Boot(s)

12-Boots

Bobby O'Callahan

The table was silent. Forks scratching against China silent. Pop insisted on turning off all devices during meal times, so we didn't even have the comfort of Alex Tribeca or Vanna White to ease the tension.

I knew how bad Pop felt, but I also felt bad. It was my choice, I knew that, but I made it for him. And I made it because he always taught me to be a man, to take responsibility, and bite your tongue when you don't want to do things. And I really didn't want to do this.

But I did. I retired. If you could call it that. At 27. Twenty-seven. Someone at the New York Times called it the worst thing to happen to sports in the past fifty years. The Savanah Morning News called it the devil's work. Pop called it "unnecessary." Jessie said it was the best thing I ever did.

Pop's Alzheimer's was getting worse. I had moved from New York to Atlanta to play ball closer to home, but I still wasn't with him every day. I caught up with him once a month, if that. Jessie was an angel and helped out a lot, but when he was calling me at midnight, his truck stopped on the side of the road 30 minutes from home with no rotten idea how he got there, or when, I knew I couldn't keep playing ball. So I went home.

I took over what was left of Pop's construction and painting business, mostly just to keep myself busy and the suburb served. He still lived in that same house on the right side of the tracks. Coming up those front porch steps every day still hurt, all these years later.

I was thinking about those steps and Boots when all of a sudden Pop dropped his fork down on his plate. "Hey, Bo. You remember that boy Peter who you used to be friends with, right?"

My dad hadn't asked about Peter in years. I think Jessie told him it would be better for everyone if we just forgot.

I nearly choked on the piece of chicken I was eating. After a few gulps of water, I nodded. "Yes. Of course. Why do you ask?" My heart started to pound. Something had triggered this memory, I knew it. Pop was horrible about short-term stuff, but old memories, old faces, old places, he was just fine.

He was staring at the ceiling like he was waiting for the answer to be written up there in red ink. He sighed, long and deep, then shook his head. He picked up his fork and knife and resumed his eating. "No reason, I guess." Code for: there is a reason, but I can't remember it. My body deflated a few inches.

"Alright then." I studied his tan weathered cheeks, the wrinkles next to his old gray eyes. No hint of anything. No secrecy. No recognition. Nothing. "Eat the beans, dad. I cooked 'em special."