The Last Summer. Chan Howell
and his first wife’s marriage collapsed under the pressure of not having Donnie follow through his sure-to-be-successful junior and senior years. Drake’s mother moved away, and Duckworth was left alone to raise their son. Betty Duckworth left town in the middle of the night, and no one knew where the dark-haired beauty had escaped to. She also left Drake her athletic genes. She had been a standout track star, and Donnie and Drake inherited her athleticism. Betty had state records that were still unbroken in the 1,600 meters and 400 meters. Drake and Donnie both had her long legs and dark-olive skin. Drake never mentioned his mother, and he avoided every conversation about his superstar brother.
Duckworth had gray hair and a stubbly gray beard. He had an infectious laugh, and his gregarious nature made people flock to him. He walked with a limp due to knee surgery a decade earlier. He walked like an old cowboy, swinging his stiff right leg. Duckworth eventually married our elementary principal, and Drake later became a big brother to Ashton. Principal Duckworth catered to Ashton’s every request. Ashton was Little Miss Swansville, and the two spent the summer on the pageant circuit. We rarely saw Principal Duckworth unless it was a school function. Ashton embarrassed her older brother every chance she got. She was a blond, blue-eyed bundle of energy and was full of personality at five. She and Drake looked nothing alike. Everyone gushed over the young beauty and showered her with compliments. She constantly showed us her new tricks. Drake usually avoided his little sister at all costs. I remember Drake telling me, “Here she comes. Let’s disappear.”
Duckworth was much older than all our other coaches, although he seemed younger. He was full of energy, and his booming voice welcomed everyone that set foot on the baseball field. He grew old at the same pace we grew up. It happened in the blink of an eye. Duckworth went from running bases and giving jump high fives to pitching batting practice sitting on a bucket. He was not hard on Drake like he was with Donnie. Donnie was forced onto the court, while Drake was encouraged. Duckworth wanted to enjoy everything this time around, while Drake wanted to be the best. Drake had the natural desire Duckworth cultivated in Donnie. Donnie was just a natural talent, whereas Drake had to work for it.
We excelled at baseball because of the fundamentals Duckworth showed us when we were four and five years old. We all still shouted the same batting and fielding cues he taught us before we knew our ABCs. The letter L was the first letter I could identify because of Duckworth. When I was asked by my kindergarten teacher to show the class the letter L, I stood up and lifted my arm in its shape as Duckworth had shown us one hundred times. The laughter from my classmates was the first of many embarrassing moments.
I believe Duckworth’s currency was hearing all his former pupils shout those stolen baseball cues years later, because his teams rarely had winning seasons. Eventually his cues were known league-wide, and every other coach seemed to teach his players using them. Duckworth seemed to know everything about baseball, and he wanted us to consume his knowledge in the event we needed it for future Ducklings. He told our parents and the team after each game, “I love you, and God loves you, and I am proud of each one of you.” We believed him.
Duckworth liked having the youngest and least experienced kids on his team; thus, Drake never had team success despite being one of the best players every year. I played on his team the last two years, and I went from marginal player to key contributor. Duckworth developed my skills that had been ignored by other coaches while letting me patrol right field. He woke up my dormant abilities. I began to love the game, and I consumed everything he taught me. Finally, Drake and I would be competitive and have a shot at an elusive championship.
Drake did everything with precision and played the game perfectly. Drake practiced every day, and the baseball field was his sanctuary. He was an artist on the field. Each year that passed, Drake’s play became more automatic and the game was effortless. I felt he could play with his eyes closed. He stopped socializing, and he seemed to no longer enjoy the game as each season passed. He rarely stopped in at Winslow’s. A Cheerwine with his friends had little value to him; he would rather stay on the diamond. I remember watching him once for twenty minutes practicing on the field alone with no baseball. He mimed it. He and his shadow looked like they were in a delicate ballet that they had trained for their entire lives. Watching him calmed my nerves and made me feel like I was in the presence of Baryshnikov.
The pressure Drake put on himself to be like his older brother made him too serious, and his calm demeanor gave him the look of confidence. He was labeled cocky. Outsiders disliked the quiet boy. Duckworth knew Drake was not born with his older brother’s natural abilities. Drake was born with something more. Drake begged his father to stay after every practice so he could take more batting practice or field grounders. Duckworth always obliged. The setting sun signaled the end of practice for him, not a coach’s whistle. Drake consumed his father’s knowledge in near silence. He rarely even spoke to his dad. Duckworth said enough for the two of them. I began to join the extra practices; thus, Drake and I were dynamic at turning double plays.
Coach Duckworth’s mantel was a shrine to his eldest son with trophies and first-place ribbons. A picture of Donnie dunking a basketball in the eighth grade sat over the middle of the fireplace. It served as a reminder to Drake of his brother’s dominance. Duckworth never emphasized winning with Drake, but Drake wanted to be his father’s second chance. He believed his father deserved it.
Sister’s Shadow
I grew up in right field at Scarborough Memorial Park; it is the first place the sun’s rays abandon once it starts its descent. The only time I ever led the way was when I was born. My twin sister followed me six minutes later, although she barely survived. She was born with caul covering her head and fluid in her lungs. My mother always says, “I fell in love with her the moment she cried out.” Although I was firstborn, I was the runt. My parents believed Whitley was born with a halo. She was far more superior in every way. She was tall, beautiful, and athletic. She was the apple of my parents’ eyes, and everyone was enchanted with the green-eyed beauty. I spent my youth chasing my sister and watching her fill my parents’ scrapbooks.
Whitley’s side of the mantel looked similar to Duckworth’s shrine to Donnie. Whitley’s side was overcrowded with first-place trophies, blue ribbons, and the centerpiece was of Whitley’s U10 state championship in soccer. My parents framed the local newspaper highlighting the soccer prodigy. The headline read, “Magic Feet.” It would not be the last time she graced the front page of The Swansville Orator. Every time we had guests or family over, my father always awkwardly climbed above the television and pulled the frame off the wall for folks to marvel over Whitley. My side of the mantel was only a participation trophy and a trophy for reading two hundred books in the fifth grade. Whitley shone at all times, and even our teachers were enamored with her.
My dad taught Whitley to tell everyone she was a daddy’s girl, and my mom taught her to bat her eyes on cue. Strangers would stop to shower her with compliments: “Just look at those beautiful eyes!” I learned very early to let her be the main attraction. I once got lost at the county fair and my mom had difficulty describing me. She could not even recall what color shirt I was wearing. She told the police officer my name was Dustin, which is her brother’s name. I sat crying behind a trailer at the petting zoo, hearing people yelling, “Dustin! Dustin!” When I was finally spotted and I was asked what my name was, I told them “Carson Smith,” just as my mom ran up, saying, “My baby, my baby!” The search party was confused; they had been searching for a Dustin Smith, not Carson Smith.
Whitley would’ve never gotten lost, because she was the center of attention. She was lively, and the crowds that circled her made you believe a magician was at the center, putting on a show. She cast a spell on everyone and a shadow over me. I learned how to navigate in the shadows at an early age. I found comfort in the books I began to read.
Whitley’s bright-green eyes and perfect smile would torment my friends in the coming years, and she knew it. She looked like she was carved by Michelangelo, and I looked like I was carved from the scraps left over. She knew very early in life how to manipulate our classmates, and she quickly rose to the leader of all the girls and almost all the boys. She feared no one, and she had carried herself with a commanding grace since we were eight years old. She was made for the main stage, and she vanquished anyone trying to steal her spotlight.
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