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#looking away from the discourse it’s sammy sunday:)
mulletdean · a month ago
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this new influx of sam content is so nice ❤️ sammy ❤️
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wiseeagletidalwave · 3 months ago
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J.D. Scrimgeour  Say Hi to Your Dad Wes’s game has been canceled. It’s been grey all day, and it rained hard for an hour in the afternoon. A fog covers the North Shore. Driving over the bridge into Salem on his way home, Ted can’t even see the water. Cancellations are the worst thing about being a coach. It was so much easier back when he coached Wes’s Little League team, when the league posted cancellations on its website. The city’s Babe Ruth League, for 13-15 year olds, is more casual, less organized. Now he has to text parents, consult with the other coach to reschedule, and then text everyone again with the new date for the game. And a cancellation raises tension with his ex, Kayla, about the boys. If Ted wants to reschedule the game for this weekend, he’ll first have to make sure Kayla doesn’t have plans for Billy and Wes, that she’ll let Wes free for a couple hours. Once he gets home, he texts her, but she doesn’t respond, so he spends the next two hours scrolling through Facebook, listening to the rain dribble through the gutters, looking up at ESPN every now and then to watch a highlight that he already saw the night before. And then he follows a link to a local article and learns about Jay Stark—that he died two months ago—and he feels bile burn his throat. It is too late. Too late to go to the funeral, too late to take back that moment after the Salem-Marblehead freshman game, the lost look on Sammy’s face when Ted said, “Say ‘hi’ to your dad.” How Sammy just nodded.     Three weeks ago, Ted went straight from work to watch Salem High’s freshman team play Marblehead. When he arrived in the fifth inning, he heard from another dad that Billy, Ted’s older son, had been playing well, turning two double plays and lacing a single. Salem was up by a lot, and Ted saw Billy get his second hit, a line drive up the middle, which added to the rout. It was always nice to beat Marblehead. All their players spent thousands of dollars every summer to play AAU and get private coaching. Still, Ted had a soft spot for Jay’s son, Sammy, and when he recognized him walking back to the Marblehead bus, he called out to him. “You remember me, right?” Ted said, “I used to have more hair. I’m starting to look like your dad.” “Yeah,” Sammy said, but he didn’t say much else, and he didn’t come over to talk. His blond hair had gotten curly, and his nose seemed more prominent. His face was between boy and man. Say ‘hi’ to your dad. Sammy nodded, then got on the bus. In the car, Ted told Billy that he’d seen Sammy. “Remember Jay Stark’s kid, the guys we used to play with?” “Oh yeah,” Billy said. “Did you see the first double play?” “No, I got there in the 5th. What happened?” “It was to my left. A hard shot. One bounce. I got it and did a 180 and threw it to Ricardo. And he gunned it to first.” “Sounds sweet. Maybe I’ll see the replay on Sportscenter.” Billy grinned. “Maybe I’ll see you on The Bachelor.” “I don’t have time for celebrity. I’ve got a baseball team to coach.” Ted turned onto Warren Street, Kayla’s street. “Tell Wes I’ll pick him up after school tomorrow and we’ll grab some food before his game. You want to come with us?” “Nah.” “Then we’ll pick you up when the game is over. Tell your mom.” Billy nodded. Your mom. Ted wondered when he had stopped calling Kayla just “Mom.” What had they been talking about? Sammy and Jay. “That Sammy used to be a good player. Did you notice where he played? What position?” “No.” Ted pulled over in front of Kayla’s condo. “You remember him, though?” “Yeah, but I didn’t recognize him.” Billy opened his door. Ted wanted to say more. He thought of how overjoyed Billy and Wes used to be when he’d drive them over to Marblehead on a Sunday morning, how they would leap from his car and rush to the field, leaving him to carry their bats and water bottles. Jay would be there with his two boys, Sammy and Gregory, who were the same ages as Billy and Wes. “The Say-Hey Kid!” Jay would call out as Ted came onto the field, “What’s the news from Salem?” But Ted said nothing, just popped the trunk, and Billy grabbed his bag and set off around the corner of the building. Kayla liked the boys to leave their cleats on the back porch. Ted pulled away.   