On Friday, my son got braces. He smiles when I pick him up from school. Most parents and half the children hustling away wear some article of clothing with a cream or yellow trident emblazoned on the fabric. Like we’re ready to march, together, a mile or so down to Lake Washington, for an epic Battle of the Seas.
What’s happening here is rarer than that, even.
But Blake isn’t here to show off his teeth. He has a question. It’s about sports.
This might not seem unusual; his father, a sports writer; his schedule, our conversations, his life, all, in so many ways, revolving around games, athletes, playoff runs. Like this one.
This is quite unusual. Because of my job, Blake has always run traditional sports, toward climbing, parkour (seriously), martial arts, swimming. As a toddler, to catch my attention, he’d bang on the glass door to my office. He’d extend both thumbs downward, if I happened to be watching football, or writing about football. Then he’d say something like, “Daddy, football, booooooo!!!” and waddle away. After that, he took to saying, “Football season is my worstest time of the year!” Before this remarkable baseball fall, at most Mariners games he attended, Blake sought out the in-stadium playground. Sometimes, he inside, so as to return to our seats.
Back to his question:
“Shoot, Bubs.”
“Why are we not watching the Mariners?”
Good question, buddy. Well, we’ve been sick. You’ve never shown much interest in watching live sports before. Nor has Cami (that’s his younger sister). You know that games have commercials, right? And Friday nights are sacred in our house. That’s movie night. You don’t mess with movie night. Even if it’s viewing No. 872.
“Do you wanna watch tonight, Bubs?”
“Yesssssssssss!”
Drawn out. Just like that. , ! But modernized. Be still, a father’s jackhammering heart.
Bubs, have I ever told you about Dave Niehaus?
“Is that a sportsperson, daddy?”
“Sportsperson of my life, Bubs.”
We’ve got some work ahead of us.