A Work in Progress...
One Step Forward…
The metaphor wasn’t lost on Bill Founder. He came to the gym everyday, got on the treadmill, walked three miles and still could not lose any weight. Oh, perhaps if he skipped a dessert or two and managed to push aside the afternoon snack of cookies and orange juice he used as a crutch to get through the day he might drop a pound or two, but on the whole he hadn’t made any progress towards his goal of losing 30 pounds. No, all he had managed to do was wear through two pair of overpriced sneakers (Did they call them that anymore?) and throw money away on monthly membership fees that could only be justified by dropping the tonnage that had slowly crept up on him over the years. No, years of abuse – the thoughtless consumption of countless Chips-Ahoy cookies, the absent-minded swilling of bottles of beer, the choosing of fries over a side of broccoli had all come back to haunt him in the form of a gelatinous mid-section that made its presence known every time he went to button his jeans, only to find them too tight and restrictive, leaving him afraid to bend over for fear of tearing them at the seams. Yet, Will kept treading along on the treadmill, kept deluding himself about what he truly had to do to make any sort of progress towards his goal, getting nowhere.
Chapter 1
This Monday of September 15th was like any other, met with a feeling of resignation by all throughout the Founder household – inevitable and charmless. After a weekend that went by far too fast (don’t they all), composed of errands that needed to be done, housework that could no longer be avoided and a party that none of them wanted to attend, the beginning of the week assaulted them with its quiet surety that it would be composed of unwanted tasks that needed to be completed, frustration over the lack of time in which to do so and a sense of fatigue that would set in on them all come Wednesday. And while it contained the promise of a Friday with its mirage of freedom, well that was too far in the future for any of them to hang any hope on yet.
Connie was always the first to rise and this morning was no different. She was showered and dressed before anyone else had wiped the sleep from their eyes, fortified by a large cup of coffee and the knowledge that she would accomplish most of what was on her “To-Do List,” the foundation she laid for each of her days, the plan that grounded and kept, no only her, but the rest of the Founder clan on track. Though approaching her mid-40’s, strangers would have taken her for a vibrant woman in her 30’s, never suspecting that the cancer that had ravaged her body ten years earlier had nearly killed her. Fortunately, her strength outweighed everyone else’s despair during that time and in a sense she had come through the ordeal stronger and more assured than she’d ever been, though her paranoia over any minor affliction, cough or unexplained change in her body that now came her way began to exasperate Bill, though he understood the source of her angst.
If there was one thing Bill admired and was annoyed by was the fact that Connie never stopped during the course of a day. She was constantly active, moving from one task to the next, sometimes blasting through the day without taking a moment to eat lunch; it was a wonder that she found time to breath. On days when she had accomplished all she had set out to do, she would seek out tasks that had long been put off or simply create a job to occupy herself. She seldom took the time to enjoy herself for any stretch and one of the reasons Bill looked forward to their annual week at the beach was that this was practically the only point in the year he would she her truly relax, a genuine smile breaking over her face regularly throughout this far-too-short week, something that rarely happened the other 51 weeks. Having beaten the cancer, it was a mystery to Bill as to why she didn’t slow down and enjoy life, revel in the simple joy of a golden sunset or join in on a board game with he and the boys would gather round the table. No, for her it seemed as though the health scare had instilled in her the notion that all of us are all only given a finite period of time and that as much as possible should be done with it. Some might take to climbing Everest and knocking off other grand tasks on their bucket list. Connie was content to rush from folding laundry, to attending youth baseball games, to planning dinners for the week, her mind always working on what to do next to distract her from the fact that, as before, fate may throw a monkey wrench in her well-orchestrated life at any moment. Despite his assurances to the contrary, a practice Bill soon realized was futile, her mind was always working in this direction, something he feared would end up consuming her in the end.
The oldest of the Founder boys, Steven was like his mother in many ways. He too could set a course for himself and seldom waiver from it, his high grade point average being a testament to that. He was deadly serious about anything he put his mind to and had been so from an early age. When he was younger, all of his Hot Wheels cars had to be lined up in a specific order and woe be it to the foolish soul who would come into his neatly organized room and have the temerity to move one of them out of its assigned place. The wrath that would rain down on them from the tiny freckled boy was at once both frightening and hilarious to witness. This characteristic was a constant for Steven and had now blossomed into his saying something like, “ignorant fucks should stay in the trailer parks where they belong if they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about,” if someone made a mistake or simply differed from one of his burgeoning, simplistic political views. With one foot already out the door, as he was to start college in the fall, Bill found himself contemplating all he thought he’d done right with his son and all he’d done wrong. He liked to think the positives outweighed the negatives but when he heard his boy speak in such a vehement, angry manner, he couldn’t help but wonder.
