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02.15.02 - 5:12 p.m. i hate the idea of tim trying to teach his son how to play baseball. I have the whole scene in my head, a shady backyard, white tee shirts, blue jeans and red ballcaps...and then its all downhill. The awkward angle of a ten year old arm all knobbly elbow and chubby fingers gripping red stitching and letting go of a ball that drops into the grass between himself and his 20 feet away father who is disappointed and frustrated. I wondered it he was looking forward to it at school today, slipping it into his friends that he and dad are gonna work on the curve ball today. If he thought about tryouts tomorrow and got that sinking feeling in his stomach remembering the look that tim gets right before he says something bitter. "He sucks, he's terrible at baseball. Athletic genes he obviously got from his mother." Sharp tears in the corner of my eye that i wipe away with a knuckle. "I cant believe i dropped 100 bucks for this league, he's terrible." I want to hit tim in the face and then hug him and tell him that it takes practice to throw a baseball and that for awhile kids will run from things that are thrown at them. I tell him it takes practice and time and attention you moron. I chastise him cooly and finish with something about a father figure. He fixes me then from the doorway with blue eyes and something in his face that looks like helplesness "you think this is the first time i've ever thrown a ball with my son?" he watches me and its quiet and suddenly he's 32 all over again and i have to remember that im not. I dont have to worry about anyone else's tryouts or whether or not my apartment can handle a 10 year old boy. An apologetic glance and a kiss on my cheek, his eyes already somewhere else. I layed in bed and followed him down the stairs a solid creak on the fourth and ninth stair and the quick silver click of locking the door behind him. � 
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