A short story about growing up as son and father. |
When Edward turned seven, I announced to him that I was going to be the head coach of his little league baseball team. He and I shared the excitement, and together we plotted a strategy that would surely bring his team to the final game of the state championship. Our bond grew, and I held onto it with every ounce of energy I had. I cognitively realized that I would have to let go as he grew, but I certainly didn’t look forward to that. As the first game of the season wound to a close, our team had played magnificently and was leading by six runs. I sat back and allowed myself the luxury of basking in satisfaction and glory. It was then that I heard an older man’s voice over my left shoulder. “Damn good game coach.” Without opening my eyes, I replied “thanks.” A few moments passed and I looked over to see the man still standing there. He was watching the game intently and it took a few minutes to recognize his face. Once I did, I closed my eyes and asked, “How’d you find me?” He shrugged. “It wasn’t hard. I heard about your mom’s death. I moved out here six months ago in hopes of touching base. I didn’t work up the courage until today. That’s your son on first base, right?” I nodded and we stood in silence. “What do you want Lemuel?” I finally asked. He breathed hard. “Whatever you’re willing to give me.” “I don’t have any money.” I replied. “I don’t want money. I just wanted to talk to you and let you know that I’m not the same guy who left you 25 years ago. If it ends at this conversation, I’ll accept that.” “It was 26 years ago.” “OK.” “You were a bad father.” He shook his head. “No, no I wasn’t. You see, to be a bad father, first you have to be a father. I didn’t do enough to qualify.” I laughed. “Yeah, I guess we’re in agreement there.” After a moment, he added “for whatever it’s worth, it looks to me like you’re a damned good father.” |