One September Sunday five years ago, a year after the divorce, the boys wanted to take some swings and ground balls, but when Ted drove them to Forest River Park, they were digging up the field to put in a new drainage system, so Ted drove them the extra five minutes to Marblehead. Ted always smiled when the bumpy, potholed Salem road changed abruptly to smooth asphalt when he crossed the Marblehead line. No wonder his shocks always needed replacing. Salem beat up its cars, and its cars weren’t Marblehead cars to begin with. Marblehead and Salem were both on the ocean, but they were two separate worlds. Marblehead was rich and nearly all white. When Ted was in high school, Marblehead got itself put in the different half of the conference, so it only had to play schools like Salem once a year. Salem High had been mostly white back then, not Spanish High, like the kids call it now, but Marbleheaders had still looked down on them. One time in the state tournament, Ted had pitched against Marblehead. He struck out 10 guys and Salem won easily. That night, half the team snuck into Marblehead High and took dumps on the table in the cafeteria. Even now, when he bumps into one of those guys at the mall, they’ll joke about it: “Excuse me, I need to go to the Marblehead.” That morning, at the Marblehead park, Ted and the boys threw the ball around, loosening up, and then Ted lugged his bag of balls to the mound, Wes put on a helmet and grabbed his bat, and Billy jogged out to shallow left-center to chase down Wes’s hits. Soon after they started, a father and son appeared, then several more boys and a few more dads. They all were ready for baseball, with hats, gloves, and cleats, but they wore shorts and t-shirts, like Ted and his boys. It didn’t seem like a team practice. “Ballhunt,” Ted called out after Wes had hit through the bag of balls, and they began gathering them. They called this collecting “ballhunt,” and, when the boys were younger, they would pretend to be predators, scooting around the field and pouncing on any ball nesting – oh so innocent – in the lush grass. Now the name remained, though the game had stopped. Billy, at least, would have been embarrassed to do it with those other boys looking on. Ted walked toward the dugout. Three balls that Wes had fouled off lay up against the fence in the scrim of dirt between dugout and grass ellipsis in the morning sun. “Hi,” said a man who had stepped through the gate onto the field. He was 40 something, stocky, short. He wore black knit shorts, like a soccer ref, a royal blue shirt with a big Chicago Cubs icon, and he had a Cubs cap on his nearly bald head. “Hi,” said Ted. “This field is reserved for 10:00,” the man said, “Sorry.” “Oh,” said Ted. He looked over at the group amassed at the fence, about 10 boys of various ages and four or five adults—all guys. They were all white, mostly blond. Marbleheaders. This wasn’t a Little League team, though. The kids were different ages, and they weren’t wearing baseball pants. Was it some family reunion? A sports picnic party? “Oh sure,” said Ted, “No problem.” “Take your time,” said the man. “We’re not in a rush.” Ted gathered the balls in his glove like a heap of small boulders and, holding them against his chest, made his way out to the mound. Billy and Wes were already there, trying to toss balls into the ball bag from a few feet away. “Curry for three,” Wes said. “Guys, let’s load up the bag. We can’t stay. The field’s taken.” Billy looked over at the people at the fence. “Who are they?” “Some Marblehead program, I guess.” The boys quit shooting the balls and quickly filled the bag. “We could give Billy one round,” said Ted. “No,” said Wes. “Wes, you had a turn. Billy should get one, too.” “That’s okay,” said Billy, looking over at those waiting, then looking sadly into the outfield. Ted sensed with aching clarity what Billy was feeling: it was such a stunning day, a mix of sun and clouds, warm, but not too warm, with a little breeze, the air fresh, dry. He wanted to be outside, to play somewhere. “Maybe we’ll go to the beach,” Ted said. Moments like this were when he regretted the divorce the most. Kayla had always been able to come up with things for them to do on the weekends. She’d bring the boys with her to swim in some girlfriend’s pool, or she’d pack a cooler and get them all down to Winter Island, where Ted would drink beers and then, pleasantly, lightly buzzed, would horse around with the boys in the gentle waves. Sometimes, they’d even venture out of Salem: blueberry picking at Brooksby Farm, or the Children’s Museum in Boston. Now, Ted never seemed to come up with things to do when his weekends with the kids rolled around. If they went anywhere, it was to a field, or, in winter, a gym. But when it was just the three of them, it could get boring – for all of them. Then in the afternoon he’d take them to Salem Beer Works for a burger and fries and watch the Red Sox on the big screens until the boys said they wanted to go home. Home. It was still home, even though Kayla didn’t live there, and the boys only lived there half the time. Ted didn’t want to leave the field and spend the day in his living room watching the Pats or the Sox while his kids played video games in their bedroom. The three https://ojalart.com/prose-discourse-short-storyj-d-scrimgeoursay-hi-to-your-dad/?utm_source=tumblr&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_campaign=ReviveOldPost
