The park is the reward

I stopped by the baseball field for a stretch

My writing perch for the afternoon.

I love sitting in the park for hours, watching people walk past on their lunch hour, listening to the happy sounds of kids playing on the playground just over yonder while their parents or grandparents take a much needed breather or just sitting amongst the birds chattering overhead. But to get to the place where I can be still, I need to walk 1.4 miles from my front porch. On hot days like today, I’m not sure it’s worth the risk.

But I did it anyway. I’m at the park. I’m watching — or rather — listening to a baseball game wrapping up. One dad is telling his kids to hurry up, another opening and shutting a car door, still another couple of parents are standing at the edge of the outfield and discussing the repairs that are needed this week. I didn’t really look up to watch all this; I know the actors well from my “Dad Sweet Spot” days and my mind’s eye played a perfect reel.

It is hot, almost unbearably so, as the clouds jump in front of the sun, raining down shade and the winds gusts wicking away the humidity just as I reach the point where I don’t think I can bear it any longer.

I’ll sit here for another few minutes. It’s not that hot yet, I lie to myself. I’m already plotting the shadiest way home with as few steps as possible. I’ve overestimated my stamina for this.

I heard a Harley roar to life in the parking lot. I live in a bit of a redneck part of America, so there are better than even odds it is a kid’s ride home. I hope they both wear helmets.

The parking lot has thinned out so I made my way to the dugout for some shade and some harmonica practice. As I crossed the path to the lot, a kid in his jersey was standing patiently by the back door of the car as his dad was loading the trunk. There is always one dad who stays until the very end, scared of going home and confronting the emptiness of no more tasks that need him for the rest of the day. To the rest of the team, he is the dedicated one, but the rest of us know he’s scared and lonely. It’s a cycle and one day this won’t be him, but today it is.

It’s not just the distance to the park, but the distance back. At minimum, I’ve committed to walking 2.8 miles. I sometimes wonder how far we could go if going home again wasn’t an option. We set out to get to someplace and then burn the ships. The only way we’re allowed to move is forward.