Next to him on the seat of the old Saab, a baseball, still in its packaging. Like flowers for a date. It embarrassed him, this wooing of his own son. Embarrassed him, playing the role of good-guy camp counselor—when he wanted just to be a father. Sometimes the pain of it made him want to forget the whole thing—these long drives, the planning and knocking himself out. And for what? A weekend. Not even that. Why not be a father just to Jesse—his second family? Wasn't that plenty? But somehow, alternate weekends when Aaron wasn't busy with a Little League game, Herb saddled up and rode the sixty miles east to Concord—a backwards Paul Revere bringing no news, just himself.

He listened deep into the Saab's engine—too deep for his own good. Nagging anxiety about the engine, 120,000 mile engine, throw a rod and where would he be? How could he pay for a thousand dollar repair? He imagined he heard every tappet click, felt every hesitation like a skip of his own heart. Jazz on the car stereo stopped the engine sounds, He listened deep into the music as the dying Massachusetts mill towns passed by.

At the country club courts, he stood outside the wire fence and waved. Aaron waved back with his racket, then set himself for the kid's serve. A patsy serve—and Aaron smacked a stinger of a return down the line.