Let the Blur Be a Blur

Monday got here entirely too quickly.

I've shaken my head a few times this morning, hoping some combination of caffeine and centrifugal force might knock the remaining cobwebs loose.

So far...

Mixed results.

Friday night dinner was a success.

Nothing burned.

Everything edible.

Everybody happy.

We are calling that growth.

I then stayed up entirely too late playing games with friends.

That was a conscious decision made by an adult who knew exactly what Saturday morning would feel like.

Saturday morning arrived and confirmed my hypothesis.

I loaded up the kids anyway, and we headed to a park in a nearby town for our next lesson on the Apostles' Creed.

The kids did great.

Good questions.

Good conversation.

Good engagement.

Dad was the weak link.

I was tired.

Really tired.

When we got home, though, I realized I wasn't the only one running on fumes.

My wife needed a day off.

Not a couple of hours where she was technically "off" but somebody still needed something every seventeen minutes.

A day.

So we made it happen.

There wasn't much time before baseball practice, but when it came time to leave, I rounded up all four kids and took everybody with me.

Mama stayed home.

We headed to the field.

And David practiced.

That kid is already looking more comfortable at first base.

There are fundamentals I wish we'd had more time to work on this summer, but sickness stole a pretty significant chunk of it from us.

That's okay.

That's what fall ball is for.

Kids who love baseball getting more baseball.

Trying positions they've never played.

Working fundamentals.

Making mistakes.

Getting better.

Playing because they want to play.

Good baseball.

Then Saturday disappeared.

Another game night with friends.

Kids in bed.

House quiet.

Until around 1:00 a.m.

A crash came from David's room.

His bedroom shares a wall with my office, so I heard all of it.

Nightmare.

Out of bed.

Trip.

Fall.

Dad mode.

Instantly.

He thought he was hurt worse than he actually was.

We got some water.

Got him settled.

And I sat with him.

We talked quietly in the dark until somewhere around 2:00 or 2:30, when he finally fell asleep again.

Unfortunately, Dad did not.

I finally fell asleep sometime close to 5:00.

So when 9:00 church began Sunday morning...

I was still in bed.

I didn't even get up until around 9:15.

Oops.

Thankfully, our sister church has an 11:00 service.

And I'm glad we went.

It was their homecoming service.

The sanctuary was beautiful.

The crimson vestments seemed to make the entire space warmer against the stained glass and old wooden pews.

And the sermon landed squarely where I needed it.

Doing what is right isn't always the same thing as doing what we think is good.

There's something in that I'm probably going to be chewing on for a while.

We got home.

I made a mistake.

I laid down.

David's first fall baseball game started at 4:30.

Coach wanted everyone there at 4:00.

At 4:00...

We were leaving the house.

Everyone else was ready.

Dad had been asleep.

Excellent work, Dad.

We pulled in about five minutes before first pitch.

But we made it.

And almost immediately, none of the rushing mattered anymore.

Because baseball.

The sky was soft and gray.

Not cold.

Not crisp.

But finally, wonderfully cool.

After months of heat and humidity, fall seemed to be testing the waters.

A breeze moved through the field.

Barbecue smoke drifted in from the parking lot, mixing with grass, dirt, and that unmistakable smell of a ballfield.

Then came the sounds.

Pop.

A baseball finding leather.

Scrape.

Cleats dragging through dirt.

Crack.

Aluminum meeting baseball.

Parents talking behind the fence.

Coaches calling.

Kids answering.

Dugouts chattering.

Then I heard it.

"Chase has wheels!"

Clap. Clap. Clap.

"Chase has wheels!"

Clap. Clap. Clap.

And for just a second...

I wasn't Dad standing behind a chain-link fence.

I was a kid again.

I remembered that rhythm.

The ridiculous chants.

The clapping.

The encouragement.

The noise you make because your teammate is running and you're eleven or twelve years old and baseball is the most important thing happening in the universe at that exact moment.

Then I looked through the fence.

Blue jersey.

White pants.

Number 12.

My kid.

And I was Dad again.

This league has impressed me already.

The coaches are coaching.

The kids are doing.

Everybody seems to understand why they're there.

Teach the game.

Play the game.

Let the kids learn.

David played two innings at first.

There were errors around the field.

A few balls David couldn't do much about from first.

But he stayed engaged.

Ready.

Watching.

Moving.

Doing his job.

His first trip to the plate ended before he got his chance.

An out ended the inning.

When I walked toward the dugout to check on him, he looked at me with a giant smile.

"Hey Dad, I'll be up next inning. Just watch!"

Oh, I'm watching, kid.

Trust me.

I'm watching.

He struck out when his turn came.

That's baseball.

We'll work on it.

He'll get another at-bat.

And another.

And another.

Blue had its moments.

Hits.

Stolen bases.

Eight strikeouts from our starting pitcher.

Enough good baseball to keep the game tied through the top of the fourth.

