Comin' Home to You by Dustin Mcwilliams

improve on his already blossoming skills. But even if the boy had no baseball talent whatsoever, Owen would not think any differently about his time with him. He always wanted a son, but a grandson was equally as endearing.
    The two stepped outside onto the grass. Owen had mowed a couple days previous and very few smells enraptured Owen's nostrils like the smell of a cut lawn. There was not a cloud in the perfect blue sky, and while the weather was uncomfortably warm, no other complaint could be made. This was May weather at its greatest, and Owen couldn't be more pleased. He preferred hot weather over colder temperatures, and he even admired the trickles of sweat that had already formed on his back. His father always said that sweat on your back meant you had done something with your day. His father was an asshole, but every word that came from his mouth was succinct, lacking any bullshit and worthy of respect. Not a day goes by where he wished he could ask his father for guidance. He passed away from a heart attack a few days before Patricia learned she was pregnant. Right when he needed his father the most, he was gone. He would nervously and loudly gulp when he thought about his father looking down from above. Owen's life was a failure, and he knew his father would say the same thing.
    After Austin sprinted thirty feet away, he made a gesture with his glove that he was ready. Rearing back and taking a step forward, he threw the baseball with all of his might, grunting in the process. Owen watched the ball into his glove, mildly chuckling at his grandson’s ferocity. Examining the ball in his throwing hand, he felt an indescribable pleasure as he felt the seams on his callused fingertips. He wasn't sure what it was about the sport that gave him so much contentment. But every time he attended a game live and heard the roar of the crowd, the crack of the bat or the organ blaring Take Me Out to the Ballgame over the PA system, or even doing something simple like feeling the leather of a never used baseball, it brought out pure happiness in him.
    Perhaps it brought him back to his childhood, before having kids and the constant drama, where all he dreamed of was baseball. Now, he was passing on his love for the game to his grandson. For the past four years, he taught Austin how to grip the ball properly, how to swing level and how to judge fly balls. He had taught Ali too, though with a softball, while also having to deal with her apathetic and derisive attitude. Nevertheless, she was greatly talented and heavily lauded from an early age, but after becoming pregnant, any interest in furthering her career waned. She didn’t even care enough to play catch with her son. Clint didn’t give a shit about him, but he was not athletic anyway. It fell to the grandfather to teach him about America's sport. He was honored to hold such a renowned responsibility.
    As the two threw the ball back and forth, a sweeping drowsiness took hold of Owen’s body. At first, he thought it was the heat getting to him, but he had worked many long days in temperatures hotter than this and never came close to passing out. Perhaps it was another effect of his cirrhosis. He vaguely remembered something about an altered sleeping pattern when he glanced over the pamphlet. He considered doing some more research online to make sure.
    After needing to jump to catch a ball, Owen was almost zapped of energy. He hated to break the bad news when his grandson was clearly enjoying himself, but his desire to lay down was too much to surmount. “Austin, I'm a little tired, bud.”
    “Already? Didn't you just wake up?”
    “Yeah. I guess I am getting old.” Owen couldn't think of a better excuse.
    Austin furrowed his brow in confusion. “You're not that old.”
    Owen removed his glove, wiping his free and sweaty hand off on his shirt. He was disappointed in himself. This disease had negated his ability to have extended active time with Austin. But this was the