My life changed with a boring car ride. “Dad, the film isn’t ready,” I said from the backseat. “Want me to put it together?”

Three more hours of driving separated us and Springfield, Missouri, and I wanted to watch film of the other teams in the Midwest Showcase tournament at Hammons Field, not YouTube videos of big leaguers breaking down swings and pitching mechanics. Been there, done that.

“Nah,” my dad, and coach, replied. “No need for you to spend your time on that, I’ll do it when we get to the hotel. You could watch some pitching mechanics videos.”

I frowned at the back of his shaved head and looked out the window. Dad had uploaded video clips to the Dreamz Teamz app, and technically, me and my teammates could watch them. But it would take longer if they weren’t cut and spliced into one big video. Besides, watching entire at-bats distracted from the swings that mattered.

“Want some music?” my mom asked, turning her blond head to half-glance from her phone to me. Her attention returned to her phone, and she started a Spotify playlist without waiting for an answer.

I was trapped in the car with an iPad, a cellular hotspot, mom’s upbeat female pop singers playlist, and dad’s absolute refusal to listen to hip-hop. I propped my pillow against the door, sat back against it, and stretched my legs across the back seat, bracing my feet against the opposite door and bending my knees so my iPad rested on my thighs. For most of the rest of the drive, I grinned to myself while editing the clips into one video, thinking I’d make dad happy. I didn’t mention finishing the film. I wanted to surprise him. To delight him.

Jase and I always roomed together, because he was our starting catcher and I was the star pitcher. Dad wanted us to strategize, and we always reviewed film before lights out. But first we played Fortnite on our iPhones, shoulder to shoulder in the same bed, his feet around my knees, my feet nearly dangling off the end.

Except that night I wanted to watch film first. Jase asked why, and I told him I’d made it this time. He seemed impressed. He should’ve been! Halfway through the third batter—out of eighteen!— I understood why dad had said I could spend my time doing something else. I kept trying to drag the sliders on the video timeline to exactly the place I wanted, to cut out all the dead time between swings, but half the time the sliders wouldn’t land where I wanted. I heard dad’s voice in my head, telling me the details mattered.

I loaded the Dreamz Teamz app on my iPad. Before I could tell Jase how hard I’d worked on it, he said “Later” and held his phone up to show me the Fortnite loading screen. “I’m close to Elite.”

“Com’on, you can get to Elite on the drive home.”

“But I wanna hit Elite tonight.” Jase flashed a dimpled grin. “Then I can get to Unreal on the drive home.”

“We should prepare first, play later.”

“Or we can play first, prepare before we sleep, like we always do.” Jase lit up. “Hey, we’re on a winning streak. Can’t change things while you’re on a streak.”

I laughed. “Fine. Zero-build battle royale.”

Jase got his wish and progressed to Elite, and we kept playing under the adrenaline rush of leveling up and first-person shooters. Someone pounded on our door just as I began taking damage from another player. Jase tossed his phone to the comforter and bounded to answer, blond mullet swaying as he went.

“Hi, Coach.”

“What?” I blurted. Leaving my character to die, I shoved my phone under a pillow and got up. Before I could walk to the door, dad stalked into the room and seemed to fill the entire space with his squat, muscular build.

Red-faced, he stabbed his finger in the air and spat, “I told you not to mess with the film.”

“It needed edited.”

He raised his voice loud enough that Jase winced and looked away. “And I was going to do it, because I wanted it done a certain way! I said no, and you did it anyway. Don’t disobey again.”

I opened my mouth, but he spun and almost ran to the door. Then he stopped and yelled over his shoulder that we were supposed to be watching film. Only the hotel door’s metal arm and box kept it from slamming off its hinges.

Jase found his phone and climbed into his own queen bed. He avoided looking at me. I took a shower, but the hot water couldn’t scald enough. Dripping wet, I got in bed with my iPad and watched and rewatched the film that wouldn’t have been ready if I hadn’t spent almost three hours on it for my dad.

Our hotel’s breakfast area was overwhelmed, or at least it felt overwhelming to me, with my team, their parents, and at least one other team and their parents. I recognized faces from the film I had edited. I wondered if they’d watched video of my pitching.

At our table, dad scowled into his phone while shoving entire sausage links into his mouth. He resembled a pissed off pit bull, a face of crags and right angles, red with rage, framed with a team baseball cap and square shoulders. Mom stirred and stirred her oatmeal before finally asking if something was wrong. He muttered about his boss, and I wondered if his boss had something to do with last night. Part of me warmed toward him. Part of me hated him.

