Читать книгу Rage. The Legend of "Baseball Bill" Denehy онлайн

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I was a dreamer. And time after time I figured that if I could come up with some grandiose idea, some magical plan, I could provide my family with all the trappings of success for a person no longer in major league baseball. I felt driven and under tremendous pressure to succeed, in part because my ex-wife’s mother thought I was a loser. I suffered great agony having never been able to prove her wrong. The more I pursued those dreams, the more I chased the illusion, the deeper I got into drug abuse, and the more I separated myself from my morals and my ability to be a good husband and father.

When my two daughters played softball, I did not coach them, preferring instead to stand behind the center field fence and smoke joints with a couple of the other parents. To this day, my younger daughter still holds some resentment toward me because I didn’t teach her the sports that I excelled in when I was in high school.

In June of 1992 I flew to Connecticut on vacation and watched my daughters play high school softball, but I didn’t play catch with them. I didn’t participate in their warm-ups. I stood behind the center field fence, smoked my pot, and watched the games. The next day, I was leaving to fly back to Florida and took both girls to breakfast. I asked them whether there was something we didn’t do this time that we could do the next time we got together.