“Then maybe you should come.”
Aaron stared at him.
Finally, he took it.
At Franklin Field, we searched for almost half an hour.
A groundskeeper finally waved us toward the concession stand, where Mr. Vance had left an envelope in a sealed box months earlier.
Inside was a letter.
Aaron read it silently at first.
You asked me to come watch Ben play.
Then he sat down.
“What?” Claire asked.
He handed her the paper.
Mr. Vance had written:
Aaron,
You asked me to come watch Ben play, and I kept telling you no.
You probably thought I didn’t care.
You deserved better than excuses.
After your mother died, I couldn’t sit in those bleachers. I tried once and turned around before I reached the gate.
You probably thought I didn’t care.
I did.
I came to three games.
I parked beyond the outfield fence where you couldn’t see me.
I should have walked closer.
I watched Ben hit a double in one. I watched him strike out twice in another and throw his helmet in the dugout. He gets that temper from you.
I should have walked closer.
I didn’t know how.
I’m sorry.
Aaron stopped reading.
Claire nodded through tears.
He stared across the empty field.
“He was here?”
Claire nodded through tears.
Aaron laughed once.
Then he cried harder.
“Three games.”
Aaron looked down at the glove.
Noah sat beside him.