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wiseeagletidalwave · 5 months ago
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J.D. Scrimgeour  Say Hi to Your Dad Wes’s game has been canceled. It’s been grey all day, and it rained hard for an hour in the afternoon. A fog covers the North Shore. Driving over the bridge into Salem on his way home, Ted can’t even see the water. Cancellations are the worst thing about being a coach. It was so much easier back when he coached Wes’s Little League team, when the league posted cancellations on its website. The city’s Babe Ruth League, for 13-15 year olds, is more casual, less organized. Now he has to text parents, consult with the other coach to reschedule, and then text everyone again with the new date for the game. And a cancellation raises tension with his ex, Kayla, about the boys. If Ted wants to reschedule the game for this weekend, he’ll first have to make sure Kayla doesn’t have plans for Billy and Wes, that she’ll let Wes free for a couple hours. Once he gets home, he texts her, but she doesn’t respond, so he spends the next two hours scrolling through Facebook, listening to the rain dribble through the gutters, looking up at ESPN every now and then to watch a highlight that he already saw the night before. And then he follows a link to a local article and learns about Jay Stark—that he died two months ago—and he feels bile burn his throat. It is too late. Too late to go to the funeral, too late to take back that moment after the Salem-Marblehead freshman game, the lost look on Sammy’s face when Ted said, “Say ‘hi’ to your dad.” How Sammy just nodded.     Three weeks ago, Ted went straight from work to watch Salem High’s freshman team play Marblehead. When he arrived in the fifth inning, he heard from another dad that Billy, Ted’s older son, had been playing well, turning two double plays and lacing a single. Salem was up by a lot, and Ted saw Billy get his second hit, a line drive up the middle, which added to the rout. It was always nice to beat Marblehead. All their players spent thousands of dollars every summer to play AAU and get private coaching. Still, Ted had a soft spot for Jay’s son, Sammy, and when he recognized him walking back to the Marblehead bus, he called out to him. “You remember me, right?” Ted said, “I used to have more hair. I’m starting to look like your dad.” “Yeah,” Sammy said, but he didn’t say much else, and he didn’t come over to talk. His blond hair had gotten curly, and his nose seemed more prominent. His face was between boy and man. Say ‘hi’ to your dad. Sammy nodded, then got on the bus. In the car, Ted told Billy that he’d seen Sammy. “Remember Jay Stark’s kid, the guys we used to play with?” “Oh yeah,” Billy said. “Did you see the first double play?” “No, I got there in the 5th. What happened?” “It was to my left. A hard shot. One bounce. I got it and did a 180 and threw it to Ricardo. And he gunned it to first.” “Sounds sweet. Maybe I’ll see the replay on Sportscenter.” Billy grinned. “Maybe I’ll see you on The Bachelor.” “I don’t have time for celebrity. I’ve got a baseball team to coach.” Ted turned onto Warren Street, Kayla’s street. “Tell Wes I’ll pick him up after school tomorrow and we’ll grab some food before his game. You want to come with us?” “Nah.” “Then we’ll pick you up when the game is over. Tell your mom.” Billy nodded. Your mom. Ted wondered when he had stopped calling Kayla just “Mom.” What had they been talking about? Sammy and Jay. “That Sammy used to be a good player. Did you notice where he played? What position?” “No.” Ted pulled over in front of Kayla’s condo. “You remember him, though?” “Yeah, but I didn’t recognize him.” Billy opened his door. Ted wanted to say more. He thought of how overjoyed Billy and Wes used to be when he’d drive them over to Marblehead on a Sunday morning, how they would leap from his car and rush to the field, leaving him to carry their bats and water bottles. Jay would be there with his two boys, Sammy and Gregory, who were the same ages as Billy and Wes. “The Say-Hey Kid!” Jay would call out as Ted came onto the field, “What’s the news from Salem?” But Ted said nothing, just popped the trunk, and Billy grabbed his bag and set off around the corner of the building. Kayla liked the boys to leave their cleats on the back porch. Ted pulled away.   