When Things Just Don't Make Sense

My wife called me at work a few weeks ago to tell me about some upcoming appointments with the infertility specialists. As I entered the dates on my Google Calendar, Megan and I got to talking about expenses and she explained that some of the procedures would be covered by our insurance and some would not. I won't pretend to have any real understanding of the logic behind insurance policies; in fact, I'm not altogether sure there is any logic behind them. While some claims are covered and others are not, more yet are only partially covered. And of those partially covered claims, some are always picked up by the insurance company to the limited extent outlined in those boat-sized informational packets that nobody reads, and some are only covered once the insured party has met certain out-of-pocket "maximums" that somehow defy logic and grow larger every year.

As Megan patiently explained the meaning of "total patient responsibility" to me for the sixth time – in her soothing voice, of course – my mind wandered to the stack of catalog pages on my desk that needed proofing and the dream vacation(s) we keep promising to take one day, maybe an Alaskan Cruise if I play my cards right, but only once the bills are paid. Perhaps I can't understand all the intricate reasoning behind our insurance coverage because I lack focus, or maybe I'm a visual learner who needs to see the forms and read them carefully in a plain, sealed room belowdecks without any windows, background noise or other distractions – because I am a close, careful reader who can understand complex ideas and metaphors when I put my mind to it. But there's just something about all those numbers and clauses and columns and fine print, those phrases like "out of network" and "brand non-formulary prescription," that remind me of trying to crack a riddle in Russian or figure out one of those Magic Eye Posters with the lights out. It all makes me seasick. Megan tried to make it simple for me and I'm grateful she stuck with it, because eventually I was able to take a deep breath and tell her everything will be fine. We will make it work.

A few months ago, shortly after our miscarriage, my wife, mom and I went to visit my uncle in Wisconsin. When we got there we swapped greetings and barbs and unloaded grocery bags, covering his kitchen counter with enough pizza rolls, cheese curds, Coca-Cola, and chips and salsa to sink a ship. Then we sat at the table with The Logo Board Game, a gift Megan and I had received for Christmas, and we took out the instructions and started playing. From the very first turn, it was clear that Megan and my mom had a much better understanding of the game's rules. While they had somehow found their sea-legs in just a few minutes, my uncle and I could have used another hour just to get acquainted with the complex, origami-style folds in the instruction packet. I was overwhelmed by the pressure of trying to learn and play the game at the same time, so when my uncle excused himself to pour Captain & Cokes, I gladly accepted one.

With our drinks in front of us and the instructions spread across the table like a map charting the ship's course, we clumsily navigated through a few rounds of play. The point of the game is to guess the name of a company when provided with bits of trivia about its history and business activities. While Meg and my mom steamed their way across the board with their colored pieces, my uncle and I chugged along, barely afloat, uncertain who was supposed to read the trivia and which side of the card should be hidden. He kept showing everyone else the company's logo when he wasn't supposed to, which made the trivia questions infinitely less challenging, and I kept forgetting whose turn it was and which team I was on. I wasn't aware of the connection at the time, but the game made no more sense to me than our health insurance co-pays; it seemed like someone was making up the rules as we went along. Before long, my inability to participate like a fully functioning adult was blamed on the alcohol, so when my uncle offered a refill I declined and re-dedicated myself to successfully finishing the game. He, on the other hand, drank for the both of us, rocked and pitched sideways, and wound up spilling a tumbler of icy rum on the table. Hilarity ensued.

So I never really got to figure out that game. Instead of getting angry about our wet pants and the sticky plastic pieces, we boxed The Logo Game and sent it back to its berth in the car's trunk. We took out Pop-O-Matic Trouble instead, a game with rules so simple that we all ignored the instructions and yet had equal footing as we devolved into a pack of competitively screaming 5-year olds, sabotaging each other and having a great time even though no children were present.