Jack, the middle boy, was another case altogether. Whereas his older brother had no discernable sense of humor, he had no trouble finding a way to, if not laugh, at least not take disappointments to heart. A smile was never far from the 14 year-old's face and while the fact that his not taking anything too seriously extended to his school work drove his mother mad, there was a quality about him that suggested that he would always land on his feet no matter what life threw his way. Perhaps this was irresponsible of him but Bill didn’t worry about Jack the way he did the other boys. He felt that somehow, someway he would turn out all right, that life would present the proper path to him, the boy would embark on it and all would be well. There was an aura about the kid and his father often wondered where he’d gotten his sense of optimism and ability not to worry. It certainly wasn't from his. He was also thankful that at this stage in his life Jack had still expressed no interest in the opposite sex and that his biggest worry seemed to be defeating the acne that constantly plagued him.
The only thing that concerned him about this boy was his obsession with the violent video games that he was always playing. As far as their playing games together, Jack had left his father far behind when he was 8. Bill simply couldn't get a handle on the various buttons, switches and toggles that were on the controller that came with the modern gaming systems and it became apparent very quickly that he was no match for the far quicker and more dextrous boy. When he tried to explain that when he was growing up, all he had to master was a single stick and red button on the controller he had used, the boy looked at him as if he had just spoken some foreign language he had never heard before. It soon became apparent that it just wasn't fun playing video games with dad because he was no competition and when Jack actually looked at his dad with a bit of pity in his eyes after he had inflicted a particularly harsh drubbing of the old man in the baseball game they played, Bill knew that this source of bonding between them was over. As the years went by, the boy lost interest in the sports-themed games he grew up on and slowly, games that Connie and he swore would never be in their house, crept into the boy's room, having been lent to him by friends or rented without his parent's knowledge. The "Call of Duty" games got a pass, because they sparked in an interest in WWII in the boy that lasted for quite some time. But soon, Nazis were replaced by zombies as Jack's target of choice until he graduated to more realistic first-person-shooter games that he played with on a team with other boys across the country. Bill didn't know how it all worked and while he was concerned about the violent nature of the games, he reasoned that Jack could certainly be doing far worse things with his time and having moved his game playing to their expansive basement, at least they always knew where he was. Besides, they evinced no signs that his character had changed because of his playing the games - a trench coat had not made its way into his wardrobe, heavy metal wasn't blaring from the basement and the kid was just as goodnatured as he'd always been - however his language had gotten worse, something Bill chalked up to his son's age as dropping an expletive here and there was a way teens tested boundaries. It didn't happen often, but while watching TV in the living room, they would hear the occasional "Fuck" screamed from the basement, obviously the result of one of Jack's carefully planned missions going all FUBAR on him. This was usually followed by a stream of cuss words that would have caused his grandmother to have a stroke and then goodnatured laughter on the boy's part, which assured Bill that he still wasn't taking the games too seriously. Besides, there were times when he thought it was funny to hear the serenity of the house shattered by the "F-Bomb" being screamed by a boy whose voice hadn't stopped changing yet.
The metaphor wasn’t lost on Bill Founder. He came to the gym everyday, got on the treadmill, walked three miles and still could not lose any weight. Oh, perhaps if he skipped a dessert or two and managed to push aside the afternoon snack of cookies and orange juice he used as a crutch to get through the day he might drop a pound or two, but on the whole he hadn’t made any progress towards his goal of losing 30 pounds. No, all he had managed to do was wear through two pair of overpriced sneakers (Did they call them that anymore?) and throw money away on monthly membership fees that could only be justified by dropping the tonnage that had slowly crept up on him over the years. No, years of abuse – the thoughtless consumption of countless Chips-Ahoy cookies, the absent-minded swilling of bottles of beer, the choosing of fries over a side of broccoli had all come back to haunt him in the form of a gelatinous mid-section that made its presence known every time he went to button his jeans, only to find them too tight and restrictive, leaving him afraid to bend over for fear of tearing them at the seams. Yet, Will kept treading along on the treadmill, kept deluding himself about what he truly had to do to make any sort of progress towards his goal, getting nowhere.
