Mike Milligan - Dad Rules: Notes on Fatherhood, the Worlds Best Job

Its a beautiful Saturday afternoon. The sun is shining; the birds are chirping; and you? You feel like you might vomit. Thats because you are on your companys softball team; its the bottom of the last inning of your first game of the year, the bases are loaded, and you are at bat. Whats more, there are two outs and your team trails by one run. It all comes down to you. But whats really got your stomach tumbling is something that you never shared with your teammates: you suck at softball. In high school, you concentrated on more cerebral pursuits. You lettered in diving and served as president of the Computer Club (two terms!).

But of course you didnt mention any of this when your boss was scrambling for enough players to field a team. In fact, you told him you were quite a baseball player back in the day. If it werent for the arm injury, who knows how far you could have gone? You did this for two reasons: One, you are a guy; embellishing your past athletic prowess is in your DNA, just like scratching yourself and forgetting to zip your pants. Two, as one of the companys newest hires, you figured being on a company team would provide an excellent opportunity to meet people in other departments, to enjoy the camaraderie of being part of a group, and to get some exercise. To totally humiliate yourself was not on your list.

The umpire calls Strike one! for everyone to hear. You look over to the bench. Your coach, who is also your boss, wears an incredulous expression that says, This guy played baseball in high school? At where? Saint Dweebs?

You stare out at the pitcher as you recall your previous two at-bats.

Your first time up, you struck out; but your coach/boss said it was a horrible call, so you felt somewhat exonerated. The second time, you swung mightily and dinked one all the way back to the pitcher, who threw you out at first by about twenty-five feet.

As you dig in for the next pitch, you hear their third baseman yell to the pitcher, Cmon, Jenny, just put it over. This guy cant hit!

Oh, yeah? you think to yourself. Well watch this, fat man!

As the ball arcs toward you, you prepare to whack one, secretly hoping that you will somehow make contact and carom one off that loud mouth third basemans large and expanding forehead. You swing with everything youve got, and nearly fall down.

Strike two! says the umpire as the ball bounces two feet in front of home plate.

Its now that you know youre hosed. Your face feels flush as you realize that you are about to become the laughingstock of the company. You have a vision of yourself getting fired and everyone in the company cheering as youre booted out the front door, carrying a cardboard box of your paltry belongings. Next, you envision your wife standing on the front porch of the house you two recently bought. She is weeping as a man pounds a BANK REPOssEssION sign on your front lawn, which is brown because your water was shut off six weeks earlier.

As the pitcher starts her windup, you sighgrateful that your wife wasnt feeling well enough to be at the game and to witness your demise.

You clear your head just in time to see the pitcher release the ball. As it floats toward you, everything slows down. As strike three approaches, you picture yourself and your wife living in a tent village on the banks of a cement aqueduct that carries the citys sludge out to sea. Oh, well, you think. You always dreamed of having a place right on the water.

A disheveled, toothless man walks by, and you ask if you can borrow a match to light a can of Sterno. Its your birthday and your wife wants to heat you up a twoweek-old donut she found in a dumpster behind the police station. But he says, No way! I aint giving squat to the loser who struck out with the bases loaded!

And then, the ball is almost upon you. You close your eyes and swing. And amazingly, you feel something hit your bat. Then you hear cheers coming from your teammates, and you open your eyes just in time to see the ball lofting toward left field. You drop your bat and run as fast as you can, spurred on by your imaginary toothless neighbor, whos right on your heels with a flaming tiki torch.

The other teams chiseled left fielder, whorumor has itwas once drafted by the Pittsburgh Pirates, races for the ball. Oh, no! you think. He actually has a chance to catch it. He dives and extends his arm... thunk! The ball lands squarely in his glove. You cant believe your bad luck. You couldve been a hero! It could have meant a promotion! A bigger house! That German-made two-seat Roadster youve been eyeing! But now, nothing but stale dumpster donuts.

And then, as Mr. All-Star hits the ground, the ball pops loose. Your team goes crazy! One run scores! Two runs score! As your teammates spill from the dugout, you stand on first base, not totally sure of what just happened. You see them rushing to you, and for a split second you fear that you might be in for a public flogging. But you soon figure it out when they hoist you onto their shoulders and carry you around the infield, shouting your name. Grimsky! Grimsky! they chant.

Dang, you wish your wife were here.

Later, after pizza and beer, the check comes; but youre not allowed to throw in so much as a nickel. Heroes dont pay! your boss says.