When did you realize your dad wasn’t who you thought he was?

The Grief And The First Arrest

My brother Tyler was the only person who died when his bus crashed into a pole. Six years ago, my brother was sitting on a bus that crashed into a pole.

And because of where he was seated, he was the only one that died. My dad stood at the crash site for 6 hours.

He kept touching the pole where Tyler’s blood had dried, whispering, “Get up, champ. Coach needs you to get up.”

The cops had to physically escort him away. At first, I thought we were there for each other. Looking through Tyler’s trophies, watching his game footage, sitting in silence when ESPN played.

I thought I understood loss. I thought when Dad started coaching little league again, he was healing.

But I never noticed when he began staying after practice with one kid, Jeremy, who had Tyler’s same Southpaw pitch. Kids got potential, Dad explained, demonstrating Jeremy’s wind up at dinner.

Throws just like Tai did at that age.

My stomach twisted, but I told myself it was just Dad being a coach until Dad started showing up at Jeremy’s house completely unannounced with extra equipment.

That’s when I knew I had to step up my support game. No pun intended, lol. Yes, I know my humor is dark.

Dad, maybe you should give the family some space, but he’d brush me off.

His parents don’t understand baseball, Marcus. They don’t see what that kid could become.

Well, after weeks of Dad missing work to watch Jeremy’s practices and texting the kid’s mom about development opportunities, I stopped saying anything.

I myself was barely hanging by a thread, and I figured some over involvement was normal, but things got worse.

I was doom scrolling on TikTok when I heard Dad calling Jeremy Tai during practice. I thought I was imagining it, but when I looked up, I saw it.

He gave Jeremy Tyler’s brand of cleats in the exact same size, sigh. As soon as we got back to the car, I tried to spark up a real conversation, but he just got this intense look and said, “Tyler’s teaching me through him, Marcus. I can feel it.”

That night at dinner, he wouldn’t even look at me. He spent the whole meal on his phone texting Jeremy’s mom about a crucial tournament he’d registered Jeremy for without asking.

He disappeared to the batting cages for hours, and other parents started complaining about him pulling their kids aside to demonstrate why Jeremy was special, like my boy Tyler was.

One Saturday morning, he woke me up at dawn, saying, “Today’s the tournament, the big one.”

I thought he meant he was finally ready to visit Tyler’s grave. But as he loaded the truck with camping gear and coolers, he seemed almost manic, humming Tyler’s walkup song.

I should have checked which tournament. I should have asked where.

As it happened, my neighbor friend DJ called me panicking around noon. Jeremy’s parents had shown up at our house with the police. My blood went cold.

DJ found a note in Dad’s truck about taking Jeremy to a special training camp three states away where Tyler had always wanted to go.

I sped to the campground Dad had marked on an old map in Tyler’s room. When I arrived, I heard shouting from the woods.

Dad had Jeremy in Tyler’s practice jersey, trying to make him run drills. The kid, maybe 11 years old, was crying, I want to go home. You said my mom said it was okay.

Dad just kept barking orders in his coach voice. Tyler never quit. You’re better than this.

Dad, what the actual f are you doing?

I yelled, my whole body shaking. Dad looked at me with pure joy, tears in his eyes. Marcus, you made it. Look, Tyler’s been working on his slider. Show your brother Ty.

The kid saw me and ran over desperately. He made me get in his truck. He said we were just going to D’s sporting goods.

I grabbed Jeremy and Dad went completely feral. Don’t confuse him. You’re ruining his concentration.

He tried to pull the boy back. I managed to get Jeremy to my car while Dad chased us, screaming that I was destroying Tyler’s second chance. He needs this camp. You’re letting him become another wasted talent.

When I told the 911 operator I had the kidnapped boy, Dad’s face went gray. No, no, no, no, no. His mother agreed. She signed the permission slip.

He pulled out a clearly forged document. Tyler told me what to write. He speaks to me through the pitches.

When the police arrived, Dad completely lost it. He tried to lock himself in his truck with Tyler’s equipment bag.

It took four officers to subdue him while he thrashed and wailed. “Marcus, tell them. Tell them Tyler’s back.”

The officers finally got him into custody while he pressed his face against the patrol car window. Jeremy was reunited with his terrified parents who’d been searching for 5 hours.

Dad had apparently convinced Jeremy to come by, saying his parents wanted him to get special coaching and were meeting them there. My brother Tyler was the only person who died when his bus crashed into a pole.

Dad started coaching a boy named Jeremy who threw just like Tyler and called him Tai during practice. When I found Dad at a campground making Jeremy wear Tyler’s jersey and run drills while the kid cried, “I want to go home.”

I called 911.