Chapter 1
This Monday of September 15th was like any other, met with a feeling of resignation by all throughout the Founder household – inevitable and charmless. After a weekend that went by far too fast (don’t they all), composed of errands that needed to be done, housework that could no longer be avoided and a party that none of them wanted to attend, the beginning of the week assaulted them with its quiet surety that it would be composed of unwanted tasks that needed to be completed, frustration over the lack of time in which to do so and a sense of fatigue that would set in on them all come Wednesday. And while it contained the promise of a Friday with its mirage of freedom, well that was too far in the future for any of them to hang any hope on yet.
Connie was always the first to rise and this morning was no different. She was showered and dressed before anyone else had wiped the sleep from their eyes, fortified by a large cup of coffee and the knowledge that she would accomplish most of what was on her “To-Do List,” the foundation she laid for each of her days, the plan that grounded and kept, no only her, but the rest of the Founder clan on track. Though approaching her mid-40’s, strangers would have taken her for a vibrant woman in her 30’s, never suspecting that the cancer that had ravaged her body ten years earlier had nearly killed her. Fortunately, her strength outweighed everyone else’s despair during that time and in a sense she had come through the ordeal stronger and more assured than she’d ever been, though her paranoia over any minor affliction, cough or unexplained change in her body that now came her way began to exasperate Bill, though he understood the source of her angst.
If there was one thing Bill admired and was annoyed by was the fact that Connie never stopped during the course of a day. She was constantly active, moving from one task to the next, sometimes blasting through the day without taking a moment to eat lunch; it was a wonder that she found time to breath. On days when she had accomplished all she had set out to do, she would seek out tasks that had long been put off or simply create a job to occupy herself. She seldom took the time to enjoy herself for any stretch and one of the reasons Bill looked forward to their annual week at the beach was that this was practically the only point in the year he would she her truly relax, a genuine smile breaking over her face regularly throughout this far-too-short week, something that rarely happened the other 51 weeks. Having beaten the cancer, it was a mystery to Bill as to why she didn’t slow down and enjoy life, revel in the simple joy of a golden sunset or join in on a board game with he and the boys would gather round the table. No, for her it seemed as though the health scare had instilled in her the notion that all of us are all only given a finite period of time and that as much as possible should be done with it. Some might take to climbing Everest and knocking off other grand tasks on their bucket list. Connie was content to rush from folding laundry, to attending youth baseball games, to planning dinners for the week, her mind always working on what to do next to distract her from the fact that, as before, fate may throw a monkey wrench in her well-orchestrated life at any moment. Despite his assurances to the contrary, a practice Bill soon realized was futile, her mind was always working in this direction, something he feared would end up consuming her in the end.
The oldest of the Founder boys, Steven was like his mother in many ways. He too could set a course for himself and seldom waiver from it, his high grade point average being a testament to that. He was deadly serious about anything he put his mind to and had been so from an early age. When he was younger, all of his Hot Wheels cars had to be lined up in a specific order and woe be it to the foolish soul who would come into his neatly organized room and have the temerity to move one of them out of its assigned place. The wrath that would rain down on them from the tiny freckled boy was at once both frightening and hilarious to witness. This characteristic was a constant for Steven and had now blossomed into his saying something like, “ignorant fucks should stay in the trailer parks where they belong if they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about,” if someone made a mistake or simply differed from one of his burgeoning, simplistic political views. With one foot already out the door, as he was to start college in the fall, Bill found himself contemplating all he thought he’d done right with his son and all he’d done wrong. He liked to think the positives outweighed the negatives but when he heard his boy speak in such a vehement, angry manner, he couldn’t help but wonder.
Jack, the middle boy, was another case altogether. Whereas his older brother had no discernable sense of humor, he had no trouble finding a way to, if not laugh, at least not take disappointments to heart. A smile was never far from the 14 year-old's face and while the fact that his not taking anything too seriously extended to his school work drove his mother mad, there was a quality about him that suggested that he would always land on his feet no matter what life threw his way. Perhaps this was irresponsible of him but Bill didn’t worry about Jack the way he did the other boys. He felt that somehow, someway he would turn out all right, that life would present the proper path to him, the boy would embark on it and all would be well. There was an aura about the kid and his father often wondered where he’d gotten his sense of optimism and ability not to worry. It certainly wasn't from his. He was also thankful that at this stage in his life Jack had still expressed no interest in the opposite sex and that his biggest worry seemed to be defeating the acne that constantly plagued him.
