While he gave an update about the day’s activities at golf camp, I had a question for my 10-year-old son Ben. “Did they have a drink cart that drove around?”
Ben replied in the affirmative and that his friend had purchased a bag of Doritos.
I followed up with another question. “Was there a pretty girl driving the cart?”
Reluctantly, Ben answered, “yes.”
Then I delivered my life lesson, “That’s how they get you.”
Son, I may have a pretty weak short game, but your dad sure has the beverage sales side of golf figured out.
Having selected my new car, I was excited to learn that its color is officially called “Caribou Metallic” or as the sales person called it, “Coffee.” Normal people call it “Brown,” but I’m not normal and neither is my new (used) Ford Explorer, so “Caribou” it is.
Introducing my boys to the car, they wanted to know its name. Only one came to mind, yes, “Caribou.”
So this evening, I was coaching Third Base for my 10-year-old son Ben’s baseball team. Ben took his turn at the plate and promptly fouled off a ball, which landed just a few feet from my new car. Looking down the Third Base line at me, he smiled nervously and mouthed the word, “Caribou.”
With excitement like that, there’s no need for coffee.
Many houses. Many states. A growing family, expanding from one kid to three.
My dear Ford Freestyle and I had been through a lot.
Famed for its Dashboard Meringues.
Infamous for our failed attempt to create our own ice cream truck.
Teased in its later life as the “Trash Wagon,” my beloved friend and I traveled oh so many miles together.
The end came after work. A day like most others, but this one ended in a soft rain.
My friend struggled first at stops. Then struggled to accelerate. Then lights began to flash a plenty.
My friend soldiered on. The final miles full of uncertainty. Pulling into my driveway, my friend emptied its soul.
One last trip, my beloved “Trash Wagon” died knowing I was safe at home.
Although the Kelly Blue Book value was slightly more than the accumulated change in the center console, my precious Ford was worth more to me than gold.
It fit me. It lived with me. It shared joy with me. It was my companion along the way.
My friend, as you take the on ramp to the Highway to Heaven. I thank you for being everything that a friend can be. I thank you for always carrying me home.
Last weekend, as we unpacked for a few days at the Lake, I watched as my son took some items out of his duffle bag. Typical stuff. Some shirts, a charger, a book, and of course, an ab roller, because abs don’t take vacations.
When you look up the word “irony,” just because you want to use it correctly, when telling a story about how hard it is to find your glasses, because you have lost your glasses and then you realize the whole definition of irony does not matter too much, because it is less ironic and more than anything else just sucks.
Coaching my son Ben’s 10-year-olds Little League team, the kids were drilling me with questions in the dugout. Typical stuff like “What is the score?,” “What inning is it?,” and “What time is it?” Then came a new question, “How much do coaches get paid?” Easy answer, nothing. The follow up question was harder, “Then, why do you coach?”
Later in the game, my son Ben threw the ball to me, as he prepared to pitch that inning. As the ball crossed home plate and landed in my glove, I savored the moment. Savored a pleasant summer night, playing catch with my son.
Returning to the bench, I watched as a few errors behind him landed young Ben in a bit of a pickle. I called time and trotted out to the mound. Bending down, I looked into Ben’s worried face. Poking him lightly in the chest, I smiled and said, “You’ve got this.” Jogging back to the dugout, I smiled. Gentlemen, it’s moments like this, that’s why I coach.
Coaching my Little League team to a 19-11 defeat left a bad taste in my mouth. Not as bad as the gnat that flew into my mouth, as I coached Third Base, but still a pretty bad taste.
