by Gabe Gustafson

I’m Brandon Jennings, a thirteen-year-old boy from Los Angeles, and I have big shoes to fill. You may know my dad, Robert Jennings. He played baseball for the Los Angeles Dodgers. But when he broke his arm, his career ended. And it was never the same after that.

When I was six years old, my mom died in a car crash. Now, me and my dad live in a little townhouse on Grove Street. Dad totally changed after his career ended. And Mom dying was just one more thing he couldn’t deal with. It’s a long way from living in the big house with the perfect family.

“Grab your bag. You’re going to be late for baseball,” my dad yelled to me.

“Ugh, I’m coming!” I replied. My dad always pushed me too hard. I put on my hat and took my bag to the car.

“Hop in, it’s unlocked,” said Dad. I climbed into the passenger seat of the big, black, ancient truck. “Fix your hat and look like a pro,” my dad said.

“But I’m not a pro,” I declared and pulled the hat down over my eyes.

The rest of the ride was quiet until my dad asked, “You’re going to pitch today, right?”

“I know you were a great pitcher, Dad, but I think I’d rather play center field.” I didn’t want to tell my dad that I was too scared of getting hit by a ball.

Once we arrived at the field, I hustled over. After our warmup I looked at the little clipboard hanging on the fence. My name was written on the board to pitch in the first inning. My palms started sweating. This was the only position I didn’t want to play. I grabbed the ball with a tight grip and walked onto the pitching mound. I was able to throw some warm-up pitches before a player on the other team stepped into the batter’s box. He started tapping his bat onto the dirt. I looked over to my dad, and he started to shake his head. I could only think about how he would yell at me for messing up when we got back home.

I turned to the batter, wound up, and threw my first pitch.

“Crack!” I went blank.

*****

I opened my eyes slightly. I was in this weird, white room.

“Brandon are you okay?” The voice sounded familiar. I opened my eyes a little more. My dad was sitting in a chair next to me. A nurse stood behind him.

“Brandon are you okay?” Dad repeated.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I replied. “What happened to me?”

You got hit in the head with a baseball bat and we had to rush you to the hospital.” Dad came closer as he spoke.

The doctor started talking with him. I overheard them discussing that I had amnesia and could have some memory loss.

Dad turned to me with a frown crossing his face. “I’m sorry for being so tough on you. You wouldn’t be here if I’d just let you do what you wanted to do.”

“What are you talking about Dad? I don’t remember anything.”

“I think that’s best for both of us,” he replied. “Let’s start over.”