Park Point Community Center
Saturday. My son Jack and his U15 soccer team is starting playoffs and I’m going to miss the game. Not just as a parent but as one of the coaches. Before I agreed to coach the team with Tim and Gary, I’d signed up to be at the Park Point Community Center for the “Get to the Point” craft show, selling my books. The fact that I’m going to miss the first game (it’s at 9:00am-right when I’ll be setting up my book display) but make the second game at 3:00pm by closing down my sales efforts an hour early sits in my stomach like bad beef.
Choices.
I’ve coached all four of my sons in soccer and, on occasion, two of the four in hockey. I’ve been a confirmation instructor at our church for all four boys. I’m currently active in Jack’s scout troop. I try to be a good example, to be there when our sons need their dad. But, from time to time, my desire, my drive to succeed as an author gets in the way of parenting. There’s only so much time in the week, only so many days to be shared. Today is one of those days when I have to be in two places at once.
My wife Rene’ calls me as I am setting up in the cozy space of the Community Center. It’s her job, since I’m pursuing John Grisham-like recognition, to drive Jack in to his game.
“The car won’t start.”
It’s the second time this week her Matrix won’t start. Last time, she left the dome light on. This time, the starter clicks but nothing more happens.
“Did you leave the light on again?”
My wife isn’t happy with my suggestion. She informs me that she’s perfectly capable of diagnosing a car problem and that the present defect is not, repeat, is not due to her, but a mechanical malfunction.
“Why do you always have to place blame on someone?” she asks.
Because I’m a judge. It’s what I do.
I hold my tongue. Eventually, our eldest son, Matt, his wife and infant son arrive and give Rene’ and Jack a ride to the game. Our faithful mechanic Woody is on his way to diagnose the issue: It’s a good thing he lives just up the road.
I settle into my chair, ready for customers, and try to keep up-to-date on the soccer game through technology. I don’t text often but I find myself receiving and sending texts to Matt as he watches the game. The second text I get is disturbing.
Jack’s hurt.
I try to get more information. Matt ignores my texts. Customers stop by. I sell a few copies of my work. I have a few manuscript copies of my novel-in-progress, Sukulaiset: The Kindred, the sequel to my best selling historical novel, Suomalaiset, for sale. The rest of the copies are in the hands of my pre-readers. Once I get their feedback, I’ll make my final edits and then send the book off to a professional editing service. From there, if all goes well, the book will see print sometime next summer. A professor from UMD stops by and we talk about the book. I sell her a copy. She promises to email me with her thoughts and criticisms.
Matt finally updates me. Jack is out of the game with a pulled hamstring. I try calling Matt, Rene’, and even Jack, who has his own iPhone (though it’s unlikely he has it on the sidelines). Nothing. I feel depression, a sense of failure at not being there for my son, weigh heavy.
Reminds of when I was in Winnipeg, being pummeled with questions by that crazy ass book reviewer at Chapters (the Canadian equivalent of Barnes and Noble), who it turns out was the only reviewer to pan Suomalaiset. Chris was playing in the All Star game back home while I tried to gain recognition as an author. I missed that game too. And for what? So some ass could pillory me? Sometimes I don’t know why the hell I’m doing this.
Despite the fact that its drizzling and cold outside, I decide to take a walk to see what Lake Superior is doing. 
I follow a wooden boardwalk set in sand to an
observation platform overlooking the big water. I find relief and peace in feeling the familiar embrace of October wind and mist. I’d like to pack up my books and find a bar to drown my lament but realize that getting tanked won’t erase my melancholy. In truth, my soul craves melancholy. It’s in my DNA to persevere against angst and downheartedness and guilt. So I turn on my heels and head back to the craft show.
1-0.
That’s the text Matt sent me while I was contemplating the lake.
Who won?
Telling me the score, without putting it into perspective, really doesn’t help much. And it doesn’t tell me where the game is at in terms of time.
Is the game over? Is that a final score?
I don’t text these questions but they linger in my mind. Matt doesn’t text back. I finally call and find out that Jack’s team won. I put my phone away and have a nice chat with a young woman and her husband manning the booth next to mine. He’s a scientist with the Wisconsin DNR: She’s a “reformed” attorney, practicing her art and no longer appearing in court. Because she’s from out east, I describe our court system for her and she describes her work as a prosecutor and former Assistant AG. I glance at the clock. It’s 2:00 and the crowd is dwindling. Time to go.
I make it to the second game in time to help coach a group of fine young men. Despite his injury, Jack is determined to play. It takes him the better part of an hour to stretch out his hamstring to the point he can run at all. I yield to his petitions and, against my better judgment as a coach, I put him in. It’s clear from his limited speed that he’s still hurting. But he tries, as do his teammates, to win their second game of the playoffs. Despite hammering away at the Grand Rapids net for most of the game, the last fifteen minutes of the contest is all Rapids. We hang on and the game ends in a tie. There’s a question as to whether Jack’s team will advance further in the playoffs. My son and I head home, boxes of books stacked to the ceiling and a soccer ball rolling around in the cargo area of the Pacifica.
Peace.
Mark
