"This is so boring!"
Barney's father resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You say that about everything we do together."
"Yeah, because it's true. You know what we should do?"
"Barney, I am married. We are not going to cruise chicks."
"Hang on, hang on. Who said anything about chicks? Look, I know that you don't like to go outside your boring, middle-aged, mom jeans comfort zone, but hear me out. I just meant that we could go to a fine establishment– "
"A strip club."
" – maybe, and have sophisticated conversations –"
"Lap dances."
" – maybe, with interesting, educated – "
"College girls."
" – maybe, but how do you know you won't like it if you've never tried it?"
"Isn't that the same argument I used to bring you here?" He raised his arm, indicating the warm summer's day, the dead brown grass mixing with the pale dust of the baseball diamond.
"Maybe." For the hundredth time that afternoon, he irritably brushed dust off of his Milano suit's pants. He checked his watch, shading his eyes to avoid the sun's bright glare. "Ugh, this is exactly the kind of thing Ted would like. He's always talking about doing this kind of thing with his imaginary family."
"Well, I want to try it with my real family." He smiled in a way that made his son briefly imagine running to the car, driving to the nearest bar, and drinking a double martini. As the moment vanished, the old man walked over to a bat. "You ever done this before?" he asked, proffering the stick.
Barney coughed dust out of his eyes, struggling to respond. "No. I played basketball."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I was good, too."
"Whoa." He raised his hands defensively. "I wasn't saying anything. Just wanted to know if you'd batted before. Come on, I'll teach you. You've got to hold it like this and bend your legs just so."
Barney inwardly groaned. The pose seemed calculated to get dust up to his waist even without movement.
"Now you try." He reluctantly took the bat and made a few practice swings. "Have you ever held one before?"
"I'm trying, OK?" It took a moment for him to realize he'd raised his voice. "I bring one to MacLaren's every now and then. I say I'm the shortstop for the White Sox."
"And women believe that?"
"They wouldn't if I said I was with the Yankees," he mumbled, suddenly embarrassed. He kept trying, almost releasing the bat in his effort to swing as hard as he could.
"No, that's not it. Just move your arm a little… here, let me." He reached for the bat.
"I can do it on my own!" He had no idea why he was on edge, and it was starting to worry him.
"I didn't mean that. Let me just correct your posture a little. You've almost got it." He knew it was a horrible thing to think, but J.J. was never this impatient. Banishing the thought, he leaned over and adjusted his son's hands. He stood back to admire his handiwork. "That's fine. You'll get more of a feel for it once you've tried it for real." He backed up, holding up a slightly white baseball.
"You're not going to throw that, are you?"
"Not too hard. We'll start underhand."
"Good. 'Cause I heard about this guy who got hit with a ball, and he needed, like, eye surgery."
"Here it comes."
"Gah!" He dodged out of the way.
It took a few more throws before he stopped flinching, and the better part of an hour before he hit it. The smile, followed by a couple of minutes of excited shouting and insistences that he was awesome, were practically worth the effort.
Throughout it all, though, he couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't his son. His real son, anyway. When he heard "son," he pictured J.J. going to school, doing his homework, playing a video game, fishing, or even eating cereal. Barney as a child was a distant memory. What he could remember was the trouble: with other children, with teachers, with his mother. It seemed as thought there'd never been a time when Barney wasn't having problems.
Of course, that could easily have been his fault. "Uncle" Jerry was a poor influence at best and a negligent father at worst. He still found it hard to believe what his last words to his first child had been. "Never stop partying." Not "be safe" or "believe in yourself" or even "stay away from electrical outlets." "Never stop partying." No wonder Loretta had made him leave. He couldn't imagine what else would've gone wrong had he stayed.
"Barney," he said abruptly. His son's surprised expression suggested that he'd interrupted a sentence. "Sorry, but I have to ask you something."
"Sure. Like, go ahead."
"Are you happy?"
"Sure. My life is awesome. I have a cool job –"
"What is your job, anyway?"
" – please. Lots of great friends, an amazing girlfriend –"
"Who lets you go to strip clubs?"
"That's why she's amazing." He snorted. "Why wouldn't I be happy? Everything's perfect." He went back to fiddling with the bat. "Can I try again? I bet I can hit it this time. I know how now."
Of course, it took another ten swings before the bat connected again, but he was improving. After another hour, he could hit about half of his father's gentle underhand throws.
"OK, Barney. I think we're ready to try overhand. This'll be a little harder." Out of habit, he found himself winding up for a curveball (J.J.'s favorite). Changing his mind at the last minute made the throw go wild.
"Hey! No fair!"
"Sorry. I missed." The next one came closer, and Barney barely flinched from the speed. "There we go," he muttered as the first one connected. He repeated it, louder, when a harder hit sent him running to the outfield. By the end of the day, Barney could hit most of them, and he'd stopped wiping the dust off his pants. When he announced that they'd spend the evening at a strip club, his father reluctantly agreed. He'd earned it.
He reflected that Barney wasn't too bad. He wasn't that impatient, really, and he was certainly trying.
He just wasn't J.J.