“Mom.”
“Sorry.”
He rubbed one thumb over the plastic scoreboard.
Then he looked at Chris.
“Dad used to yell at football.”
“That was a memorable evening, sweetie.”
“I still yell at football, buddy,” Chris cut in.
“No, Dad… now you yell and then look at me.”
Chris said nothing.
Ethan turned to me.
“And Mom used to yell at referees.”
“Bad referees.”
“All referees.”
I almost laughed.
Then Ethan said, “That’s why I picked football.”
“No, Dad… now you yell and then look at me.”
Total silence hit the room.
Chris leaned forward.
“What do you mean?”
Ethan’s face crumpled with frustration, as though we were making him explain something that should have been obvious.
“I wanted you guys to have fun with me.”
Ethan wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“I wanted you guys to have fun with me.”
“Everybody keeps acting like everything has to be special now just because I’m going to die.”
I put my phone facedown beside me.
He looked at it.
Then he whispered the sentence I would hear differently for the rest of my life.
“Sometimes I just want stuff to be stuff.”
“Everybody keeps acting like everything has to be special now just because I’m going to die.”
Chris stared at Ethan for several seconds.
Then he reached over and covered our son’s hand with his.
“I’m sorry, Captain.”
Ethan shrugged, but his eyes stayed on the plastic field.
“I know you’re sad. I’m sad too.”
Chris nodded.
“I’m sorry, Captain.”
“I know. But you’re still here, Captain” he said gently. “And I’ve been acting like my job is to watch every second instead of being in it with you.”
Ethan finally looked at him.
“So you’re admitting I’m right?”
Chris blinked.
“Absolutely not.”
Ethan grinned.
“Too late.”
“Absolutely not.”
