Page 60 of Mom Ball

I’m proud to say it takes Jeffrey every second until the umpire is ready for the game to pull that lawn mower off the field. Not one person offers to help him—his coaches, parents, and especially not me.

“You’ve got this, buddy.” I fist-bump Andrew and send him to the field.

Jeffrey wipes sweat from his brow and stumbles my way. You’d think a guy who moves repo trailers for a living wouldn’t get so winded pulling a lawn mower off the ball field.

“You.” He points the sleeved arm in my face.

“What?” I mentally prepare to deny hitting the lawn mower.

“You can’t be this close to the field. You’re not a coach.”

“I know. I’m a spectator.”

“Well, you best spectate elsewhere.” His hand falls to his hip. “I can’t trust you to not call plays from the sidelines.”

I shrug. “Okay.”

I brush past him, almost knocking him over with a gentle shoulder bump. I jog toward first base and get Brooke’s attention.

“Jeffrey’s kicking me out.”

“He can’t do that. We paid and you’re not doing anything wrong.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. Tell the kids I’ll be watching from outside the park.”

She frowns and nods.

“Good luck.” I hurry away before Jeffrey can get to me.

We cross paths on my way out. I keep my eyes on the parking lot, not giving him a chance to speak to me.

As long as we play on the same field today, I’ll have a perfect view from my truck’s toolbox. I climb up and make myself comfortable.

Andrew catches decently, and Timothy makes a few good plays. Carter is looking more comfortable too. I lean back and snack on a bag of sunflower seeds Morgan forgot to put back in her bag. I stuffed them in my pocket to keep the park clean, but they’re coming in handy since the concession stand is in forbidden territory.

Morgan delivers one of the ugliest pitches I’ve seen. It’s like she’s tossing a horseshoe, but overhanded. Herrington is at bat and his signature golf swing connects perfectly with the ball. I jump in the bed of my truck and cheer along with everyone inside the park. He gets a double.

Andrew is up next and slams the ball, despite another questionable pitch from Morgan. It goes to the outfield and he quickly advances toward Herrington, who runs the bases like a six-year-old girl playing hopscotch.

I bite my thumbnail when Andrew bumps into Herrington between third and home. He yells at him to run, but he’s too slow. Andrew picks him up and runs full speed, carrying Herrington in front of him. He sets him down a few feet in front of home plate.

Herrington hops on the base, further proving my hopscotch analogy. Then he skips off, and Andrew crosses the plate.

In all my years playing and watching ball, I have to say that’s a first.

* * *

Four hours and two trips to the gas station later, I watch the 8U Armadillos exit the field for the last time.

They lost both games but had some good moments. Most kids at least made contact with the ball today, and we had some good catches in the field.

The bad news is Jeffrey’s team is still undefeated.

I dip my Quick Stop chicken in honey mustard and focus on Brooke. She’s busy gathering all the junk we carried in earlier while Morgan gives the team a speech.

It hurts me that I can’t go in and help her carry it out. Even more than it hurt my shoulder carrying it in. Easton and Carlton come to the rescue, juggling her heavier things with their own.

A few people stay in the park, but most of our team trudges toward the parking lot. Dirty and tired like they’re walking the green mile. Brooke has one arm around Timothy and the other looped through her snack bag.