In Bellevue, where Chris still gets up each day for work at 5:30 a.m., the phone doesn’t ring quite as often with the happy promise of his son’s voice. “I used to hear from him every night, even when he played in the Cape Cod League,” Chris says. “As soon as he got to the majors, I [started to] hear from him about once a week. But I understand.
“Timmy’s kind of like my soul mate. I pray for only one thing, and it’s for my sons, and it’s not about the most wins or getting rich. I pray my kids are safe and healthy.”
And suddenly Chris, who is to elocution what Tim is to velocity, actually pauses. There is silence for one beat. When he resumes talking, his voice is much softer, as if now he were speaking only to himself.
“I miss the hell out of him.”