The only thing that concerned him about this boy was his obsession with the violent video games that he was always playing. As far as their playing games together, Jack had left his father far behind when he was 8. Bill simply couldn't get a handle on the various buttons, switches and toggles that were on the controller that came with the modern gaming systems and it became apparent very quickly that he was no match for the far quicker and more dextrous boy. When he tried to explain that when he was growing up, all he had to master was a single stick and red button on the controller he had used, the boy looked at him as if he had just spoken some foreign language he had never heard before. It soon became apparent that it just wasn't fun playing video games with dad because he was no competition and when Jack actually looked at his dad with a bit of pity in his eyes after he had inflicted a particularly harsh drubbing of the old man in the baseball game they played, Bill knew that this source of bonding between them was over. As the years went by, the boy lost interest in the sports-themed games he grew up on and slowly, games that Connie and he swore would never be in their house, crept into the boy's room, having been lent to him by friends or rented without his parent's knowledge. The "Call of Duty" games got a pass, because they sparked in an interest in WWII in the boy that lasted for quite some time. But soon, Nazis were replaced by zombies as Jack's target of choice until he graduated to more realistic first-person-shooter games that he played with on a team with other boys across the country. Bill didn't know how it all worked and while he was concerned about the violent nature of the games, he reasoned that Jack could certainly be doing far worse things with his time and having moved his game playing to their expansive basement, at least they always knew where he was. Besides, they evinced no signs that his character had changed because of his playing the games - a trench coat had not made its way into his wardrobe, heavy metal wasn't blaring from the basement and the kid was just as goodnatured as he'd always been - however his language had gotten worse, something Bill chalked up to his son's age as dropping an expletive here and there was a way teens tested boundaries. It didn't happen often, but while watching TV in the living room, they would hear the occasional "Fuck" screamed from the basement, obviously the result of one of Jack's carefully planned missions going all FUBAR on him. This was usually followed by a stream of cuss words that would have caused his grandmother to have a stroke and then goodnatured laughter on the boy's part, which assured Bill that he still wasn't taking the games too seriously. Besides, there were times when he thought it was funny to hear the serenity of the house shattered by the "F-Bomb" being screamed by a boy whose voice hadn't stopped changing yet.
Later Chapter
This was supposed to be fun.
And it had been for a while, but things had all turned for Kal where baseball was concerned and Bill couldn’t understand why something that had once brought his son great joy had how cast him the role of Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on this shoulders whenever he came to the plate or took to the field.
It hadn’t always been that way. Kal was naturally adept at sports from a young age and Bill couldn’t figure out how or why that had happened. At four, his pre-school teachers were pointing out to him how adept he was at dribbling a basketball up and down the court. Bill didn’t think anything of it – this is what his son did all the time, it was no big thing. However, the women at the daycare center insisted that this was a skill that was far beyond most children at that age. This was in keeping with Kal’s skill set. He was hitting a wiffle ball with authority at age three and had insisted on starting on hardballs at the age of five in order to emulate his hero, A.J. Pyrzinski, the hard-nosed catcher on the White Sox. He could catch most anything that was thrown his way and as the seasons changed and bats and gloves were put away, basketballs were brought out of storage so shots could be taken and layups attempted at the neighbor’s hoop, a rusty, antiquated relic still attached to the rear of Mr. O’Connor’s garage and had rarely been used since his son had moved out five years earlier.
Bill and his wife had put their foot down when Kal had expressed interest in playing football and while he in some vague way understood their reasoning when they explained it was too dangerous, seeing his friends play the pee wee version of the sport, shot holes in their argument that they had to constantly reinforce. (The boy took some solace in pretending to play in the living room whenever the Indianapolis Colts were on TV, mimicking the plays as they occurred on the screen, even going so far as saving his birthday and Christmas money to buy a pair of shoulder pads, a helmet, a jersey and football pants so he could be “just like Reggie Wayne,” the team’s wide receiver. This was an activity you dare not take pictures of as, when Connie had the bad sense to do so once, Wyatt stormed out of the room, as if some great trespass had occurred, his private reverie broken that was not to be shared with the outside world. Only the allure of his mother’s pasta and cheese was able to entice him out of his room hours later.)
But in the end, Kal had baseball and that was more than enough. It soon became apparent that he was far better than his little league teammates and after two years of that, he expressed interest in trying out for a traveling team in the area. This was something that Bill and Connie had been against at first, having heard that the time and expense that went into being on such a team often outweighed the benefits. Besides, it didn’t make any sense to them – weren’t there enough local teams to play? However, Kal’s insistence on wanting to try out and the fact that he wasn’t learning anything from his little league coaches convinced them to let the kid take a chance. They reasoned that it wasn’t likely he’d make the team –as the one Kal had his eye on had only one opening and there were 35 other kids vying for that precious spot – and besides he always had little league to fall back on.
