It’s time we get more thought-provoking, isn’t it? I look down the rim of my glasses, mothering you without the sense to check myself. Born into a muscle memory I never wanted.
Aren’t you ready for that, I ask you. For that deeper conversation? The one question, hanging on your chin… not mine. I smirk – I can’t help myself. We’ve both made me this way. I let it widen into a default grin that’ll take its mirth and fade away.
Can’t you see it, my dear? No. Not anymore, you can’t. I fooled you … and for too long. I crumble within myself, falling apart again because Baby is so misunderstood. The sweet saint you are, darling man, you let me.
I haven’t forgotten you though.
Somewhere within the outfield, this daisy-pickin’ tomboy found her a gentle giant – an oak of a man, giving shade … I see him, better now that the sun isn’t blinding me. He’s letting me take all the time I need to stand on these wobbly knees and field the balls that keep coming.
He knew it was like a cannon, building strength. When it finally starts blasting off from within me, I partially singe your eyebrows off. I whiten your hair with it. Even sexier than when those first sprouts arrived, I cheer from my other vantage point behind the chain link fence. It’s a field of dreams – I’m popping up everywhere. You’re not laughing quite as hard as the first time, but you keep shooting me those satisfied coach’s eyes.
This is the moment when you always rise higher. And we both know how much I love the female gaze. That’s why I hype you. I love watching them react to you. It’s so deliciously funny in my head. After all, I’m such a child that way. I cock to the side and scrunch everything that can be scrunched to reflect in disbelief, “My husband?! Hehehehe!” It’s tongue in cheek. You love that, too. Or you used to…
I’m still relearning the old pitching calls.
Your expression tells me you aren’t sure if I might take a wild hair and go for second base. It’s true, there’s something in the air that makes my feet feel crazy. I realize it’s the pitcher’s hyper-focus – he doesn’t even see me anymore, I don’t think. But I’m staying put. I’ve learned to seek you out when my guts start twisting inside. Your perspective might show me something I can’t yet see.
Wait, who’s on first? We both giggle like children.
You need a player like that, you once told me – the kind that’s cracking a joke to keep everyone loose, reminding us it’s just a game. You knew I found comfort in that, playing locker-room cheerleader and making up for my detractions with sunshine. I fired up the boys for you, Coach. But it tuckered me out come game time, and I found myself on the bench more and more.
Never could keep up with the others, I hear my dad’s voice say softly long after my eyes have closed. He doesn’t know I’m still awake, still listening, on the ride home from the ball field. It’s the instant replay I never saw coming. I’ll play it on loop for us both.
Pressure wasn’t anything you gave me, but I laid it at your feet anyway. I kept thinking I could trick you into caring about what I did, what I did to me … Throwing out my arm because I felt too rushed to warm up. Choices I made after I saw you were too tired to make them for me. Loops my brain lent your voice to…
You wanted me lost in the game, not in myself. So I started to force it. I have my reasons, though. You know I do.
By the time I was able to get back, I started questioning how my stats would compare. Then, like a diva player, I couldn’t figure out how to fit back into the lineup without messing with the baseball juju. Let’s face it, I’m still not used to the field. You restructured a while back, changing up the company ballpark and mascot. We both laid down on the ruins of the old place … in our own way, not ready to move on.
You brought me home and placed me under granny’s good steering, thinking her patience and know-how would settle my soul. After all, that’s where I was every summer as a kid… And didn’t Baby love it there?
The tap, tap, tapping of the walking cane on the porch would give her the rhythm back. We both thought so… Listening to all that salty-sweet and playfulness revived again in the head-patting tender regard of “old age,” we both grew from that salt of the earth, didn’t we?
Papaw was gone, but we both thought Mamaw could be enough. It wasn’t.
They all tried. They saw I needed an obnoxious big brother to keep pestering me, drawing me out of my own head and reminding me to have fun… Growing up, I had moody teenage sisters, like me. Only, they were ready for the big leagues before I was. They were all-stars. Daddy had to hide me in right field.
Kind manager that you are, you’ll hold onto me long after you should because you do see in me what I cannot. They’ll look at me and shake their heads. Off-season doesn’t matter when you were scouted this long ago, but you’re still shrugging them off. You’re remembering that one fantasy baseball year, when I took the older pitcher everyone said was past his prime and how my team rode his stat-high all the way to the finals.
Plus, you know the baseball gods love lore, and that we’re full of it. We keep shaking it loose from our rafters, like leftover concert streamers. You see, I might not recall the details, but I remember you, and somehow, that’s what sparks and reignites us.
The fireworks in me and you…
Our son falls asleep watching them. He was never amused. Our daughter pretends not to be on the edge of her seat, but we’ve seen her smoke screen before. It’s bedazzling.
Off we go again. It’s eyes on the prize.