The Constant Variety of Sport (part 3)

Posted by Ace on October 21st, 2009 filed in Tales of the Interregnum

[This is the third part of a three part story.  To read the first part, click HERE.  To read the second part, click HERE.]

“Is it over yet?” he asks.

I look around at the milling people. A man smoking a cigarette drags a huge bag past second base to a rain puddle and opens it up, then takes handfuls of brown stuff out of it the same color as the dirt and throws them into the water. It has no obvious effect.

“No,” I tell him, with a wry smile. “They’re gonna make more speeches.”

“Rats,” he says.

—

After everything is done, after all the “thank yous”, after losing Jack completely in the departing crowd and fighting off panic, only to discover him standing by the Snack Window, waiting for me to buy him an ice cream cone, the station wagon seems like a small oasis.  I help him off with his cleats and back into his sneakers, toss the muddy things into the footwell and close the rear door on him, shutting him inside.  Then I flop in the driver’s seat. I roll down the windows, let the stuffy, hot air blow out and the afternoon breeze blow in.  I can feel the heat rising from all the metal.

The lanes between the parking spaces are filled with slow-moving cars.  “No point in even startin’ her yet,” I say to Jack, hooking my elbow over the doorframe.  “Can’t go anywhere until the lot clears out.”  I look at him in the rearview mirror.  “C’mon up,” I tell him, patting the seat next to me. “I wanna talk to you.”

He clambers over the armrest happily and flops down next to me.  He enjoys any excuse to be in the front seat;   I keep hoping he’ll get big enough to ride there before he gets old enough to not want to be seen with me anymore.  When he’s settled, I put my arm around him, and I think for a minute.

“I wanted to tell you,” I say, at length, “that I’m proud of you.  That was a really long practice, and I know it took a lot of energy to get to the end of it.  But you stuck it out, even though you probably didn’t want to.  That’s really cool.”

He smiles. “Thanks,” he says.

“But I wanna ask you a question,” I continue.  I pause for a moment, to make sure he’s listening, and he looks up at me.  “Why are we here?” I ask him.

He blinks at me silently, his expression blank.  “I mean, I know why we’re here,” I continue.  “We’re here because the baseball practice was here.   But what I mean is– why do we come to the baseball practice?   Why do I bring you here every weekend?”

He looks away, thinking, then looks back.   “Because you love me and you want me to have fun,” he says quietly.

Wow! I think.  He’s not three anymore, is he?

“That’s… a good answer,” I say, surprised.  We look at each other.  “Are you havin’ fun?” I ask him.

He doesn’t answer right away.  “Because I couldn’t help but notice,” I add, “that when the Coach asked everybody at the end of the day if they’d had fun, you waited until everybody else was done yelling ‘Yeeeeeeeeeeeesss’, and then yelled, ‘Nooooooooooooooo’.”   I purse my lips.  “Really loud.   In the silence.”

“No,” he says, at last.

“Son,” I ask him gently, moving my hand to the back of his neck.  “Tell me the truth.  Do you like baseball?”

“No,” he says, glumly.

“Well… that’s OK,” I tell him.  “But– if you don’t like baseball, why did you ask Mommy and I if you could sign up for it?”

“Because I didn’t want to be bored on Saturday!” he bursts out, jerking upright.  His reticence vanishes instantly, swept away in the outpouring.  “I wanted to take a second class at the Gifted School!” he says.  “I wanted to take Bulbs and Wires.  But it was the same time as Lego Engineering and I couldn’t take them both!”

Hnnnnnnnnnnh… “Gotcha,” I tell him, nodding. “I gotcha.” NOW I understand…

He slumps again, unsure if there’ll be more to my reaction, and I put my arm back around his shoulders to shore him up.  “It’s OK, son,” I tell him.  “It’s all right.  If you want to take more classes at the Gifted School, we’ll get you more classes at the Gifted School.  We’ll work it out.” Whatever it takes, I think, smiling at him. “And you don’t have to play baseball,” I add.

He leans against me then, relieved.  He puts his head on my chest, and I put my cheek on the top of his head, and together we stare at the dashboard, at nothing in particular, for a very long time.

“Do I have to finish the season?” he asks, suddenly.

I try not to smile. What are there, two practices left? “No,” I say.  “But your Mother’s gonna want you to.”

“Why?” he asks.

I roll my eyes inwardly. Because she’s your mother.

“I’ll talk to her,” I tell him.

The lane behind the rear-view is clear.  I reach out and put my hand on the ignition, grip the key.  “Ready?” I ask him.

He clambers back over the arm rest.  “Are we going home now?” he asks me, climbing into his car seat.

I grin ear to ear.  “Hell, yeah,” I tell him.

And I turn the key.

***

[to read the Coda, click HERE]