One September Sunday five years ago, a year after the divorce, the boys wanted to take some swings and ground balls, but when Ted drove them to Forest River Park, they were digging up the field to put in a new drainage system, so Ted drove them the extra five minutes to Marblehead. Ted always smiled when the bumpy, potholed Salem road changed abruptly to smooth asphalt when he crossed the Marblehead line. No wonder his shocks always needed replacing. Salem beat up its cars, and its cars weren’t Marblehead cars to begin with. Marblehead and Salem were both on the ocean, but they were two separate worlds. Marblehead was rich and nearly all white. When Ted was in high school, Marblehead got itself put in the different half of the conference, so it only had to play schools like Salem once a year. Salem High had been mostly white back then, not Spanish High, like the kids call it now, but Marbleheaders had still looked down on them. One time in the state tournament, Ted had pitched against Marblehead. He struck out 10 guys and Salem won easily. That night, half the team snuck into Marblehead High and took dumps on the table in the cafeteria. Even now, when he bumps into one of those guys at the mall, they’ll joke about it: “Excuse me, I need to go to the Marblehead.” That morning, at the Marblehead park, Ted and the boys threw the ball around, loosening up, and then Ted lugged his bag of balls to the mound, Wes put on a helmet and grabbed his bat, and Billy jogged out to shallow left-center to chase down Wes’s hits. Soon after they started, a father and son appeared, then several more boys and a few more dads. They all were ready for baseball, with hats, gloves, and cleats, but they wore shorts and t-shirts, like Ted and his boys. It didn’t seem like a team practice. “Ballhunt,” Ted called out after Wes had hit through the bag of balls, and they began gathering them. They called this collecting “ballhunt,” and, when the boys were younger, they would pretend to be predators, scooting around the field and pouncing on any ball nesting – oh so innocent – in the lush grass. Now the name remained, though the game had stopped. Billy, at least, would have been embarrassed to do it with those other boys looking on. Ted walked toward the dugout. Three balls that Wes had fouled off lay up against the fence in the scrim of dirt between dugout and grass ellipsis in the morning sun. “Hi,” said a man who had stepped through the gate onto the field. He was 40 something, stocky, short. He wore black knit shorts, like a soccer ref, a royal blue shirt with a big Chicago Cubs icon, and he had a Cubs cap on his nearly bald head. “Hi,” said Ted. “This field is reserved for 10:00,” the man said, “Sorry.” “Oh,” said Ted. He looked over at the group amassed at the fence, about 10 boys of various ages and four or five adults—all guys. They were all white, mostly blond. Marbleheaders. This wasn’t a Little League team, though. The kids were different ages, and they weren’t wearing baseball pants. Was it some family reunion? A sports picnic party? “Oh sure,” said Ted, “No problem.” “Take your time,” said the man. “We’re not in a rush.” Ted gathered the balls in his glove like a heap of small boulders and, holding them against his chest, made his way out to the mound. Billy and Wes were already there, trying to toss balls into the ball bag from a few feet away. “Curry for three,” Wes said. “Guys, let’s load up the bag. We can’t stay. The field’s taken.” Billy looked over at the people at the fence. “Who are they?” “Some Marblehead program, I guess.” The boys quit shooting the balls and quickly filled the bag. “We could give Billy one round,” said Ted. “No,” said Wes. “Wes, you had a turn. Billy should get one, too.” “That’s okay,” said Billy, looking over at those waiting, then looking sadly into the outfield. Ted sensed with aching clarity what Billy was feeling: it was such a stunning day, a mix of sun and clouds, warm, but not too warm, with a little breeze, the air fresh, dry. He wanted to be outside, to play somewhere. “Maybe we’ll go to the beach,” Ted said. Moments like this were when he regretted the divorce the most. Kayla had always been able to come up with things for them to do on the weekends. She’d bring the boys with her to swim in some girlfriend’s pool, or she’d pack a cooler and get them all down to Winter Island, where Ted would drink beers and then, pleasantly, lightly buzzed, would horse around with the boys in the gentle waves. Sometimes, they’d even venture out of Salem: blueberry picking at Brooksby Farm, or the Children’s Museum in Boston. Now, Ted never seemed to come up with things to do when his weekends with the kids rolled around. If they went anywhere, it was to a field, or, in winter, a gym. But when it was just the three of them, it could get boring – for all of them. Then in the afternoon he’d take them to Salem Beer Works for a burger and fries and watch the Red Sox on the big screens until the boys said they wanted to go home. Home. It was still home, even though Kayla didn’t live there, and the boys only lived there half the time. Ted didn’t want to leave the field and spend the day in his living room watching the Pats or the Sox while his kids played video games in their bedroom. The three https://ojalart.com/prose-discourse-short-storyj-d-scrimgeoursay-hi-to-your-dad/?utm_source=tumblr&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_campaign=ReviveOldPost
