Like I’d ever say no to that.
I reach an arm over his shoulder to pull him into me. “I think that’ll be so much fun, buddy!”
Jackson stands, a pile of popcorn that had made its home in his lap falling to the ground. “Can we go? Can we go now!”
Jim laughs, reaching for his arm to gesture for him to sit. “Not until after the game, buddy.” He leans forward, pulling his wallet from his back pocket once more. This time, he reaches in and pulls out yellow neon wristbands. “Here.” He gestures for Jackson’s arm and carefully attaches the paper band around his bony wrist.
“Jim,” I whisper over Jackson’s head. His eyes flick up to mine, and I’m so thankful I have my sunglasses on to hide the tears brewing in my eyes. I’m not sure when I became such an emotional little bitch, but it has something to do with the blond man currently placing a wristband on Jackson. “That’s so…thoughtful. This is amazing. We are super excited to watch you do it, right, buddy?” I say, reaching an arm over to hug Jackson.
“I’m going to run so fast, you’ll have to take pictures, Mom.”
“You might be one of the fastest out there. I’ll have to make sure I don’t miss you! You’ll have to make sure you slow down enough to give Clark a high five.” I look back up at Jim. “I freaking love that his name is Clark. I don’t know how I’ve lived my whole life in this city and never knew his name.”
~
The Cubs win 7-3, and as soon as the stands start to clear Jackson is bouncing in place, tugging on Jim’s arm and begging to go run the bases.
Jim reaches down to grab Jackson’s hand in his, and the difference in their sizes tugs at my heartstrings. We make our way through the hoards of people, up the concrete steps to the 200 sections to wait in line. The crowd is thick and fans push and shove their way out of the stadium. Jim stops occasionally to let some people cut in front of him, but by the third time Jackson gets bumped, he’s had enough. He turns, tucking his hands under Jackson’s armpits and swings him up, shuffling him so Jackson is piggy back, his skinny arms coiled around Jim’s neck. He turns back to make sure I’m still standing behind him. “You good?”
I stare for a moment, dumbfounded at how easy he makes it look to take care of us. With one hand holding Jackson steady, Jim reaches his other hand out for mine. Once he has it, he tucks my fingers into his back pocket.
He leads us through the boisterous crowd, keeping a slow enough pace to ensure that my hand never leaves his backside. It isn’t until we are safely in line with our sides to a concrete wallthat he puts Jackson down and ushers for both of us to stand in front of him. He leans his tall frame against the wall, keeping a firm hand on Jackson’s shoulder for safety.
“I didn’t realize you had such a protective streak in you, Dr. Charlebois.”
He leans over to me, tugging on the end of my braid, the back of his knuckle grazing over my breast as he does. “Normally, I don’t. But with you two?” He leans forward to whisper in my ear, “Abso-fucking-lutely I do.”
“Oh,” is all I can manage to say. Surprised I was even able to form a solitary word with the way my body heats over his comment.
“Oh,” he teases, nudging me with his elbow before gesturing with a nod of his head. “The line’s moving, let’s go.” He slides his hand from Jackson’s shoulder to grab his hand, and I take that opportunity to slip mine in his opposite one. His head spins in my direction at the contact, but he doesn’t have to say anything. I squeeze his hand twice, and he returns the gesture, a smile so wide his one cheek dimple pops.
~
Jackson’s smile hasn’t left his face since the first kid in line was released. We’re about a third of the way in, but the line is dwindling quickly as each kid takes off. The anticipation of seeing him run the bases has me nearly as giddy.
“Have your phone ready,” he prompts me. “You should probably video me. The pictures might be blurry.”
Jim lets out a hearty laugh. “You’re that fast, huh? Man, I can’t wait to see you in action.”
“I might run these bases for real, someday. Maybe I’ll play for the Cubs.”
The statistics of someone becoming a pro baseball player, even if they are top of their game in high school or college are pretty slim. Maybe if Jackson dedicated himself, he could play for a good college, or minor league. Or find a traveling league or something. He hasn’t played more than T-ball and a few games of catch with Jim in the backyard, but his mind is already set on joining the MLB.
“Maybe,” Jim responds. “When you do become a famous ball player, I better get you to sign a ball for me.”
Jackson nods. “Yup. One for you too, Mom.”
“Thanks, bud.” I tousle his hair. If my baby wants to be an MLB player, then I’ll do everything in my power to help him reach his dreams.
We finally reach the end of the line, and they usher Jim to the warning track as only one adult is allowed per kid. I stay with Jackson until it’s his turn before moving to wait halfway between third base and home plate for the best photos.
Before I know it, Jackson’s off. He swings his little arms as far as they will go, tucking his head down as he gives it his all. He’s right on the heels of the kid in front of him, who looks a few years older and is a heck of a lot taller. The tip of his tongue darts out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, and a broad smile spreads across my face.
I pull my phone up, snapping hundreds of pictures without pausing to make sure they look good before turning back to scream at Jim. “Look at him!” I point in Jackson’s direction, as if Jim hasn’t been following along and clapping the entire time. “Look how fast he is!” I squeal. Seeing him run,reallyrun the bases of a true major league field has images flooding in my mind of Jackson as an adult, wearing the classic, striped Cubs jersey, giving a Babe Ruth signal for a home run before cracking one out of the stadium. “Go Jax!” I shout, bringing my hands to my mouth for a shrill whistle.
As Jackson rounds second base, I force my fumbling hands to start a video just as he hits third and pauses, jumping to give Clark the Cub a high five. He runs the final leg to home plate, landing with both feet and throwing his hands in the air to signal victory. Jim runs to him, picking him up and swinging him around with excitement, and I feel a lone tear drip down my cheek. I quickly swipe it away, taking the opportunity to snap a few pictures of Jim and Jackson swinging around.
“Mom! What did you think, did you see how fast I was?” Jim sets Jax down and he rushes to me. I pull him in for a hug just the same and swing him around a few times. “Buddy, that was amazing! It was like I saw you on the field for real!” I set him down and pull his head to my stomach for a hug. His breaths are coming out in choppy, exaggerated motions, and I rub a hand down his back to soothe him. “That was amazing,” I tell him, “best thing I have ever seen. I think I have a future major league baller on my hands.”