Lo and behold, he had made the team, something that Bill was quietly VERY proud of and all seemed right with the world. All the kids on the team were polite, happy boys and it quickly became apparent that they would be a good influence on Kal. As is often the case, the kids were a reflection of their parents and it didn’t take long for Bill and Connie to be taken into the fold, getting invitations to dinners and potlucks, being offered advice on how to survive the long weekends away without going broke and they soon caught on that the attitude of these folks was just what they were looking for – they were here to see their kids play ball and make sure they were happy. Whether they won or lost was immaterial to them. What mattered to them was that their boys were healthy and happy and that was it. The Founders couldn’t ask for a better situation.
However, it soon became apparent that Kal, though good enough to make the team, was not nearly as good at his teammates. Whereas they would attack the ball while at the plate and charge it whenever in the field, he suddenly began to show a degree of apprehension Bill and Connie had never seen. Kal was striking out without ever taking the bat off his shoulder, missing routine ground balls that skipped under his glove and then trying to make impossible plays to make up for his mistakes. The boy was putting pressure on himself to be worthy of being on a team that had a reputation for being the best in the county for their age group. Of course, every game wasn't a disaster as he had the occasional key hit to drive in a run here and there while being involved in a key play in the field helped raise his sprits. Yet, these moments were too few and far between, and why Kal's coach had decided to keep him on the team a second year was something that surprised both Bill and Connie, who had been girding themselves for tears and dissappointment after try-outs in the fall for the following spring season had come to a close.
Bill was unsure how to handle his son going from being a big fish in a small pond to an underachieving guppy in a part pool of talent. He was proud of Kal - that would never change no matter what the outcome and he reminded him of this often - but he was more uncertain of how to handle himself regarding all of this. He didn't want to be the asshole dad who yelled and screamed at his kid over every single mistake that was being made, knowing full well that this would only make matters worse. Yet, he also had a hard time telling Kal that he had done a good job after a game when he obviously hadn't. False praise was something that rankled Bill, the insincerity of it all but also the notion that people were allowed a free pass to screw up which in his mind bred a society where accountability for one's actions was seen as an antiquated notion. He saw far too much of this at work and in the news as well and didn't feel comfortable patting his son on the back if it wasn't truly earned. More than anything, was the frustration Bill was wrestling with - he knew full well what Kal was capable of doing and seeing him fall back into bad habits, seemingly forgetting all they had worked on together drove him up the wall.
So, following games in which Kal had played well - and there were more this second season, as the boy had improved - Bill heaped on the praise again and again, making sure his son knew how well he had done. However, if there was a bad game, well he keep quiet, saying little, holding back his criticism, hoping his son would bring up his mistakes so that they would then become fair game for dissection and analysis. Bill was always pleased when Kal would ask him to work with him on fielding or hitting after a particularly rough outing and he had to commend the kid for not giving up. Yet, this was far too infrequent for his liking, as Kal would have a good game or two, followed by a couple of bad outings which would lead to intense practice sessions. Bill had tried to instill the notion that it was better to practice more frequently on a regular basis than to only work hard after bad games, but this fell on his son's tin ear and the cycle continued.
Everything finally came to a head during a game against
This was supposed to be fun.
And it had been for a while, but things had all turned for Kal where baseball was concerned and Bill couldn’t understand why something that had once brought his son great joy had how cast him the role of Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on this shoulders whenever he came to the plate or took to the field.
It hadn’t always been that way. Kal was naturally adept at sports from a young age and Bill couldn’t figure out how or why that had happened. At four, his pre-school teachers were pointing out to him how adept he was at dribbling a basketball up and down the court. Bill didn’t think anything of it – this is what his son did all the time, it was no big thing. However, the women at the daycare center insisted that this was a skill that was far beyond most children at that age. This was in keeping with Kal’s skill set. He was hitting a wiffle ball with authority at age three and had insisted on starting on hardballs at the age of five in order to emulate his hero, A.J. Pyrzinski, the hard-nosed catcher on the White Sox. He could catch most anything that was thrown his way and as the seasons changed and bats and gloves were put away, basketballs were brought out of storage so shots could be taken and layups attempted at the neighbor’s hoop, a rusty, antiquated relic still attached to the rear of Mr. O’Connor’s garage and had rarely been used since his son had moved out five years earlier.