2–2.

Then baseball did what baseball sometimes does.

A hit.

An error.

Another hit.

Another error.

One of those innings where the ball keeps finding grass, gloves don't quite find the ball, and suddenly the scoreboard looks considerably worse than the game felt.

Final score:

7–2.

We lost.

But somewhere in the middle of all of that, I realized something else.

I was nervous.

Really nervous.

When David stepped onto first, my heart sped up.

When a ball came his direction, everything sharpened.

Eyes.

Ears.

Attention.

When number 12 walked toward the plate, somehow the rest of the field got quieter.

Apparently Dad needed to get his first-game jitters out too.

David seemed fine.

Somewhere in the back of my mind was another baseball thought.

Justin Verlander had just retired.

Twenty-one seasons.

One of the players who gave me so many reasons to love watching the Detroit Tigers.

A great player.

A great competitor.

A dad.

But it wasn't the statistics or the twenty-one seasons that kept coming back to me.

It was the image of his seven-year-old daughter running onto the field in the sixth inning of his final game to get her dad from the mound.

That one pulled hard on me.

Maybe because I'm a dad.

Maybe because a few hours later I was sitting behind another baseball field, watching my own son.

One baseball chapter closing.

But there was number 12 standing at first base.

And I didn't have much time to think about endings.

When the final out came, the familiar ritual started.

Both teams lined up.

Good game.

Good game.

Good game.

Hands slapping hands.

Kids who had spent the afternoon trying to beat each other congratulating one another.

Then something happened I wasn't expecting.

Both teams ran toward the mound.

Blue jerseys.

Black jerseys.

Coaches.

Kids.

They gathered together.

And they knelt.

Then they prayed.

Together.

I just watched.

A day after sitting in a park teaching my children about the Apostles' Creed.

A few hours after sitting in a church thinking about the difference between what is good and what is right.

There, in the middle of a little league baseball field, were two teams who had just spent the afternoon competing as hard as they could...

kneeling together.

Beautiful.

That's the only word I have for it.

David wasn't particularly happy about the loss.

Good.

I don't mind that he cares.

But on the ride home, we talked.

Your family isn't sitting behind that fence because we expect you to win every game.

We're there because we want to watch you play.

Make an error?

We'll learn something.

Strike out?

We'll work on something.

Win?

Awesome.

Lose?

We'll be back.

I'm there for the smile.

The dirt.

The glove.

The bat.

The chatter.

The kid wearing number 12 who loves a game his dad loves too.

We got home.

Dinner.

Bed.

And this time?

Everybody slept.

Even me.

Which brings us back to Monday.

Three workdays.

That's it.

Which sounds wonderful until you realize I've apparently decided to fit an entire workweek into them.

Meetings.

Deliverables.

School.

Reading.

Writing.

Everything that normally occupies five days now gets three.

Because Thursday morning, the computers come apart.

The desks move.

The office transformation begins.

For a couple of days, that room finally starts becoming the space I've wanted it to be.

Then, waiting at the other end:

Family pictures.

Another baseball game.

Another chance to sit behind the fence and watch number 12.

So these next three days?

They'll probably disappear.

Fast.

Loud.

Full.

A blur.

That's okay.

I have a penchant for doing pretty well when everything compresses.

Time to prove it again.

The work matters.

School matters.

The deadlines matter.

I'll get them done.

But I know what's waiting on the other side.

My family.

A baseball field.

That cool fall air.

Barbecue drifting across the parking lot.

The pop of leather.

The crack of a bat.

The chatter from the dugout.

And hopefully another giant smile from number 12.

There's my focus.

That's what matters.

Let the blur be a blur.

Sometimes the week ahead looks enormous because we're staring directly at everything that has to fit inside it.

Maybe the better view is beyond it.

Three busy days don't bother me nearly as much when I know what I'm moving toward.

This weekend reminded me why.

A tired lesson in a park.

Giving Mama some room to breathe.

Sitting beside my son after a nightmare.

Making it to church late, but making it.

Racing to a baseball field.

Watching number 12 play.

Seeing two teams kneel together after spending an afternoon trying to beat each other.

The scoreboard said 7–2.

But that's not what I'll remember.

I'll remember:

"Hey Dad, I'll be up next inning. Just watch!"

I was watching.

I always will be.

This week will be a blur.

Let it.

I know where I'm going.

There will always be another meeting, assignment, deadline, win, loss, error, or strikeout waiting for us. They deserve our attention when they're in front of us, but they don't deserve to obscure everything beyond them. Sometimes getting through the blur is easier when we stop staring at everything packed inside it and remember what we're moving toward. I know this week will be fast, loud, and full. That's okay. On the other side is my family, another cool evening at the ballfield, and another chance to watch the people I love do the things they love. Sometimes knowing where you're going is enough to let the blur be a blur.

Much love.

Stay safe.

Wash your damn hands.

And I will see you, next time.