Chapter Text
“Strike three! You’re out!”
“You’ll get ‘em next time, kid.” Marvin called out over the chorus of reaction from the other parents in the crowd. After the way Jason had been playing, it felt like a lie and a silent prayer. He ran a tired hand over his face, glancing away. It was like looking at a goddamn car crash.
“Jesus Christ." He muttered to himself. It sometimes felt like the kid was missing on purpose.
He made sure to clap a few times, as a supportive father should, and shoot him a thumbs up when he met his eyes. The awkward nod he received back was expected.
Marvin gave a glance to the women beside him, who were huddled up, eyes on the game like they’d bet money. At least somebody is enjoying it, he thought to himself. “I mean, he’s not even holding the bat properly.” He started, before shutting up at a withering look from Charlotte.
“Stop being so hard on him. He didn’t exactly have Byron White as a coach,” she chided, her hand giving Marvin a soft whack on the arm before she stood up to yell at the referee again. “That kid was out!”
Marvin smiled, thoroughly amused, propping his head up on his hand as he watched her scold him. Truth is, he’d tried to help Jason with his baseball practice, but he gave up shortly after realising his expertise on the matter wasn’t any better than his high school days. Marvin spent more time wandering about the drama department rehearsing (and then quickly forgetting) lines than he’d ever spent stepping foot on a track field.
The sun continued to rise in the sky, its warm rays of light illuminating the field they were sitting on. The agitating, grating voice of the referee continued to bellow out calls at the kids. The older man seemed unswayed by the heckles and disagreements that were fired his way by passionate parents and those alike. Mendel continued to leap up every few minutes to shout unhelpful encouragement, only to be quickly ushered back to his seat by Trina.
Jason was almost up to bat, and Marvin was staring at him, silently willing some talent into the kid. Sadly, he didn’t receive that telepathic transfer from his father and continued to fiddle with his hands, not even watching the game.
“Look at him. He’s not even–” Marvin gestured around with his hands, making an exasperated noise before running them down his face.
He would think this was the team's first time playing if he hadn't already attended about seven of these torture sessions. Those kids all ran around on the field like they’d just become aware of the existence of running, in his humble opinion.
He slouched back in the uncomfortable blue bleachers. Maybe it was like boiling water, and the time would pass faster if he pretended he wasn't waiting for it to be finished. Marvin looked around for something else to focus on. Trina was snapping pictures with her camera. The reason behind the choice to memorialize this game was lost on him. Nobody would be looking back on it fondly anytime soon.
His gaze shifted once more, landing on the man just walking up beside the stands. He internally applauded the guy’s audacity to show up late. He probably knew he wasn’t exactly going to miss anything.
The tall figure came just a little closer, and Marvin felt his heart catapult into his throat.
He scrambled to sit up straight, grabbing onto Charlotte and ducking behind her.
He would recognize him anywhere.
Marvin had thought about him more than once these past two years; he was surprised he hadn’t started hallucinating the man. For a moment, he considered, maybe that was the case, and that the hallucinations had started at this very moment.
A quick peek from over Charlotte’s shoulder confirmed that was not true.
What was he doing here?