Happy Father's Day

From Clark Griswold to Ray Barone, from Fred Flintstone  to Homer Simpson, dads are often portrayed as bumbling idiots.  Even though it is a portrayal that I sometimes reinforce for laughs here on my own blog, it really is an unfair stereotype.  Most of the dads I know are working hard to get it done right.  Fortunately, my father, before he passed, and my father-in-law are more Heatcliffe Huxtable, setting a positive parenting example through word and, more often, by deed.  I don't know exactly where I  fit on the scale from Homer to Heathcliffe, but I was recently reminded that, no matter the situation, dads are always on duty, because our kids are always watching.

On Memorial Day I grabbed The Wife and The Girl and we headed to Baltimore for some holiday baseball.  Grace, at age six, is beginning to grasp the game, but her love of Camden Yards is still mostly driven by the thrill of riding the light rail, dressing in Orioles' orange from head to toe and her love of peanuts, popcorn and cracker jack (and cotton candy).  Or the fact that she likes to be where the action is.  And on this Memorial Day we had a little action.  On the way in to the ballpark, Grace, employing the wisdom and expectations of a six-year-old, announced that she wanted me to catch her a baseball while at the game.  Sure, we were arriving early enough to watch some batting practice and have a chance at a ball, but I needed to temper expectations.  I explained to her that, yes, some BP homers and game foul balls and home runs would land in the stands, but also that thirty thousand other people would be here too.  The odds of getting a ball were extremely low.  Undaunted, with that awesome hope of a youngster not yet beaten down by reality, she shrugged her shoulders and said, "Okay, but we should still get a ball."

Not two minutes later, as we worked our way down Eutaw Street, the plaza just outside centerfield, I look up in time to see a ball screaming from the clouds like a missile.  Not too many balls, even in batting practice, reach Eutaw Street; somebody has really put a charge in to this one.  Suddenly, like a wish granted, I see my opportunity to be a hero to my kid literally falling from the sky.  I judge Opportunity's trajectory. Calculating that it is not heading straight at us thereby posing no danger to Grace or Amanda, I head for the ball's likely landing spot, not twenty feet from me.  (I don't normally chase balls at the ballpark; to me, getting one is just not that big of  a deal.  I think people get a little crazy over chasing down fouls and homers.  However, when your wide-eyed daughter has asked for a ball and it is this close, you better spring into action.)  The ball spucks off the ankle of an unsuspecting fan and rolls right toward me.  I look up to see there are a whole bunch of fans running towards me that have been tracking the ball's flight path much longer than I have.  I begin to crouch down to reach  for the ball when I realize without a Brook Robinson-like dive I have no chance at getting it.  Common sense and a forty-year-old's notion of self-preservation prevail.  I pull up and let some kid grab the ball.  Unfortunately,  another lumbering oaf, likely influenced by some batting practice beers, was not able to pull up in time.  He crashed into me as I was standing up.  Though he was not shirtless, we had an Along Came Polly moment where the side of my face met his belly and got slopped with his alcohol sweat. Not thrilled to be wearing my new cologne, Eau De Sweaty Douchebag, I put my hand up and say ,"Easy." He mumbles something clearly  unapologetic so, a little sharper this time, I say, "Hey, take it easy." Meathead wittily retorts with a ,"Fuck you." And again, in that long drawn out way that indicates he means business, "fuuuuck youuu."

Great, now we have a confrontation. Standing a few feet from this guy a thousand things rush through my mind at once.
Terrific. I have ruined our family day five minutes after entering the stadium.
We are about the same size. I can handle him if it gets ugly.
Am I really ready to do "this" if he takes a swing?
What exactly  does "this" mean?
Will anybody notice if I pee my pants?

I remained calm with no intention of escalating the situation  further.  Little did I realize that it didn't matter; Mama Bear had her claws out. One "Hey Asshole, not in front of my kid!", from Amanda was all it took to defuse the situation. Meathead turned back towards the field and we headed for our seats. (I'd like to point out here that I am the only one that did not use profanity in front of the six-year-old.) Grace, while not shaken up, did have questions  about why the man was mean and worried if we would have trouble from him later. Assured that everything was fine, she enjoyed batting practice , even getting close to nabbing a few homers, and an Orioles victory.  A fine day that could have ended much differently.

And there are the lessons. The kid is always observing and learning, so you are always teaching. She will do as we do. I hope by staying calm and not further escalating the confrontation I taught her to do the same. And, of course, lesson number two: When in doubt, let Mama help you out.
Happy Father's Day!