It's No Fun Losing

"Awards are meaningless to me, and I have nothing but disdain for anyone who actively campaigns to get one." - Bill Murray

Watching the Saints at Midway

I would like to think, if I were to meet Bill Murray at the bar, on the golf course with His Holiness the Dalai Lama, or even at a Saint Paul Saints baseball game – he is a partial owner after all – that he and I would get along famously. We would drink Grain Belt or Suntory Time, and we would discuss what it's like to want to kiss Scarlett Johansson and never get the chance. He would spout effortless one-liners and I would laugh hysterically. I'd profess my love for Kingpin and Zombieland, and perhaps I wouldn't creep him out. And to ensure our mutual enjoyment of each other's company, I would make certain, of course, to never tell him about my tiny guilty-pleasure wish: to win the Saint Paul Saints' annual Name The Pig Contest.

Every year for the past five I have entered the contest along with a few thousand other pun-crafting Saints fans. In that time, winning entries have included Slumhog Millionaire, Brat Favre, Justin Bieboar and Boarack Ohama. While my submissions have been mentioned in the Saints' official press release a few times – Conan O'Swine, Zuckerberg's Famous Pig and Sowah Palin among them – none have been good enough for the Big Win. It's no fun losing year after year, missing out on the prizes and the chance to see my name in the paper, but instead of quitting, instead of scrapping my campaign in order to avoid Bill Murray's scorn, I've kept throwing names in the hat. It's like Powerball; I always think I'm going to win (except with the pig names my odds are way, way better).

This year, I hoped, would be different. When the contest opened again a few weeks ago, I played to recurring themes and submitted names that reference both local and national popular culture, including Pygi Wilf and OccuPig. I really thought, and still do, that my entries are my best yet. But then the other day, while I was browsing through all the other submissions in the increasingly popular Pioneer Press-sponsored contest, I came across a name that I immediately wished I'd thought of myself, a name I know will eventually win: Ricky Ribbio. I don't know which dreams will come true and I can't see the future, but you can call this a strong hunch. The buzz created by the mop-headed Spaniard since his arrival in the Twin Cities just can't be ignored, but somehow I did ignore it. And although the name's timely humor still makes me smile and laugh each time I think of it, it also makes me jealous to the core, deflating my happy-helium heart like a punctured balloon, leaving it shriveled in my sad stomach.

Fortunately, even if this silly pig-naming thing never works out and I manage to get over it, I have other goals to chase. Some are attainable, some are borderline impossible, and others yet need to be refined or abandoned altogether. I may never be the stand-up comedian or baseball player I wanted to be when I was 7, but it doesn't matter whether the rest of my dreams become framed photographs, happy memories or nothing more than dull, discarded wishing-fountain pennies; it only matters that I remember to keep a few spare coins in my pocket. Because one day – say when Ricky Ribbio greets the fans for the first time and I cry for various, incredibly complicated reasons – I may need to cash in that loose change for a new dream. Or a beer.

Highland Park, October 2010.

I doubt Bill Murray was really dogging on small-time glory hogs when he talked about chasing awards. He was probably referring to Oscars or Golden Globes or something prestigious like that. But no matter the size of your dream, this is all to say that it can and will change. Bill Murray might wake up one day really wishing that more people had appreciated his work in Stripes. You never end up getting exactly what you wanted, and sometimes you even forget exactly what it was.

Just the other day, I was telling a friend how vital it can be to revisit familiar places and activities once in a while so you can give yourself the opportunity remember your path, to take inventory and add up the changes – internal and external – since your last deep breath. Maybe you'll dust off the old guitar and remember the way "Born to Run" made you feel when you were young, single and looking for some place to drive your car, searching for someone who would ride shotgun. Or you could climb to the top of a water tower and notice the yellowing leaves and remember that living in the old neighborhood wasn't so bad after all. Or, better yet, you could wheel around the streets near your first job, note the big-box store where your old movie theater used to sit, and remember the taste of cherry slushies, the thrill of cash paydays and the smell of a nylon necktie soaked in real popcorn butter. This is why I think up goofy names for pigs every spring and participate in the contest year after year. To be reminded. I want to tell Bill Murray that I'm not in it only for the award or recognition, but to remember the kid I used to be, the one who liked baseball and dumb jokes and making a big deal of the little things.

Ah, Ricky Ribbio! F*CK!

