Dad Entry #3

The family, including Gramma, came to my softball game last night. My Father’s Day gift, a new Rawlings, worked surprisingly well despite its newness. It’s pretty soft and I tightened some laces which formed a good pocket already. I made sure to tell the kids repeatedly their gift was the secret to my success. They were uninterested. Michael had a stomachache from eating his pretzel and dog too fast. Megan showed some life though, actually. She wanted badly to run onto the field despite all the grubby, angry men standing around puffing out their chests. In fact, Megan was so ‘not-intimidated’ that she blew kisses to the scariest-looking player on my team, a big, shaved-headed, ‘Mr. Clean’ look-alike with a biker goatee. While our Mr. Clean – Steve – is a great guy, that was disconcerting. We don’t approve of attraction to guys who look tougher – and are tougher – than Daddy. Bad girl, Megan. Sara coached Michael on how to best root for me, stuff like, “Let’s go, Cox, hit it hard for once!” and “Come on now, Eleven, get an average!” I was expecting a little ‘Cameron’ (of ‘Ferris Bueller’ fame) chatter but didn’t hear any. Michael did yell “Nice hit!” after a guy fouled out rather pitifully, though. Maybe the guy glared at Michael and mumbled “smart-ass” under his breath. I only heard one F-word escape the dugout and I think both kids missed it. I remember going to my dad’s softball games when I was little. I learned some new words, generally spoken loud enough for umpires and little kids to hear. I witnessed a couple yelling matches and scuffles, too. But mostly I ate candy, got stomachaches, played in the dirt, and ran around. And now I have fond memories of watching my Dad play softball. Oh how we love to perpetuate – and romanticize – the stuff of good memories!