"Maybe I shouldn't have come to see you. It's none of my busi­ness...."

Dean reached over and took his arm. "Yes, you should have come and yes, it is your business. I'm not going to give you a now-you're-the-head-of-the-house speech but it's only been a few weeks since your father disappeared and you have a right to look out for your mother. I come along barging into your lives..."

"No, it's not that," Randy said quickly, "It's just she'd be dis­appointed, real disappointed if you were playing her for a sucker. It's nothing to do with dad. I'm not jealous or something; besides, it's her life, but I know she's really messed up right now and she needs someone she can count on-and trust. I just don't want her hurt any more than she has been."

They silently spooned up Italian ice cream, content in this measure of understanding that was growing between them. When the last of the dessert was scraped away, Coach Grayson, in his ever-present baseball cap and sweatshirt, entered the restaurant. The old man's face broke into a smile at the sight of Randy, and he shook the boy's hand.

"Get a good night's sleep tonight, boy. We've got some base­ball to play tomorrow; some butt to kick and we're counting on you!"

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"Yes sir!" Randy answered.

Coach Grayson turned to Dean, a puzzled look on his face. He nodded and held out his hand. "Dean," he said, "not much talent but a lot of hustle. I always remember the ones with hustle." He turned and brushed past them but his remark was a bright spot in David Dean's day.




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