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wiseeagletidalwave · 6 months ago
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J.D. Scrimgeour  Say Hi to Your Dad Wes’s game has been canceled. It’s been grey all day, and it rained hard for an hour in the afternoon. A fog covers the North Shore. Driving over the bridge into Salem on his way home, Ted can’t even see the water. Cancellations are the worst thing about being a coach. It was so much easier back when he coached Wes’s Little League team, when the league posted cancellations on its website. The city’s Babe Ruth League, for 13-15 year olds, is more casual, less organized. Now he has to text parents, consult with the other coach to reschedule, and then text everyone again with the new date for the game. And a cancellation raises tension with his ex, Kayla, about the boys. If Ted wants to reschedule the game for this weekend, he’ll first have to make sure Kayla doesn’t have plans for Billy and Wes, that she’ll let Wes free for a couple hours. Once he gets home, he texts her, but she doesn’t respond, so he spends the next two hours scrolling through Facebook, listening to the rain dribble through the gutters, looking up at ESPN every now and then to watch a highlight that he already saw the night before. And then he follows a link to a local article and learns about Jay Stark—that he died two months ago—and he feels bile burn his throat. It is too late. Too late to go to the funeral, too late to take back that moment after the Salem-Marblehead freshman game, the lost look on Sammy’s face when Ted said, “Say ‘hi’ to your dad.” How Sammy just nodded.     Three weeks ago, Ted went straight from work to watch Salem High’s freshman team play Marblehead. When he arrived in the fifth inning, he heard from another dad that Billy, Ted’s older son, had been playing well, turning two double plays and lacing a single. Salem was up by a lot, and Ted saw Billy get his second hit, a line drive up the middle, which added to the rout. It was always nice to beat Marblehead. All their players spent thousands of dollars every summer to play AAU and get private coaching. Still, Ted had a soft spot for Jay’s son, Sammy, and when he recognized him walking back to the Marblehead bus, he called out to him. “You remember me, right?” Ted said, “I used to have more hair. I’m starting to look like your dad.” “Yeah,” Sammy said, but he didn’t say much else, and he didn’t come over to talk. His blond hair had gotten curly, and his nose seemed more prominent. His face was between boy and man. Say ‘hi’ to your dad. Sammy nodded, then got on the bus. In the car, Ted told Billy that he’d seen Sammy. “Remember Jay Stark’s kid, the guys we used to play with?” “Oh yeah,” Billy said. “Did you see the first double play?” “No, I got there in the 5th. What happened?” “It was to my left. A hard shot. One bounce. I got it and did a 180 and threw it to Ricardo. And he gunned it to first.” “Sounds sweet. Maybe I’ll see the replay on Sportscenter.” Billy grinned. “Maybe I’ll see you on The Bachelor.” “I don’t have time for celebrity. I’ve got a baseball team to coach.” Ted turned onto Warren Street, Kayla’s street. “Tell Wes I’ll pick him up after school tomorrow and we’ll grab some food before his game. You want to come with us?” “Nah.” “Then we’ll pick you up when the game is over. Tell your mom.” Billy nodded. Your mom. Ted wondered when he had stopped calling Kayla just “Mom.” What had they been talking about? Sammy and Jay. “That Sammy used to be a good player. Did you notice where he played? What position?” “No.” Ted pulled over in front of Kayla’s condo. “You remember him, though?” “Yeah, but I didn’t recognize him.” Billy opened his door. Ted wanted to say more. He thought of how overjoyed Billy and Wes used to be when he’d drive them over to Marblehead on a Sunday morning, how they would leap from his car and rush to the field, leaving him to carry their bats and water bottles. Jay would be there with his two boys, Sammy and Gregory, who were the same ages as Billy and Wes. “The Say-Hey Kid!” Jay would call out as Ted came onto the field, “What’s the news from Salem?” But Ted said nothing, just popped the trunk, and Billy grabbed his bag and set off around the corner of the building. Kayla liked the boys to leave their cleats on the back porch. Ted pulled away.   