-

That first summer was the only summer Don spent at home. He spent the summers after that practicing and hanging with friends. He got a job so he could rent an apartment that would have given his mother nightmares. He decided to major in criminal justice because it had the best professors and lectures. He found the course work easy which left more time to concentrate on baseball.

"Baseball," one of his professors said when he came to pick up a paper during her office hours. "Such a shame. You have a knack for this." She pointed to the white sheets in his hand. The "A" across the front page was plain as day.

"I like baseball," was his answer, but even that sounded hollow. Still, back to practice he went.

He was having a good season his senior year. Some might even say great. But something nagged him.

His father drove up and saw as many games as he could on the weekends. Sometimes he brought Charlie, who spent the entire game analyzing pitches and scribbling numbers down in a notebook.

He met the two after one game. Mom hadn't been able to make it this time, but she'd still sent another package with Dad. It was probably for the best; they'd lost. But Dad insisted it had been a good name none-the-less.

"You had that great catch in the third inning," Dad pointed out. Charlie was staring out at the field. He'd grown an inch or two since Don had last seen him and that was good, especially if he was going to be teaching undergrads next fall when he went for his master's.

"Yeah, but we still lost," Don pointed out.

Charlie tapped his pencil against his notebook. "You can't lay off the low, outside pitches, Don," he said. "And you only actually hit one of them eight percent of the time. I've run an analysis and-"

"Whoa, an analysis? On my ability to hit the ball?"

Charlie nodded, tapping his pencil faster. "Yes. And if you can see-"

Don held up a hand. "You're saying math can predict my batting average?"

Charlie blinked. "Well, not really your batting average, but math can help determine how many home runs you may hit in one season. It's not one hundred percent accurate, but it can come fairly close. It's called sabermetrics. The study of baseball performance using statistical analysis."

"Sounds lucrative," Dad put in. "But you're too young to gamble, Charlie."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "It is not that simple, Dad."

"Fine. Then I'll tell you what is simple. Dinner. It's getting late and I promised your mother we'd be home tonight. It's a long drive."

"Right," Charlie muttered, but tucked the notebook another his arm.

"Can't Charlie help you drive now, Dad? I thought his road test was last month."

Charlie turned beet red. "Ah, yeah, about that..."

Don's eyes widened. "Don't tell me you failed. You never fail a test."

"I passed the written part," Charlie defended.

"That he did," Dad agreed. "It was the actual driving part he had trouble with. He hit a--"

"Dad!"

"-mailbox. And a few other things. Luckily, only the mailbox truly suffered."

"I was distracted!"

"You can't be distracted when you drive, Charlie."

Don started laughing. "A mailbox? Do you want him on the road?"

"The mailboxes on our street should quiver in fear," Dad teased. "Besides, Charlie, you're taking it again next month."

"I don't need to drive," Charlie said. "I can manage. I have a bike."

"Charlie, you need to learn how to drive. You can't take a girl out on a bike," Don told him, smiling. Of course Charlie wouldn't pay attention. His brain was going a mile a minute twenty-four hours a day.

"And who says I can't? Maybe a girl will find that attractive."

Don and his father exchanged a glance. "She'd be one special girl."

"Yeah," Charlie echoed and started kicking the dirt with his feet. Like driving, social skills weren't one of Charlie's strengths, nor were they high on his list of priorities. How those two things weren't important for a sixteen-year-old, Don couldn't comprehend, but he rarely comprehended what made Charlie tick. Honestly, if he tried, he'd spend way too much time dealing with angry and jealous feelings and that got him nowhere. It was much safer trying to set himself apart from the genius.

"So, dinner?" Dad asked. "Your choice, Don, but faster is probably better. Charlie's got an eight a.m. class and I have a nine o'clock meeting tomorrow."

They ended up at a small little diner, and two hours later, Don was back at the dorm.

The next day his coach called him and the next weekend he found himself in a minor league scout's office, talking about the possibility of playing for the Stockton Rangers.

--

--

He wasn't sure when it hit him. It could have been during the seventh inning stretch of the game against San Jose. Or maybe it was the error he made during the ninth inning of the Modesto game. Whatever it was, the revelation was still the same.

He was mediocre. He could play the game, yes, but he'd never make it out of the Class A league. He wasn't good enough to even be considered for major league ball. And to be honest, he wasn't sure he'd be happy playing baseball as a living.

Baseball used to be fun, but now it was work and it was tiring. Away games meant hotel stays. He'd seen all of California and he wanted a change of scenery. His trips home had dwindled and his father wasn't able to make it to as many games. Charlie was knee deep in Master's work and Mom's way of seeing him came in the form of monthly care packages that always included cookies made with Grandma's recipe. Don smiled every time he saw her flowery script on the label, yet it didn't bring him back to LA.

He was shifting through his tiny apartment in Stockton, rummaging for something he would later never recall when he found the last paper from his senior level criminal justice course.

"Good luck in the minors" was written across the top. Underneath it said "A" and "call if you change your mind."

Criminal justice had been fun. Challenging. Thinking about the structure of crime and the evidence needed to bring in a suspect. He'd dabbled in a few forensic classes as well, and he'd liked them, too. But he wasn't about to go to law school.