Mom nudged dad under the table and gave his phone a bug-eyed look. He placed it face down on the table and bit into another sausage. Chewing, he said, “Listen, Benny, I heard the other team’s coach talking in the hallway. There will be scouts. Not just college. Big League scouts.”

I nodded, trying to keep the panic off my face.

“The one time I played in front of scouts,” he went on, “I put an almost perfect swing on a high fastball down the middle. Almost perfect. I was so sure it was a home run, I didn’t follow through as much as I usually did.” He mimed a swing. “The left-fielder caught the ball at the warning track. Who knows, maybe I’d be in the Big Leagues if that ball had gone another ten feet. If I had paid attention to—”

“The little details,” I finished for him.

“The little details,” he said, looking through me. “You got this.” I couldn’t tell if he was trying to convince me or himself.

“Just try your best, sweetheart,” mom said. A small sun rose—her perfect smile spreading across a horizon as soft, smooth, and honeyed as dad’s was rough, jagged, and crimson. Not trying to be mean, but I was glad I took after her. She glanced down at dad, even though she slouched and wore flip-flops to keep from towering over him.

“Yep, as long as you try your best, then you, your teammates, everyone can live with the outcome,” dad added in a high, tight voice, definitely trying to convince himself. I nodded and focused on forcing down the rest of my waffle.

Dad narrowed his eyes. “You don’t seem very excited,” he said.

“I’m sure he’s nervous, hon,” mom said. “Who wouldn’t be?” She sounded nervous herself.

“I’m just tired,” I mumbled.

“How late did you stay up?”

I shrugged and ate a bite of waffle, avoiding his eyes.

“I asked you a question.”

“Hon.”

“I don’t know, I was watching film like you told us to.”

“Watch your tone.”

“Benny,” mom cooed. She put her hand on dad’s leg under the table.

“You knew I didn’t mean stay up half the night watching film.”

A quarter of a waffle sat in a puddle of syrup on my plate. I folded it in half with my fork and shoved the whole thing into my mouth. I could barely chew. Then I carried my plate and fork with me to the back of the waffle line for seconds I didn’t want.

Hammons Field was a gem. High brick walls for the entrance, green cushioned seats wrapping around the field, immaculate dirt and grass, dugouts you could almost live in.

The other team took a knee along the third base foul line to watch my warm-up pitches. The parents sat behind home plate in two clusters, one wearing the royal blue of our jerseys and the other decked out in the opponent’s yellow and purple. Several rows behind the parents, three old white guys sat with radar guns in their laps.

Before my final warm-up pitch, dad jogged out to the mound. My stomach clenched.

He came close, looked up into my face, and grinned. “Scouts are definitely here. You got a helluva opportunity today. But stop flying out with your front hip.” He slapped my shoulder and jogged back to the first base dugout. When was the last time he smiled at me? I couldn’t recall.

I concentrated on my front hip during my last warm-up pitch. While Jase made his practice throw to second base, I thought about my hip. I kept it “closed,” maybe, a quarter-second longer? The pitch was the same as the others, so I thought I might’ve done something wrong with my front shoulder, my arm angle, my fastball grip. Which detail had I screwed up?

I was still thinking when the umpire started the game. I took a deep breath and zeroed in on Jase’s mitt.

My first pitch was a strike on the low outside corner. The umpire, one of the certified guys decked out in a bright blue nylon shirt over a thick chest protector, called it a ball. Second pitch, I drilled the same spot. Keep hitting it, I figured, and he’ll come around. Ball two.

My lips tightened. Dad hollered from the dugout, “Get ahead!”

No shit. I nodded “yes” to Jase’s next sign, took a deep breath, went into my motion, and painted the outside corner belt-high. Ball. Fucking. Three. My shoulders drooped at the call, and my head tilted as I held my glove out to catch Jase’s return throw.

“Time!” the umpire called. He removed his mask, gestured to my dad, and began walking to the mound. Dad came out to join us.

“Coach, your player is muttering cuss words at me.”

“What? No, I am not.”

“Shut up, Benny. I’ll take care of it, sir.”

“You better.” The ump turned and walked back.

Dad turned on me, baring teeth. “What the hell?”

“I didn’t, I swear.”

“So he’s lying?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, ask him!”

“Just throw a strike already. Scouts are here for Chrissakes. You’re blowing it.”

He turned to walk away, and I blurted, “Like you did?”

As he spun to face me again, his hands darted to shoulder level. I thought he was going to push me, maybe even slap me. His hands clenched into claws and trembled, his face vibrated, I’d never seen him so angry. He forced his hands into fists and forced the fists to his sides, and he jogged back to the dugout.

