I’m putting my socks and stirrups on when the phone rings. My dad and I had just come inside from the backyard. We’d been throwing baseball to warm up for my game later that day. This is our ritual. I’m a freshman in high school.
The phone rings several times before I can reach it.
“Hi, is your dad there?” a woman asks.
I tell her to hold on. At the end of the hallway, my parents’ door is closed. I knock.
“Dad, telephone,” I holler through the door.