Home Movies

I was parked in my recliner on a Sunday morning and Casino Royale, the 2006 version starring Daniel Craig, was on cable. Megan had just taken her shower, and James Bond had just beaten the blood-weeping villain LeChifre in a ridiculously choreographed high-stakes poker game. As Bond chased after his kidnapped girlfriend – who was, incidentally, nabbed in retaliation by LeChifre and his thugs – Meg sat on the couch wringing water from her hair with a mint green towel. My dark roast was hot and the chair was especially soft, and even though I had seen the film in the theater and at least three times since, I was fully engaged; I felt as though I were seeing it again for the first time.

In his sleek black Bentley, Bond raced after the villains through the night on a winding, unlit road, and then suddenly the girl was right there in his harsh headlights, tied up in the middle of the road, her cocktail dress conveniently and suggestively torn. He swerved and crashed and rolled his car, and as he lay on the shoulder, a crumpled pile of bloody bones in an impeccable tux, the goons grabbed him and the girl and stuffed them in the back seat of their Citroen. Their trap had worked. Inexplicably, my jaw was both clenched and wide open.

“I don’t remember any of these scenes at all!” Megan glared at me through wet hair as if to say she didn’t believe me. Casino Royale is a movie, after all, that I have listed as one of my favorites on both my Facebook and Google profiles.

“Are you serious? You howled all through the movie when we saw it together! I was so embarrassed.” She pumped her fists in the air, mocking my enthusiasm. “This is badass! This is awesome!” She shook her head, laughing. Her story sounded true, but similar to seeing the dark and wet warehouse in which a nude Bond had been tied to a chair, it triggered no memories. I knew I had gone with her to the Southdale Cinema to see it right before Thanksgiving one year –we had gone with friends and shared popcorn and Cokes and sat in the back row of a full theater. But just like Bond and just like that first time at the theater, I was presently stuck to my chair and unable to guess what would happen next.

As the sweaty villain beat at Bond’s most primitive spy gadget with the knotted end of a heavy rope, LeChifre politely asked 007 to return the money he had lost to him at the poker table. “Please, give me the bank codes,” he said, grunting and swinging the rope. Bond absorbed each blow with masochistic laughter, refusing to cooperate.

“I’ve got an itch down there!” he screamed. LeChifre hit him again with the rope, and Bond continued to shout and laugh off the pain he surely felt. “No, a little to the left!” WHAM! I laughed in unison with the secret agent, loving the scene and all the bravado. Then it cut to a Tide laundry-detergent commercial and Megan and I both swore at the TV. She got up.

“OK, let’s make some lunch. We can watch the rest later.”

“I’m not that hungry.” That was a lie, of course, but I didn’t want to get up. I wanted to keep watching and to see what would happen. She started boiling noodles for a pasta salad, cubing a brick of cheddar and chopping vegetables at the kitchen counter.

“Brendan, we have the DVD downstairs. You can watch it any time you want.” And she was right; we have the Casino Royale DVD and hundreds of others on the bookshelves that line our basement walls. We have Blu-Rays stacked on the entertainment center and piled on a dresser, and we even have some VHS movies ­– Home Alone, Wayne’s World, A Perfect Storm and a few others – tucked into a cabinet with extension cords and power strips. But even though we have all of these movies right at our fingertips, even though we have each of our four TVs rigged up for the various media formats, I’m almost always too lazy to go downstairs and grab one from the shelf. Whenever Back to the Future or Die Hard come on TV, invariably I find myself fully reclined in my chair and at the mercy of the Hyundai and Activia advertisements repeated every 14 to 18 minutes. It’s all so terribly convenient, I thought to myself, and begrudgingly I got up to make some sandwiches.

Pick one.

One night shortly after, when it was definitely bed time but we weren't quite tired enough to sleep, Megan and I went downstairs to the DVD shelf for a movie that we could play for background noise. Although neither of us planned to stay awake for the whole movie or even watch it particularly closely, we had trouble choosing the right one. This happens to us a lot – both of us seated on the thin shag carpet, cold cement seeping through our pajamas and into our knees and ankles, a single naked light bulb above us shining down on the sideways titles. Megan pulled case after case off the shelf, turning them over and upside down, then sliding each back between the others so they all read top to bottom, left to right.

