Back In the Game

The thing about having two young children is that they cannot understand the importance of a baseball game, especially one being played in September. The playoffs are in sight, the tension is high, and the fans are whipped into a frenzy. All plusses, I might add. And I will also add that those plusses are totally lost on my children, who still see baseball as a funny game played by men wearing funny pants. This is, as far as I can tell, the only gulf between us. All of which necessitates certain rules my children must abide by when I am watching a game, namely to leave me alone. Harsh, I know. Also true.

That said: Last night. Middle of the seventh inning, score tied, runners in scoring position. A crucial point in the game. “Daddy,” asks my daughter, “can we play Simon Says?” “Okay,” I mumble, carefully maneuvering her away from between me and the television. “You go first!” she shrieks. “Simon says sit here beside me and watch the ballgame.” She sits. And waits. A fly ball to shallow center field is not enough to score the runner from third, and I release an exasperated exhale. “Daddy?” “Sorry,” I answer. “Okay, here we go. Stand up. Rub your nose. Stick out your tongue.” I keep going, careful not to preface the commands with “Simon says,” thereby keeping her beside me where she will not interrupt. “You’re not playing right,” she says. She’s right, and I know it. But a strikeout ends the inning just then, and I figure I can squeeze in three commercials worth of Simon Says before the game comes back on. I decide to go on the offensive. When you can’t convince your children to be quiet, the best course of action is to wear them out. “Stand up,” I tell her. “Simon says stand up. Simon says run around the room. Stop. Stop. Simon says stop. Simon says do jumping jacks. Stop. Simon says stop. Simon says jump up and down. Stop. Stop. Simon says stop.” We’re done.

My daughter collapses in a heap of pajamas beside me just as the music plays and the announcers welcome me back to the game. I lean back into the sofa and offer myself a satisfied smile. “Daddy?” she heaves. “Yeah, Pumpkin?” “Remember the first time we played Simon Says?” I turn to look at her. Funny, I don’t remember. She smiles. “We were outside and the sun was shining and there was a bird singing in the tree. We played Simon Says and then we washed the truck and I sprayed you with the hose. You screamed and then I said it was the best day ever.” Oh. “And you know what, Daddy?” “What?” “This Simon Says was even better than that one.” She nestles into the crook of my arm and wraps my hand around her. My fingers dance up and down from the beat of her heart. Our game has turned out to be quite the workout. Hers was physical. Mine? Something else. Sitting there feeling her heartbeat, I realize that an appreciation for baseball is not the only gulf between my children and me. There is also a larger one, and it is the manner by which we define our moments. Because to me the crowning moments of parenthood involve such things as the first step and the first day of school. But to my daughter they also involve such things as washing the truck on a summer day and five minutes of Simon Says between innings of a baseball game. Which can mean only one thing. There are no small happenings to our children. Everything matters. Every word said, every deed done. To them, every moment is a moment of truth.

“That really was the best Simon Says, huh?” I ask her. She nods a smile and exhales an “Awesome.” The crowd erupts as the home team breaks the tie with a sacrifice fly, upping both the tension and the importance of the final innings. As I said, a crucial point in the game. Seasons are on the line. But so is the season here on the sofa between my little girl and me. We are at our own crucial point in the game. And just like the game I’m watching, sometimes the game in parenthood is won by a timely sacrifice. I turn the television off and toss the remote onto the cushion beside us. “Let’s play again,” I say.

'Stadium at Sunset' photo by Joe Y Jiang. Used under Creative Commons License. Post written by Billy Coffey.