,â I say.
His fingers keep working the buttons.
âTurn that off!â
âIâm in the middle of a game.â
â Now , Devon!â
Sighing, he closes the DS and tosses it on the bed. He waits, not looking at me.
âWhatâs going on with you?â
He shrugs. âNothing.â
âWhat were you doing in that game?â
He shrugs again.
âYou werenât even trying.â
âI had a bad game.â
â Bullshit! â I rarely curse in front of my brother, and it makes him look at me. âThat last at bat, what were you doing?â I continue, growing angrier. âThey were trying to walk you. I saw the way you looked at me. You werenât just having a bad game. You did it on purpose! Why? If youâre mad at me, then have the guts to tell me to my face so we can talk about it. Donât take it out on your teammates when theyâre counting on you.â
He looks away. Says nothing. I can see heâs fighting tears. âMaybe I donât want to play baseball anymore,â he says in a subdued voice.
I look at him, stunned. âWhat? Whyâ¦?â My voice falters. âWhy would you say that?â
He doesnât respond.
âYou love baseball.â
âMaybe I donât anymore!â he snaps back. âMaybe I want to quit!â
I take a step toward him. âWhat do you think Dad would say about you quitting?â
The look on his face makes me sorry I said that.
I let out a deep breath. In a quieter voice, I ask, âWhy would you want to quit something you love doing? That youâre so good at?â
He doesnât answer. I stare at him. Is this part of his being mad at me? Does he think by saying this, heâs getting back at me somehow? Maybe itâs working. My stomach is doing flip-flops.
âI donât believe you,â I say finally.
Silence.
âTalk to me.â
âLeave me alone,â he says.
âNot until you talk to me.â
Face in the pillow again.
âIâm not leaving this room until we talk. Youâre ten years old. Youâre old enough not to hide in a pillow!â I pull it out from under him and hurl it across the room. It hits the door.
I hear movement in the hall outside. Mom coming out of her room from where sheâs been listening, probably. Is she coming to intervene?
âI donât believe you, Devon!â Iâm afraid to hear the answer, but I push anyway. âYou tell me right now what it is thatâs making you act and talk this wayââ
â He might have shot you! â Devon shouts.
I stare at him.
âYou could have been killed ! Just like Dad! â
The movement in the hallway stops.
âJust like
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