"Why do you always put them back crooked?" she said. I tilted my head sideways and read the movie names. “How are you going to read them if they’re all facing different directions?" She didn’t see me roll my eyes. If a disorganized DVD shelf was her biggest pet peeve about being married to me, then I just wasn’t going to worry about it. I can’t explain why I’m so sloppy about the rows of movies, or why, conversely, I keep all of my books organized by genre and alphabetized by author, everything neat and in its place. I just don’t give the DVD shelf the same attention. It’s like the husband who keeps his garage floor spotless of oil and brake-fluid drips but can’t be bothered to wash a plate or fork in the kitchen; the DVDs are Megan’s domain.

As she straightened the cases, I flipped through Action movies and Thrillers: A History of Violence, The Departed, Munich. "How about Casino Royale?" she said, pulling it off the shelf where it had sat since we purchased it, still wrapped in cellophane.

"Nah, we just saw that on TV." I thumbed the Man With No Name trilogy and thought about Clint Eastwood hunched over and sweating precious water, riding through the desert and mountain passes on his slow, tired horse.

"W-T-F, we've had this Bond movie for five years and never even opened it." She proceeded to tear off the shrink-wrap, chewing the corners and angrily digging at the hidden seams with her fingernails. “These wrappers suck!” She tossed the crinkly plastic and torn stickers aside, and then she went on to the Comedies. "Old School, Wedding Crashers, I Love You Man, Forgetting Sarah Marshall?"

“They all sound good, Meg. Why don’t you choose?”

 "I'm going to fall asleep before you. I always do. You may as well pick." We had been rummaging for a good ten minutes and I was tired already, my cold joints aching from the floor and begging for my soft bed, and it almost didn't matter which movie we watched; I was sure I'd be able to fall asleep.

"OK, Superbad."

"But you've seen it like a hundred times. And whenever you watch it you quote all those gross jokes for a week." I laughed at the truth, trying to hide my frustration and boredom.

"No Country For Old Men."

"Are you serious? Too scary."

"Fine, how ‘bout Major League then?" She loved the manager, played by James Gammon, and his deadpan baritone cursing. I had seen the movie at least a hundred times more than even Superbad, but I was ready to agree to almost anything. It was time to finally get under the blankets.

"OH, good one!" She stood and grabbed the movie and then bounded up the stairs, shouting at me over her shoulder to turn off the light on my way up. I got up slowly, my ankles cracking and popping, needles in my cold feet, and I grabbed The Road just in case I made it through the first feature and needed something else to watch once she had fallen asleep. When I finally got to bed, Megan was stretched across the pillows and blankets and fast-forwarding through the previews, a soft blue glow from the TV bouncing on her forehead like Bond’s headlights on that dark road. I crawled in beside her and pulled her close, and the movie played uninterrupted, on and on long after we had both fallen asleep.

The Church of Baseball

I remember the first time I saw Bull Durham. It was 2004 and I was still living in mom and dad's basement. I was drinking cold bottles of Miller High Life with my buddy Al-Man, and we were flipping channels when we stopped just in time to see Susan Sarandon – who was still in Vintage Babe Form back in the late 80s – walk out of her house and into a minor league ballpark. She delivered an A+ monologue to start the movie, and I was hooked as soon as she mentioned that there are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary and 108 stitches in a baseball. I've since learned this is an outright lie, albeit a poetic, beautiful tiny lie, but even so, her claim cemented for me a relationship between spirituality and baseball that I had always felt but had never been able to express. She called it The Church of Baseball.

Even if the rest of the movie weren't wonderful, even if it rested on the laurels of its opening monologue and Kevin Costner's passable home run swing, I would have loved it still. Thankfully, the movie goes on to hilariously and sincerely portray the difficulties of love and friendship, as well as the beauty and tragedy of the sport. Just as Harbach's The Art of Fielding isn't just a book about baseball, Bull Durham isn't only a baseball movie; like Millie says of Ebby Calvin "Nuke" LaLoosh, it's "sort of all over the place."

My buddy Kirk and I are ushers at Target Field. We've known each other since we were ten and in little league together. We've had jobs in the same mall, gone camping, grown up, gotten married and found Stephen Colbert together, but even with all of that history and all of those memories, our time at the ballpark may be the part I treasure most. On the average summer Sunday morning, when most people are either asleep in bed or snoring through Church, instead of listening to a sermon about Baby Jesus' namesake or Peter, Paul and/or Mary, we head to Target Field in his Impala or my Crown Vic, windows down to let in the cool breeze, with the radio tuned to manager Ron Gardenhire's weekly talk radio spot.