While he went, I stood on the mound and tried to slow my heart and ignore my stomach. I nodded to Jase’s sign, another fastball, and I came set. I pictured my hip, my shoulder, my arm angle. Or I tried to. My breath hitched. Then I whirled toward second base and threw up on the back of the mound. Bits of waffle and strings of syrup and stomach acid burned over my tongue and glommed onto the perfect dirt. I propped myself up on one elbow.

Shock and laughter floated from the stands and the other team’s dugout. I wiped my mouth and jumped to my feet. Dad ran back out, the umpire marched up, mom stood in the stands with one hand over her mouth. The infielders walked forward to check on me.

“I’m fine now,” I said over and over to dad and the umpire. “I’m good, let’s go, let’s go.”

“Are you sure?” the ump asked. He glanced at dad.

I rattled, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.” I nodded with each word, blinking back tears and setting my jaw. I motioned to Jase to visit the mound and waved the infielders back, trying to act like my staying in the game had already been decided. Dad and the ump hesitated and tried to read my mind and each other’s. I scowled to make my desperation look more like determination.

Dad shrugged at the ump. “Just nerves, I think.”

“Okay. But one more delay from this kid, you’ll have to switch pitchers.”

“Understood. Need anything, Bennie?”

“No, I’m good.” I tasted waffle-vomit and wished I had asked for water, but I was committed now. Dad ran off the field again. I spat.

Jase stood in front of me, wearing his catcher’s mask. He asked, “Are you okay? For real?” I looked at the scouts. Two wore bemused smiles. One was laughing.

No, I was not okay.

One of my high school coach’s baseball stories popped into my memory. He worked with his catcher to retaliate against an umpire who had shrunk the strike zone all game. Lounging on the dugout bleacher, chatting with me, Jase, and a couple other pitchers, he made it seem like the only reasonable thing to do. Then, catching himself, he leaned forward with his hands on his knees and cautioned us that he was talking about college ball, and what’s more, this had happened in the 90s, when baseball players were tougher and meaner and generally did not give a shit what people thought if they weren’t teammates.

I rubbed my eyes, got closer to Jase, put my glove over my mouth, and whispered into the side of his helmet, “Curveball in the dirt. Way, way outside.”

“What?” Jase asked, jerking his head up to look me in the eye.

“You heard me. I got a plan.”

“Ball four? That’s your plan.”

“It’ll help with the next batter. Just do it.”

Jase jogged back to home plate and set up on the outside corner, ready to drop to his knees and block the bouncing curveball off his chest protector. The ump kneeled so his head peeked over Jase’s shoulder. I got a four-seam fastball grip on the ball and maximized every part of my delivery to throw as hard as I could.

Jase dropped to his knees and toward the opposite batter’s box, perfect for blocking a curveball way outside. He tried to reach up and catch the high fastball but wasn’t quick enough. The pitch smacked the ump square in his face mask and floated up and then down to home plate. He stumbled back a few steps and fell onto his butt, then flat on his back.

And my skin prickled and shivered like someone had poured ice cold water down the back of my neck and shoulders. I covered my mouth and nose with my glove and watched as a trainer sprinted to the ump, followed by dad, the other coach, and the base umpire. Jase stood nearby, holding his mask, staring at me slack-jawed.

I didn’t mean to look at the scouts. I could not have cared any less about ever throwing another baseball. I was done. But my eyes drifted to them, and they weren’t frowning and bored like I expected. They were hunched together, comparing radar guns and chattering. 

The umpire was still on his back. His knees swayed in the air, but he didn’t seem to be getting up any time soon. I jogged to home plate and asked if the ump was okay. The trainer said he should probably get checked for a concussion.

I asked the base umpire if he could switch to behind the plate. After all, we couldn’t have any more delays.

I threw every one of the next 82 pitches with the same freedom as that revenge fastball. After the final strike, Jase jumped up in the air and ran to the mound. I lifted my hands and stepped forward to meet him. My teammates swarmed me and Jase, jumping up and down and whooping. Then dad pushed his way to me, wrapped his arms around me, and lifted me into the air with a laughing smile.

I’d delighted him after all. Only I didn’t care. The high, the love, that I felt during each unbridled release — I felt by myself, for myself.

– Eric Sentell

Author’s Note: For a variety of reasons, I often feel like my best efforts simply aren’t good enough. I wrote this story to express that frustration and to contemplate the freedom of trying to please yourself rather than others.