The next day an ad for the FBI caught his eye at the post-office.

He signed himself up for the entrance exam. He had no idea if he'd even pass, but he figured if he could solve the crimes before Perry Mason could on TV, it might be worth a shot.

He didn't tell anyone, just did it, played his last game of the season and headed home for a long overdue visit.

His mother was in the garden, separating tulip bulbs when he approached her. She jumped but her face broke into a smile when she saw him.

"Donnie." He was enveloped in a hug a moment later. "You didn't say you were coming."

"I wanted to surprise you. I'm only here for a day or two."

"A day or two is more than I've seen you in a year. You can stay in your old room. Your father keeps wanting to convert it into something else, but I won't let him." She started packing up her gardening tools.

"I'm twenty-five, Mom. I think it's safe to say I'm not moving back in."

"You never know," she told him. "Your dad should be home by six. And Charlie's teaching a lab, I think, until seven. Hope you don't mind dinner waiting until then."

"Seven's hardly late. What are you making?"

She grinned. "Brisket."

His eyes lit up. "Really? Guess I picked the right night to visit, then?"

"You always had a sixth sense when it came to dinner," she teased. "Now go upstairs and get settled. You can help me."

"Mom, I burn things. I think Dad and Charlie would prefer if I stayed away from the kitchen."

She shook her head. "Have you learned nothing from me? Cooking is skill that will get you far. Did I ever tell you that your father cooked for me on our first date?"

Don shook his head. "No, you didn't. Must have been nice then."

She laughed. "It was terrible! The meat was so tough that a knife couldn't enough get through it."

"But you married him."

"Well, he tried. And often it's the thought that counts. Besides, he was a fast learner. Imagine how many young ladies you could impress if the food you made them was actually eatable."

Don shrugged. "You can try, Mom, but I guarantee nothing."

She gave it her all and Don did manage to toss one hell of a salad. He'd seen lots of girls eat that, so perhaps such a talent could be useful. Dad was surprised to see him when he came home at six, but it was Charlie that gave him the biggest greeting.

"Don," he said, nearly dropping the stack of papers he walked in with. A couple loose sheets made their way out of the pile and floated to the floor.

Don reached down to pick them up. "Perhaps you ought to set those down first, Professor. What is all this stuff anyway?"

Charlie maneuvered the stack over to the dining room table, setting the majority right next to his place setting. "Quizzes from my Honors-Level Differential Equations class. Oh, and my thesis draft is in there somewhere, I think."

"You think?"

"Well, it was in there earlier." Charlie lifted a few papers to study them, picked up a red pen from behind his ear, and circled something before setting them down again. "It's always the second-order equations that throw them off. Anyway, what are you doing here?"

"Visiting. Why?"

"Um, no reason." Charlie shifted, and to Don he seemed a tad embarrassed that he asked. Though Don had no clue why. "It's just you haven't been home in almost eight months."

"Baseball season."

"Baseball season isn't that long."

"You're forgetting about spring training."

"That still doesn't equal eight months."

Don rolled his eyes. "So the math is off. Quit it. You sound like Mom." He knew he sounded a bit curt, but he needed need Charlie to make him feel guilty. Not Charlie, the genius, who stayed home and never missed a holiday.

"And that's a bad thing?" Mom walked in, carrying a bowl of potatoes. "Charlie, take those papers off the table. We don't grade papers during dinner. Your brother's home and I doubt your students would appreciate food on their exam."

"I don't spill," Charlie defended. "And I can multitask."

She shot him a look. "Move them. Now." She headed back into the kitchen.

Without a word, he scooped up the stack and moved them into the living room. Don had a feeling this was a regular argument between the two of them.

"So, thesis huh?" Don asked. "How's that going?"

"So far, okay. Larry's optimistic." Charlie came back into the dining room, hands empty.

"Larry? Is he still your advisor? I thought he was a physicist."

"He is, which is why I think my calculations are off."

"Why not get a math person to be your advisor then?"

"Because Larry's who I got when I came in and I like him. I have two other math professors on my defense committee."

"Defense? I thought you didn't need to defend a Master's thesis."

"I already finished my master's. This is for my PhD."

Don blinked. "Finished your Master's? When did that happen?"

Dad came in from the living. "Last year, Don. You were just starting the season. The weekend of the Bakersfield games."

"Oh. Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"I only picked up my master's on the way towards my PhD. Most students don't even go to graduation for that. I filled out paperwork after I passed my qualifying exam, that's all," Charlie said with a shrug.

Charlie had gotten a whole degree while he was off playing a game he just discovered he wasn't even really good at. "It's more than paperwork, Charlie. It's a degree. I bet Mom made you go to graduation."

Charlie sighed. "She took a million pictures."

"There's in the album in the living room," Dad offered. "And one is on the mantle. Charlie looks very nice."

"As nice as you can look while your cheeks are red."

"Red is a good color on you," Mom interjected as she brought the main course in. Don and Charlie took a seat and Don tried to smile.

He left two days later without uttering a word about the FBI.