We both love going to the games and standing in the sun, giving a hard time to the the beer guys and the visiting fans, and tossing balls from batting practice to the little kids in Cuddyer t-shirts. I love the green grass, the fat blue sky, the sun that burns my bald head and the smell of sausages and onions on the grill. I can't speak for Kirk, but just like many of our co-workers claim, I would happily work at these games for free. I would give up my extra paycheck not because I'm rich and don't need the money, and not because it's such terribly easy work – it can be difficult, it really can, especially when you're tired and it's late and it seems the game will never end – but I would do it for free because, as Kirk would agree, the stadium is a cathedral. 

During our drives downtown, we talk about faith and the importance of having it. We talk about perseverance and rising to the occasion, and sometimes we even talk about baseball. We listen to Gardy talk about his bullpen and his infielders, and we wonder, too, which guy is going to swing the big bat or strike out the side when it counts. We talk about everything. But the one thing we always come back to is our love for that ballpark. The Church of Baseball. The fastball, the sun and the home run trot.

Everyone who has been to a game at the Dome or Target Field knows how it feels to sit among a crowd of 40,000+ screaming fans. Some have been fortunate enough to know the hushed excitement and anxious fear that consumes a playoff crowd. Even fewer yet have felt the adrenaline course through their own blood during a potential rally at a World Series home game. I would love one day to attend a World Series game at Target Field. I would probably be willing to give up, again, that extra paycheck I earn at the ballpark, or even an arm or a leg. But there is one thing I wouldn't give up. It's something only a select few are able to experience, and Kirk and I can barely talk about it without dramatically (and comically) wiping away tears and adopting the wistful tones of the very elderly as when they talk about the way things used to be.

I'm talking about an empty ballpark. And I don't mean the type of empty ballpark you find in Tampa or Kansas City even during a home stand. What I mean to describe is the ballpark as it exists before the game, before batting practice even, when the seats are empty and covered in shadows, when all is quiet and still and clean. It is foreplay at its finest. An empty ballpark may sound depressing, boring or even pointless to you – they are, after all, built specifically to house the team and its fans – but I assure you, the silent, unobstructed communion that occurs in an empty ballpark between your soul and something greater is exactly what Sarandon must have been talking about when she described the healing powers of The Church of Baseball.

Now, of course the park is never truly empty when Kirk and I are there. Security is always on the clock. A few other staff members are scattered here and there, wiping bird crap off seats and turning on soda fountains. Down on the field, the grounds crew prepares the dirt and chalk, the border separating the brown crushed granite from soft grass. The pitchers play long toss, the infielders take grounders, and the outfielders dance their way through their stretching drills. Then the guests line up outside the gate, ready to come in and replace solitude with community. But until those gates open, until the people rush in and quicken the pulse of the place, the concourses are wide open, the sightlines are unobstructed and there are no distractions. Until the gates open, you can stand at the bottom of the 43rd step, the one right next to the padded wall and the left field foul line, and you can look out at the downtown skyline. You can smell the gasoline of lawn mowers and admire the cross-cut pattern of the grass, its individual blades rolled and pressed into alternating directions so they reflect light and 100 varying shades of green. You can enjoy it and take it in without any interruption, just like a kiss before the big show.

Just like Susan Sarandon said at the beginning of Bull Durham, "The only church that feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball." Nowhere is that nourishment more readily digestible – in the form of fresh air, silence or even a hot dog covered in mustard – than in an empty ballpark. I'm very grateful I don't have to experience it alone.

*Views are my own and do not represent those of my employer*

Buddies

Mom worked the night shift at the hospital so Dad made tacos. They were his go-to meal when he had to feed my sister, brother and me – because they were easy and he was tired after a long day spent “humping sheetrock” and “building the city,” which was how he described his work as a carpenter. He could make them better than anyone. He clearly took pride in his tacos, carefully arranging the bumpy yellow Ortega shells on potato racks and crisping them in the oven until they were hot and brown around the fold. My younger sister and I decided not to set a timer, preferring instead to sit in front of the oven so we could carefully monitor the shells’ progress. This put us right underfoot as Dad chopped onions and stirred the meat sizzling on the stovetop. “Go set the table,” he barked, playfully kicking us with his terribly smelly feet, his socks stained a rainbow of yellows and pinks by sweat and the oiled leather of his work boots.

