I had a forgiving work schedule five years ago when my oldest was in kindergarten. Working afternoons as a jazz dj furnished me with plenty of time to join Ms. C’s class and read books and hang out every other Monday. I took a liking to a boy I’ll call Edward. I took a liking to him cause he was fat like I am and was. A pudgy boy, hair a little longer than I bet his grandma would like it to be. I said hi to Edward whenever I saw him. I would say hi to him when his Dad was dropping him off most every morning. I would say hi if I saw him in the hall randomly. I wanted to make sure that his childhood as a fat boy was better than mine was. I didn’t and don’t know how his life is going in the grand scheme of things but across the years I’ve enjoyed saying hello to Edward as he navigated school. I’m happy to report that on a very anecdotal level Edward is kicking ass. He’s in fourth grade now.
My kids go to afterschool-care with Edward and as I was walking in the other day I said my usual hello to Edward and then stood around and waited for my kids to find me and ask why it was me and not momma picking them up as they do most days. I noticed that Edward was working away on fashioning some kind of Lego-adjacent wand or stick at his seat. This is just regular fourth grade stuff but I happened to notice it. What happened next was not regular, it was absolutely beautiful, a moment I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
Edward gets up and walks maybe fifteen feet past me. Wordlessly he crouches into a batter’s stance and looks directly at me. At this point I have adopted Edward and I’m picking out music posters to put up on his wall. I get into my best Jacob Misiorowski wind up and throw 101 mph down the middle of the plate with my imaginary baseball. Unbelievably Edward connects and hits a flyball. Chameleon-like I turn into a centerfielder; I adjust my non-existent hat to keep the non-existent sun out of my eyes and catch the ball. I toss the ball around with the made up infielders. Edward snaps his fingers and squares up for another pitch. I am Edward’s father at this point and I am teaching him how to drive a stick while playing “Statesboro Blues” by the Allman Brothers at near full volume. I look around the bases, keeping my eye on the flight risk who is a solid five feet away from first base. I throw to first. It’s close but Edward has briefly assumed the role of the umpire and he’s signaled that the runner is safe. Now I snap my fingers and I am also teaching Edward about how to set his lure just right while we are wearing our waders in the headwaters of the Mississippi on our annual father and son trip. I throw a breaking ball and Edward connects again! It’s a base hit and he starts to run the fake bases. Edward and I have played a game of baseball without saying a word. I don’t know if Edward cares that I’ve been saying hi to him since he was five years old and now he’s probably nine going on ten but somehow or another he trusted me to play a half inning of Field of Dreams ball.
My daughter shows up and the game is over. She asks him about his bat, she asks him about the position he’s running for in school elections. He says “tweasurer”, she says “tweasurer”, he says “TWEASURER”. Edward for “tweasurer”. It’s one of the most important elections of our lifetime.