“Dad’s taking Mom to that booster breakfast for the team. Coach Harlan’s gonna be there. They need to be seen.”
Need to be seen. That was my family’s religion. Not truth. Not kindness. Not health. Image.
I finally turned around and looked at him.
Logan Bennett was eighteen, six foot one, broad-shouldered, and had been treated like a future Hall of Famer since the day he learned to hold a bat. We grew up in a suburb outside Fort Worth where baseball wasn’t just a sport. It was a social currency, a belief system, a reason for grown adults to mortgage sanity in pursuit of scholarships and scout attention and stories they could dine out on for twenty years.
My brother was good. I’ll give him that. Maybe even very good.
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