A big stick held with two hands. Pop, and the ball went flying. That was Trevor. After Dad died, he hit every ball. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
"Somebody's got to have balls in this house," Trevor would say. Adam would thwack him. Adam is our older brother, but he never counted much on the ball front because of his sexuality, which is his choice; we support him. And he hates baseball anyway. You'd think he'd like the to watch the athletic men in tight pants. You'd think he'd like the metaphor — after all, he is a double major in literature and psychology at the state college — of baseball diamonds and sexual advancements, but thinking about it, he might call that "patriarchal" or, what's that other word, "hegemonic"?
The house was full of thwacks and Trevor was full of balls. He'd be in the yard. His stick would be dangling over the ground, under the casual rhythm of his palm. And out of nowhere a ball, thwack, gone. I never saw anyone pitch those balls. I don't know if he tossed them himself, gently into the air, cocking his bat as the balls paused at the peak moment of potential energy before free-falling into Trevor's girthy wooden stick. Or what. Trevor said he was giving those balls back to Dad. "This one's for you, Dad. Take my balls." Dad had died violently.