Like all great chefs, Dad didn’t follow the directions on the box. Perhaps it takes only a mediocre cook to tear the paper envelope of pre-mixed spices and combine them with greasy ground hamburger, but he knew from years of practice that the recipe called for too much water. “You kids don’t want soggy taco meat,” he informed us, shaking out the nuclear orange powder and stirring in just a few liquid ounces. “What kind of dad would I be if I gave you a soupy supper?” The ancient fan above the stove groaned as it sucked up the excess taco-flavored dust.

As we laid out plates and poured milk, the Channel 4 news blinked and buzzed on the nearby counter. Don Shelby talked about a man in camouflage who was called Stormin’ Norman, and he was fighting in a place called Iraq, which looked in pictures to be mostly made up of desert. I learned it was near a Gulf – “It’s kind of like an ocean,” my dad explained, but I’d never seen one in all of my 7 years. 

“Why is there fighting in Iraq?” 

“You’re in first grade! Don’t they teach you anything?” His voice came out of the fridge blunt and distant as he searched for the shredded cheese and mild chunky salsa. I felt the need to defend my education and I told him I had learned about Roald Dahl and even John Denver’s “Country Roads” that day. I then apologized for not yet being quite as smart as him. 

“Ease up on the sarcasm, Kid.” He looked at me through round eyes and a wrinkled forehead, and I shrugged, uncertain what he meant.

My question about the Gulf War had sent him searching for an answer just like he had hunted for the taco fixings buried in the back of the fridge, shoving aside milk jugs and soft oranges in red fishnet bags, swearing at them and himself until he found what he was looking for. He cursed not because he was particularly upset with the dairy or overripe citrus; he swore for the same reason some people might stretch right when they get out of bed or others scratch a dog behind his ears and under the knobby shoulder joints: because it feels good. He enjoyed swearing and loved talking, and whether faced with a simple question about the car on his favorite show, The Dukes of Hazzard, or a complex one about the Gulf War, Dad’s mind would hurtle back toward some imaginary beginning, back until he found answers to six or ten unspoken inquiries. Then he would finally respond to the original question. 

I can still recall the main points of his long reply. As we ate our dinner and the TV chattered on in the background, he talked about oil and gasoline, the badness of some men and the goodness of others, and he talked about a boy, Matt Watkins, who was in the same grade as me.

“You remember your buddy, Matt, from your little league team? His dad’s a soldier over there.” Matt was a quiet, nice enough kid, probably not that different from me except he preferred basketball to baseball and was always saying so when he flubbed a grounder at practice. But he wasn’t really my buddy. My dad, however, believed everybody my age was my friend, never mind if we fought, hated each other like George Herbert Walker Bush and Saddam himself, or had just met for the first time at boy scouts only five minutes before. I wanted to tell my dad that a common jersey and the same age didn’t make us friends, but it didn’t really matter to him because we were talking about Matt’s dad and not the shape of my social circle. I nodded, picturing Mr. Watkins’ thick glasses and the yellow nylon shorts he always wore while sitting in his lawn chair by third base. I remembered how Matt’s dad had played catch with us and showed us how to turn our hips when we swung, and that he’d once, after a game, brought us cold Tahitian Treat, the sweetest of all sodas. Dad interrupted my thoughts.

“Mr. Watkins is in the Army. He’s a brave man and might not come home.”

“Why not?” I had vague ideas about what people did in the Army; good guys killed bad guys and everybody had helicopters, but I wondered, shouldn’t all the good guys be able to come home? Dad chewed slowly, his taco shell crunching on one side of his mouth as he thought about what to say. I sipped my milk and felt a sharp edge of taco shell stab my throat as it went down.