One September Sunday five years ago, a year after the divorce, the boys wanted to take some swings and ground balls, but when Ted drove them to Forest River Park, they were digging up the field to put in a new drainage system, so Ted drove them the extra five minutes to Marblehead. Ted always smiled when the bumpy, potholed Salem road changed abruptly to smooth asphalt when he crossed the Marblehead line. No wonder his shocks always needed replacing. Salem beat up its cars, and its cars weren’t Marblehead cars to begin with. Marblehead and Salem were both on the ocean, but they were two separate worlds. Marblehead was rich and nearly all white. When Ted was in high school, Marblehead got itself put in the different half of the conference, so it only had to play schools like Salem once a year. Salem High had been mostly white back then, not Spanish High, like the kids call it now, but Marbleheaders had still looked down on them. One time in the state tournament, Ted had pitched against Marblehead. He struck out 10 guys and Salem won easily. That night, half the team snuck into Marblehead High and took dumps on the table in the cafeteria. Even now, when he bumps into one of those guys at the mall, they’ll joke about it: “Excuse me, I need to go to the Marblehead.” That morning, at the Marblehead park, Ted and the boys threw the ball around, loosening up, and then Ted lugged his bag of balls to the mound, Wes put on a helmet and grabbed his bat, and Billy jogged out to shallow left-center to chase down Wes’s hits. Soon after they started, a father and son appeared, then several more boys and a few more dads. They all were ready for baseball, with hats, gloves, and cleats, but they wore shorts and t-shirts, like Ted and his boys. It didn’t seem like a team practice. “Ballhunt,” Ted called out after Wes had hit through the bag of balls, and they began gathering them. They called this collecting “ballhunt,” and, when the boys were younger, they would pretend to be predators, scooting around the field and pouncing on any ball nesting – oh so innocent – in the lush grass. Now the name remained, though the game had stopped. Billy, at least, would have been embarrassed to do it with those other boys looking on. Ted walked toward the dugout. Three balls that Wes had fouled off lay up against the fence in the scrim of dirt between dugout and grass ellipsis in the morning sun. “Hi,” said a man who had stepped through the gate onto the field. He was 40 something, stocky, short. He wore black knit shorts, like a soccer ref, a royal blue shirt with a big Chicago Cubs icon, and he had a Cubs cap on his nearly bald head. “Hi,” said Ted. “This field is reserved for 10:00,” the man said, “Sorry.” “Oh,” said Ted. He looked over at the group amassed at the fence, about 10 boys of various ages and four or five adults—all guys. They were all white, mostly blond. Marbleheaders. This wasn’t a Little League team, though. The kids were different ages, and they weren’t wearing baseball pants. Was it some family reunion? A sports picnic party? “Oh sure,” said Ted, “No problem.” “Take your time,” said the man. “We’re not in a rush.” Ted gathered the balls in his glove like a heap of small boulders and, holding them against his chest, made his way out to the mound. Billy and Wes were already there, trying to toss balls into the ball bag from a few feet away. “Curry for three,” Wes said. “Guys, let’s load up the bag. We can’t stay. The field’s taken.” Billy looked over at the people at the fence. “Who are they?” “Some Marblehead program, I guess.” The boys quit shooting the balls and quickly filled the bag. “We could give Billy one round,” said Ted. “No,” said Wes. “Wes, you had a turn. Billy should get one, too.” “That’s okay,” said Billy, looking over at those waiting, then looking sadly into the outfield. Ted sensed with aching clarity what Billy was feeling: it was such a stunning day, a mix of sun and clouds, warm, but not too warm, with a little breeze, the air fresh, dry. He wanted to be outside, to play somewhere. “Maybe we’ll go to the beach,” Ted said. Moments like this were when he regretted the divorce the most. Kayla had always been able to come up with things for them to do on the weekends. She’d bring the boys with her to swim in some girlfriend’s pool, or she’d pack a cooler and get them all down to Winter Island, where Ted would drink beers and then, pleasantly, lightly buzzed, would horse around with the boys in the gentle waves. Sometimes, they’d even venture out of Salem: blueberry picking at Brooksby Farm, or the Children’s Museum in Boston. Now, Ted never seemed to come up with things to do when his weekends with the kids rolled around. If they went anywhere, it was to a field, or, in winter, a gym. But when it was just the three of them, it could get boring – for all of them. Then in the afternoon he’d take them to Salem Beer Works for a burger and fries and watch the Red Sox on the big screens until the boys said they wanted to go home. Home. It was still home, even though Kayla didn’t live there, and the boys only lived there half the time. Ted didn’t want to leave the field and spend the day in his living room watching the Pats or the Sox while his kids played video games in their bedroom. The three https://ojalart.com/prose-discourse-short-storyj-d-scrimgeoursay-hi-to-your-dad/?utm_source=tumblr&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_campaign=ReviveOldPost
0 notes