They Can Do This
I had stayed up too late Monday night catching the discouraging 12-inning loss against the Brewers downtown. When I emerged to prepare breakfast, Puck was already awake at the table. He walked over, already understanding the situation. Granted, I didn’t look that upset, but he patted my shoulder comfortingly with his chubby little paw:
“Don’t worry Mom; you’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”
I agreed.
During math, he practiced winking for me. Sort of an open-mouthed Shirley Temple style:
“DID I DO IT?!”
The volume always rises even more when success is at stake.
“Yeah, bud. You sort of did. You did, right there.”
“YAAAAY!!!!”
Math continued with him passing out answers, often coupled with a, “There you go, my dear.”
Quiet Hour was fast, trying to wrap up the day before another trip downtown. Puck yelled only a couple of things to me through the wall during this reprieve:
“MOM! I’M REALLY SORRY! I PICKED MY NOSE! I’M REALLY SORRY!”
Maybe Carrie’s right, and I’m turning him into a Martin Luther. It’s unintentional.
At the Big House, Puck examined Carrie’s dark rose-colored shoes for the wedding as she grabbed him for a hug before he could escape:
“You should have gotten orange shoes, Sun! It’s my favorite color!” he tried to wriggle away.
“Well, you know what my favorite color is?”
“RED!”
“No, it’s YOU!”
Puck was unconvinced.
Irish was wrapped in a blanket on the floor, recovering from falling on a rock. I hadn’t caught all the details. She wasn’t too pained not to accompany Mom and myself to the next match-up at Busch, however.
I guess when you sustain back-to-back extra-inning losses, you look for the pluses. Randal Grichuk’s first Big League hit. Watching Allen Craig pick fingertips of Kentucky Blue every inning and let it fly in the wind to check direction (at least, that’s what we assumed he was doing, sitting two rows back from the right field foul pole). And then the drunks and obnoxious ten year-old boys yelling obscenities at the Milwaukee outfielders. Irish threatened to douse the boys with water bottles (less audibly), and yelled a thundering “SHUT UP!” to the drunk college boys (much more audibly) in the bottom of the 11th. They sort of listened.
A cold, cold night had concluded sadly for the Boys of Summer. You could see the deflation. But it’s April. Plenty of time to … arise!