“Because war is dangerous and some people get hurt. Some get lost and killed, too.” My dad looked sorry to tell me this, but he did so carefully, watching for my reaction. I asked why some dads went to fight while others stayed home, and he explained that Mr. Watkins had signed up for something called the Reserves. “That means he gets money every month even when there is no war, but if there is a war he has to go fight. It’s his job.”

I thought about this while scooping up the cheese and meat that had fallen on my plate, and I was grateful that my dad worked so close to home. I thought about Matt, a shy chubby kid who talked about Karl Malone and Patrick Ewing of the Knicks breathlessly, the same way I talked about Kirby Puckett and Chuck Knoblauch. As we cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, my dad suggested that I should talk to Matt at school. “He could probably use a friend, Kid.” I agreed, and while I was talking with my dad, I wondered if Matt missed his. I wondered if his dad made tacos, too.

The next day at school, as I played soccer at recess, I saw Matt alone by the basketball hoop, dribbling a ball and practicing his lay-ups. It was sunny and cold, and when Matt made his shots, it sounded like the metal chain-link net would break and scatter all over the blacktop. As I walked across the gravel playground and past the tire swings, I remembered how my dad had said Matt might be feeling sad or scared. I wanted to tell Matt  that his dad would be okay, that the good guys would win, but when I stood between him and the hoop, I was scared, too. I felt bad for him, and I took a few deep breaths. I heard my voice before I’d really chosen my words. 

“I heard your dad is in Operation Desert Storm and he might not come home.” I kicked at the pebbles and cracked pavement at my feet. Matt stopped dribbling and let the ball fall. It rolled away toward the dumpsters and schoolyard fence nearby. He looked at me with his pale blue eyes, his straight blonde hair parted at the side and matted to his sweaty forehead. He stuttered when he opened his mouth. It sounded like hiccups on top of shivers.

“My m-m-mom says he’ll come home be-before Christmas, and we just read a letter from him this morning. He says h-h-h-he’ll be home soon, too.”

“What if he sent the letter and then got hurt after? It takes a little while for the mail to come, right?” I was happy Matt had gotten mail from his dad, but I wanted to be reassured that his dad would come home and come to our baseball practices again, just like Matt had probably felt after reading the letter. I wanted to be certain that he and I didn’t have to worry. Matt shook his head fiercely, and instead of telling me everything would be okay, he walked away quickly, careful to hide his tears. I was confused because my sympathy, however poorly expressed, had not made either of us feel any better. 

That night, my dad woke from a nap in his chair and answered the phone as I was playing Tetris on my Gameboy. He rubbed his eyes and looked at me with an expression of disbelief, the phone pressed tightly to his ear. When he finally spoke, he said, “Yes, I’ll talk to him. Thank you for calling.” He hung up and told me to turn off my game. “Come sit here at the table, Son.” When I joined him he was drumming his fingernails, dirt beneath them, against the table.

“That was Matt’s mom, Mrs. Watkins. Do you know why she called?” I shook my head, unable to see the connection between what I’d said to Matt that day at recess and the heavy feeling in my stomach that my dad would soon start swearing about something more offensive than a crowded fridge.

“Your buddy Matt has been crying all night. His mom said you told him that his dad might not come home. Is that true?” I nodded and could sense I was in trouble, even though I didn’t understand how hearing something he already knew could make Matt cry. I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Why, Son?”

I shrugged, both unable to explain my reasons and certain that they were apparent. Didn’t he understand I had only been trying to be his friend? I knew Matt was afraid he would never see his dad again, and my sympathy had been mistaken for heartlessness. My dad didn't see this, and I was frustrated. I felt deep breaths pouring in, tears biting my eyes.

“He isn’t even my friend, Dad!” I wanted to stand up from the table and run to my room, but my dad looked at me and appeared ready to admit that, if it were true, even if I’d never before been Matt’s buddy, now I most certainly never would be.

I was sent to bed, but before I went to sleep, I called Matt and apologized for what I had said. I wanted to tell him that he had misunderstood me and that I had never wanted to hurt him, but I knew deep down that I’d said the wrong thing. Quickly and clumsily, I told him, "I'm sorry your dad isn't home. I hope he comes back." 
When Matt replied, saying only the minimum "Okay, thanks," he sounded detached, as though he didn’t want to be having any conversation with me at all. At that point we had finally reached an understanding.