Tuesday was unbridled.
At some point during the workday, I described it like this:
The dumpster fires are ripe for a harvest, but all I have is a bottle of water and a towel.
Not enough water to put them out.
But apparently I came prepared to fan the flames.
That about covered it.
Every time I turned around, something was needed.
Of me.
From me.
Explained by me.
Solved by me.
Sometimes I wasn't entirely sure what the question was, but there was apparently widespread confidence that I had the answer.
Director stuff.
Somewhere in there, I also needed to submit my own schoolwork.
First week of the bachelor's capstone.
Barely had time to get the paper posted.
But I did.
And barely submitted counts exactly the same as comfortably submitted.
I'll take it.
Meanwhile, school continues for everybody else too.
Zoey is working hard to bring her grades back where she wants them after taking a few liberties with time and computer access.
Most of that got sorted last week.
Now she's doing the work, watching the grades, and trying to earn her phone back.
This has not prevented her from asking about the phone.
Frequently.
Hope springs eternal.
She'll get there.
Then there's Asher.
He is wrapping up third-grade math.
Which would be considerably less noteworthy if he weren't currently in third grade.
And it's October.
I actually checked the calendar and started looking ahead at what comes next.
Thankfully, there is plenty.
Plenty more material.
Plenty more to challenge him.
Plenty of room to stretch.
As long as he has the patience for it.
Because the challenge with Asher has never really been what happens once he starts.
It's getting him started.
Once he sits down one-on-one with Kati and locks in?
That kid flies.
He needed this.
He's comfortable.
He's learning at the pace that works for him.
And he's awesome.
I even found time to finish Jacob's spelling work.
It only took three attempts to get everything printed correctly.
Paper has been added to the shopping list.
Probably toner too.
Education is expensive in increasingly stupid ways.
And then, finally...
Baseball.
David got home at four.
We left at five.
Field by five-thirty.
First pitch at six.
After the day I'd had, I was preparing for a very long night.
Instead, I got one of those evenings.
Red versus blue at sunset.
Finally.
And for once, we were the visitors.
The boys warmed up while the October sun sank behind the trees.
Leather popped with every catch.
Kids chattered across the field.
Families slowly filled the stands.
Then came that familiar crack and buzz as the field lights woke up, warming to life as the golden fall sun fell silently behind the trees.
Hot dogs hit the grill.
Kids ran past with slushies and nachos.
Parents settled into bleachers and folding chairs.
Not much has changed since I was a kid.
Except the prices.
Good Lord, the prices.
It was just David and me.
School nights make these things difficult.
He understood.
I understood.
That didn't mean I had to like it.
The game started well.
Then David struck out.
And for the first time I can remember, I watched my son walk away from an at-bat with his head down.
A few minutes later, he ran onto the field.
Left field.
First time.
So I moved.
Down the fence.
Closer to left.
Some habits die hard.
I gave him a little Dad chatter.
Nothing instructional.
Nothing profound.
Just enough to remind him I was there.
He heard me.
Looked over.
Big smile.
There he is.
We were good.
And so was his team.
This is a group that has had some rough innings this fall.
Errors have compounded.
Momentum has disappeared.
Games have gotten away from them.
Not Tuesday night.
They communicated.
They backed each other up.
They made plays.
They stopped runners.
They looked like a team.
When it was over?
7-0.
Their first win.
Then both teams gathered around the mound.
Players.
Coaches.
Blue jerseys and red jerseys together.
The adults in the stands took off their hats.
Heads bowed.
And for a moment, the same field that had been full of chatter, cheers, and competition went quiet.
They prayed together.
I love that.
These kids compete against each other.
They want to win.
They tag each other out, steal bases, strike each other out, and spend an evening trying to put more runs on the board than the other guys.
Then the game ends.
They meet at the mound.
And all of that gets left behind.
Afterward, David's team stayed together because two of the boys had birthdays.
A couple kids from the other team wandered over too.
Most of these kids know each other anyway.
So beneath the field lights, after their first win of the season, a bunch of boys stood around singing Happy Birthday.
Baseball.
And then there was my son.
Walking off the field with a smile taking up half his face.
A couple hours earlier, I'd watched him lower his head after striking out.
Now he was beaming after his team's first win.
That's the part I'll remember.
McDonald's on the way home.
Because apparently concession-stand dinner isn't sufficient nourishment after winning a baseball game.
Then home.
Shower.
Laundry.
Bed.
At least for David.
I made one more attempt at baseball.
The World Series was still going.
And going.
And going.
I made it through the tenth inning.
Then I called it.
Or, more accurately, my body did.
After the day I'd had, there was apparently no amount of October baseball capable of keeping me conscious.
I caught the recap of the final inning this morning.
And the important part?
There will be another game.
Good.
I'm not quite ready for baseball to be over yet.
And somehow Tuesday finally ended.
Wednesday has its own agenda.
Jacob has his first detention today.
He knows what his teacher thought happened.
We know what actually happened.
Those two things aren't quite the same.
We could probably fight it.
We're not going to.
There's a relatively harmless lesson in there about how what you're doing and what someone thinks you're doing can be very different things.
Better to learn that one now, when the stakes are low.
And because siblings should share life's important experiences, David gets the unique privilege of waiting in the parking lot until detention is over.
A privilege Jacob has previously provided to him.
And one David himself gave Zoey plenty of experience with last year while she waited in the van for his detention to end.
Apparently, eventually, everybody gets a turn.
Full circle.
Work still looks ridiculous.
I'm waiting on grades so I can get a feel for how my new professor approaches things.
David has a science project due Friday.
He's ready.
We just need supplies.
And from what I've seen so far?
It should be pretty awesome.
More on that later.
There will be more baseball.
More school.
More work.
More everything.
But for now, I'm still thinking about Tuesday night.
Tuesday spent most of the day demanding things from me.
Answers.
Decisions.
Explanations.
Time.
Then the sun went down.
The lights came on.
A baseball landed in leather.
And for a couple of hours, the only thing anybody needed from me was for Dad to stand along the fence and watch.
I could handle that.
Some days take more than they give. Tuesday felt like that for most of it. Every conversation needed an answer, every problem needed attention, and every part of life wanted its piece. Then evening came. The sun disappeared behind the trees, the field lights buzzed awake, and my son ran somewhere he'd never played before after an at-bat he wanted back. I moved down the fence, said something Dad-like, and he looked over and smiled. Later, he walked off that same field after his team's first win with an even bigger one. Maybe that was Tuesday giving something back.
Much love.
Stay safe.
Wash your damn hands.
And I will see you, next time.
