my boss wrote this a while back, and i thought i might re-blog this (especially since i have been in a creative rant dry-spell this week). hope you all enjoy this and cry as much as i did.
There are many things I don’t know.
I don’t know you. I don’t know your name.
I don’t know if maybe your boss yelled at you yesterday, perhaps like he does every day, and sent you into your shell.
I don’t know if you’re hiding from the pain of divorce, or if your spouse passed away, and you just can’t dig out of the hole. I don’t think so, but I don’t know.
I don’t know if the little girl in the new cleats and clean uni just begging for dirt and grass stains is your daughter.
I don’t know if you had plans to beast it out with your buddies at the bar, and maybe that spouse you haven’t lost called at the last minute because a meeting ran long and you’re being daddy instead of partying with your pals.
I don’t know if maybe you’re just a jerk. That’s harsh and I’m not suggesting it. It’s just one of the things I don’t know.
I don’t know if through some friend of a friend you’ll see yourself in this and make it about me and try to come pummel me. You would miss the point.
Here’s what I know.
Across the bistro table from you last night sat this beautiful little girl of maybe 8, 9 or 10. Not so old that a tall, strapping guy like you couldn’t still put her on your shoulders where she would be taller than the whole world.
Red hair so vibrant that it shimmered despite the muted fluorescent lighting. Sparkling blue eyes, alabaster skin, a hint of freckles. Sitting so patiently, with a glimmer of hope that you would acknowledge her, and an equal trace of resignation.
I’ll call her Mary. Maybe she’s a Patti (don’t think so) or a Sandy or a Caitlyn or a Rebecca. (No, the freckles would make her a Becky, and just Becks to her oh-so-closest of friends.) I’ll call her Mary because it was the first name that popped into my mind, even though it doesn’t really fit.
If your eyes ever connected with hers I didn’t see it, but I didn’t really watch every moment. That would have been rude of me, and the fact is I couldn’t bear to.
Maybe there was more, but the only words that I observed passing at your table were from a book to your eyes, not from your lips to Mary’s ear, and a brief moment when she chatted quietly, but animatedly, on her cell phone with presumably a friend.
That’s all, until a dismissive wave and a curt, “Let’s go.”
And it broke my heart.
Because here’s something else I know. You only get to live each moment once, and you can’t get that one back.
Argue what you want about the non-linear nature of time, but reality doesn’t give us time do-overs. Doesn’t happen in baseball, doesn’t happen in life. You only get each moment one time. That’s all.
Your book will wait. The words won’t suddenly disappear – I guess that’s not exactly true anymore in the world of e-books, and I give you credit for reading a real book you could get your hands on. Kids need to see grownups reading, so, good for you.
But instead of crawling into the mind of your eight-year-old and her friends and the game she’s about to play and how do those new cleats feel and how you remember the time you made that diving catch and how time really does seem to stop from the time bat meets ball until ball meets glove – you crawled only into your book. Maybe it was just this once. I don’t know.
I do know we only get so long to enjoy our kids being kids. And being daddies to eight-year-olds.
Pizza is not accentuated by tears or regrets.
I know.
There are many things I don’t know.
I don’t know you. I don’t know your name.
I don’t know if maybe your boss yelled at you yesterday, perhaps like he does every day, and sent you into your shell.
I don’t know if you’re hiding from the pain of divorce, or if your spouse passed away, and you just can’t dig out of the hole. I don’t think so, but I don’t know.
I don’t know if the little girl in the new cleats and clean uni just begging for dirt and grass stains is your daughter.
I don’t know if you had plans to beast it out with your buddies at the bar, and maybe that spouse you haven’t lost called at the last minute because a meeting ran long and you’re being daddy instead of partying with your pals.
I don’t know if maybe you’re just a jerk. That’s harsh and I’m not suggesting it. It’s just one of the things I don’t know.
I don’t know if through some friend of a friend you’ll see yourself in this and make it about me and try to come pummel me. You would miss the point.
Here’s what I know.
Across the bistro table from you last night sat this beautiful little girl of maybe 8, 9 or 10. Not so old that a tall, strapping guy like you couldn’t still put her on your shoulders where she would be taller than the whole world.
Red hair so vibrant that it shimmered despite the muted fluorescent lighting. Sparkling blue eyes, alabaster skin, a hint of freckles. Sitting so patiently, with a glimmer of hope that you would acknowledge her, and an equal trace of resignation.
I’ll call her Mary. Maybe she’s a Patti (don’t think so) or a Sandy or a Caitlyn or a Rebecca. (No, the freckles would make her a Becky, and just Becks to her oh-so-closest of friends.) I’ll call her Mary because it was the first name that popped into my mind, even though it doesn’t really fit.
If your eyes ever connected with hers I didn’t see it, but I didn’t really watch every moment. That would have been rude of me, and the fact is I couldn’t bear to.
Maybe there was more, but the only words that I observed passing at your table were from a book to your eyes, not from your lips to Mary’s ear, and a brief moment when she chatted quietly, but animatedly, on her cell phone with presumably a friend.
That’s all, until a dismissive wave and a curt, “Let’s go.”
And it broke my heart.
Because here’s something else I know. You only get to live each moment once, and you can’t get that one back.
Argue what you want about the non-linear nature of time, but reality doesn’t give us time do-overs. Doesn’t happen in baseball, doesn’t happen in life. You only get each moment one time. That’s all.
Your book will wait. The words won’t suddenly disappear – I guess that’s not exactly true anymore in the world of e-books, and I give you credit for reading a real book you could get your hands on. Kids need to see grownups reading, so, good for you.
But instead of crawling into the mind of your eight-year-old and her friends and the game she’s about to play and how do those new cleats feel and how you remember the time you made that diving catch and how time really does seem to stop from the time bat meets ball until ball meets glove – you crawled only into your book. Maybe it was just this once. I don’t know.
I do know we only get so long to enjoy our kids being kids. And being daddies to eight-year-olds.
Pizza is not accentuated by tears or regrets.
I know.
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