Bill and his wife had put their foot down when Kal had expressed interest in playing football and while he in some vague way understood their reasoning when they explained it was too dangerous, seeing his friends play the pee wee version of the sport, shot holes in their argument that they had to constantly reinforce. (The boy took some solace in pretending to play in the living room whenever the Indianapolis Colts were on TV, mimicking the plays as they occurred on the screen, even going so far as saving his birthday and Christmas money to buy a pair of shoulder pads, a helmet, a jersey and football pants so he could be “just like Reggie Wayne,” the team’s wide receiver. This was an activity you dare not take pictures of as, when Connie had the bad sense to do so once, Wyatt stormed out of the room, as if some great trespass had occurred, his private reverie broken that was not to be shared with the outside world. Only the allure of his mother’s pasta and cheese was able to entice him out of his room hours later.)
But in the end, Kal had baseball and that was more than enough. It soon became apparent that he was far better than his little league teammates and after two years of that, he expressed interest in trying out for a traveling team in the area. This was something that Bill and Connie had been against at first, having heard that the time and expense that went into being on such a team often outweighed the benefits. Besides, it didn’t make any sense to them – weren’t there enough local teams to play? However, Kal’s insistence on wanting to try out and the fact that he wasn’t learning anything from his little league coaches convinced them to let the kid take a chance. They reasoned that it wasn’t likely he’d make the team –as the one Kal had his eye on had only one opening and there were 35 other kids vying for that precious spot – and besides he always had little league to fall back on.
Lo and behold, he had made the team, something that Bill was quietly VERY proud of and all seemed right with the world. All the kids on the team were polite, happy boys and it quickly became apparent that they would be a good influence on Kal. As is often the case, the kids were a reflection of their parents and it didn’t take long for Bill and Connie to be taken into the fold, getting invitations to dinners and potlucks, being offered advice on how to survive the long weekends away without going broke and they soon caught on that the attitude of these folks was just what they were looking for – they were here to see their kids play ball and make sure they were happy. Whether they won or lost was immaterial to them. What mattered to them was that their boys were healthy and happy and that was it. The Founders couldn’t ask for a better situation.
However, it soon became apparent that Kal, though good enough to make the team, was not nearly as good at his teammates. Whereas they would attack the ball while at the plate and charge it whenever in the field, he suddenly began to show a degree of apprehension Bill and Connie had never seen. Kal was striking out without ever taking the bat off his shoulder, missing routine ground balls that skipped under his glove and then trying to make impossible plays to make up for his mistakes. The boy was putting pressure on himself to be worthy of being on a team that had a reputation for being the best in the county for their age group. Of course, every game wasn't a disaster as he had the occasional key hit to drive in a run here and there while being involved in a key play in the field helped raise his sprits. Yet, these moments were too few and far between, and why Kal's coach had decided to keep him on the team a second year was something that surprised both Bill and Connie, who had been girding themselves for tears and dissappointment after try-outs in the fall for the following spring season had come to a close.
Bill was unsure how to handle his son going from being a big fish in a small pond to an underachieving guppy in a part pool of talent. He was proud of Kal - that would never change no matter what the outcome and he reminded him of this often - but he was more uncertain of how to handle himself regarding all of this. He didn't want to be the asshole dad who yelled and screamed at his kid over every single mistake that was being made, knowing full well that this would only make matters worse. Yet, he also had a hard time telling Kal that he had done a good job after a game when he obviously hadn't. False praise was something that rankled Bill, the insincerity of it all but also the notion that people were allowed a free pass to screw up which in his mind bred a society where accountability for one's actions was seen as an antiquated notion. He saw far too much of this at work and in the news as well and didn't feel comfortable patting his son on the back if it wasn't truly earned. More than anything, was the frustration Bill was wrestling with - he knew full well what Kal was capable of doing and seeing him fall back into bad habits, seemingly forgetting all they had worked on together drove him up the wall.
So, following games in which Kal had played well - and there were more this second season, as the boy had improved - Bill heaped on the praise again and again, making sure his son knew how well he had done. However, if there was a bad game, well he keep quiet, saying little, holding back his criticism, hoping his son would bring up his mistakes so that they would then become fair game for dissection and analysis. Bill was always pleased when Kal would ask him to work with him on fielding or hitting after a particularly rough outing and he had to commend the kid for not giving up. Yet, this was far too infrequent for his liking, as Kal would have a good game or two, followed by a couple of bad outings which would lead to intense practice sessions. Bill had tried to instill the notion that it was better to practice more frequently on a regular basis than to only work hard after bad games, but this fell on his son's tin ear and the cycle continued.
Everything finally came to a head during a game against