~
I had no idea how adorable, albeit tedious, it would be to see four- and five-year-olds play T-ball.
When it’s finally Jackson’s turn, he steps up to the plate, the helmet so big on his head it wobbles like a bobblehead. My palms are pressed together, hands held in front of my mouth in anticipation. I start clapping, cheering him on and Jim bellows beside me.
“Come on, Jackson! You got this, bud!”
I hold my breath as Jackson stands at the plate, his little feet planted in the dirt, shoulders hunched to lift the heavy bat. He swings the bat with all his might, spinning around as the dust flies. Once he makes a full circle do I see the ball, still sitting atop the tee. My heart thuds in my chest, but before I can yell out words of encouragement, Jim cups his hands around his mouth “It’s alright, you can do this!”
Jackson turns back around, bobble helmet turning with him. He scrunches up his shoulders and swings again. I close my eyes with nervousness, heart aching at the thought of him striking out. Before I know it, Jim is standing and clapping, and I open my eyes to see Jackson running as fast as his little legs can carry him to first base.
The other team is scrambling for the ball, throwing it in the wrong direction. Coaches from both sides are yelling, parents are standing to watch the chaos unfold. A player from the opposite team sits by the pitching mound, pulling a dandelion from the grass before laying down, arms and legs scissoring like he’s making a snow angel. The ball is thrown towards Jackson, but a player from his team gets curious and picks it up. He drops it like a hot potato and continues running to third base, and I can’t stop laughing until Jackson reaches second base safely. It is the most adorable, slow-motion, non-competitive thing I have ever seen, and I have tears in my eyes. I turn to Jim and grip hisshoulders, shaking him with excitement. “He made it to second base!”
Jim wraps one arm around my waist, the other forming a fist as he brings it into the air, bellowing out cheers for Jackson that trump the entire crowd.
The Storm won their first game, 3-1. I ignore Jackson’s grumbling and make him grab a helmet and a bat, positioning him in the center of the bleachers, directing my family and friends to sit around him. I hand another player’s mom my phone, and Jim moves to the side, padding the bleacher so I can sit between him and Jackson.
When I have the phone back in my palm, I zoom in and study the smile on each and every one of our faces. My heart bursts, knowing that every single person I love in this world showed up today to support Jackson. To support me.
Except the one person who should really get to be there, my sister.
“That’s a great picture.” Jim’s voice is over my shoulder, glancing down at the phone in my hand.
“It really is.” I turn to look at him, his face so close to mine the tip of his nose nearly grazes my temple. “What am I doing?” I whisper, not wanting my parents to hear the crack in my voice. “She should be here, not me.”
His hand runs up my back, between my shoulder blades to squeeze my shoulder. “We’ll get her here. I promise. Youbothdeserve to see him play.”
I nod, leaning into his touch for a minute, making sure no one sees the tears forming in my eyes.
“By the way,” he says again, hand grazing down my lower back. “Your mom’s asking for another picture.”
“Another? This one is perfect!”
He nods. “It is. But now she wants one with just us guys.”
I scoff, ready to turn to scold my mom for flirting with the boys when one of the other players’ fathers calls over to me.
“Hey, you’re Meg, right? Jackson’s mom?”
“Hi, yes, I’m Meg.” I reach my hand out for his, shaking it once.
“I’m Tom, Tommy’s dad.” He then turns to Jim, reaching a hand out to shake it.
Jim pauses for a moment, likely wondering how to explain the situation, instead opting to smile and return the shake. “Jim, hi.”
I take the flier from his outstretched hand, scanning it over as he talks.
“I want to have a little BBQ to kick off the season. I was thinking next Thursday, before the game, all of the dads and sons are welcome at my house. Get the men together, let the boys rough house, it’ll be fun. I’ll grill the basics, but if everyone could bring a dish to share, that’d be great.”
I look up, ready to fire off that Jackson doesn’t know his biological dad, and that it’s the 21st century. Kids are now raised by same sex couples, grandparents, siblings, foster families or court-appointed guardians. It doesn’t matter who raises a child, as long as they’re loved. It’s both discriminating and infuriating to have an exclusive dads and sons BBQ.
My shoulders tense, hands nearly tearing the flier apart when Jim speaks up.
“Sounds great, we’ll be there.” I spring my head up to look at Jim as Tom walks away.
“What does it say?” Jackson prods, standing on his tiptoes to pull at my wrist so he can see the flier.
“It’s a dads and sons cookout before next week’s game at Tommy’s house.” I raise my head, finding Tom in the crowd and staring daggers into his back.
