"It's okay," Noah said. "Missing is information. The only joke is quitting before you learn what the miss is trying to tell you."
Cameron, watching from the netting, felt his throat tighten in a way that had nothing to do with post-surgical pain.
Frank Callahan, during those years, became an unlikely fixture at Noah's bigger games. He never wore team colors. He never cheered loudly. He kept a small notebook in which he wrote pitch sequences and occasional insults directed at opposing umpires' strike zones. Denise once asked him why he kept coming.
"Because I got that kid wrong on a night when the cameras were rolling," Frank said. "Showing up is the only edit that sticks."
There was conflict, too — real, not ornamental. In Noah's thirteenth year, a travel-ball parent accused Cameron of "favoritism" because Noah started over the parent's son. Cameron handled it in the parking lot with a calm that took more strength than yelling. "Your boy works. Noah works harder. Playing time follows work. If that feels unfair, increase the work." The parent left angry. Noah overheard enough to feel sick with guilt until Denise told him, firmly, that other people's entitlement was not his burden to carry.
Another time Ray Bennett resurfaced with a Facebook message full of sudden interest and the phrase my son the athlete. Noah drafted three replies and sent none. Cameron, when consulted, said, "You don't owe him a performance of forgiveness on his timeline. You owe yourself peace. Peace might include him someday. Or not. Both can be moral."
The bat — the original bat — became a kind of household saint. Noah replaced the grip when it frayed. He oiled the wood lightly. He traveled with it to tournaments until a coach insisted on regulation team equipment, at which point the bat stayed wrapped in a towel in Denise's trunk like a relic on tour. On mornings when Noah woke afraid of a showcase, he touched the barrel and remembered the exact weight of Cameron's hands guiding the handoff under the lights.