The Ball Game

"What? Like...today?" I flicked a bit of eraser and sent it careening off into the corner of my dorm room. It landed somewhere in the shadows between my mini-fridge and my gym bag, briefly illuminated by the rays of light that illuminated my small cell before vanishing into the void.

"Yes, today!" My Mom's familiar chirp always shone through when she was trying to get her way. "I'd really like it if you came. It's in a few hours, actually. Is that alright?"

I pretended to thumb through my nonexistent calendar for a second before inevitably replying. "Uh-huh, yeah, that works for me."

"Really?" Mom's voice perked up even more. "Oh, thank you, honey! You know how I hate waste, and throwing these tickets in the trash would have been the spoiled cherry on my woefully melted sundae."

I chuckled, entertained by my Mother's imaginative comparison. Not wanting to be that spoiled cherry, I was happy to oblige her request.

My Dad's birthday was a week ago, and Mom had bought them two tickets to watch his favorite team play the Yankees; a game that my Father ensured me would be a real treat. He had recently broken his leg after he fell off a ladder while fixing the gutters and was forced to miss the game, but the tickets were non-refundable so Mom's attendance was set in stone. Mom promised Dad that we would record as much as we could, but he said that would basically be like watching it on an even smaller television than he usually did.

Though I wasn't much of a baseball fan, I recognized that Mom would have been somewhat crushed to abandon the chance at a fun afternoon out so I wanted to be the one to brighten her spirits.

It had been weeks since I had seen my Mother and, though we occasionally talked on the phone, I was looking forward to the chance to have fun like we used to when I was younger. My Mom was always the goofiest parent at the PTA meetings and though some of that chaotic energy had spread to me, I had recently been feeling the burden of my undergrad longing to drag me down into an endless abyss. A day out was as necessary for my mental health as it was for the cabin fever she contracted from spending all day tending to my Father.

No, he didn't need the endless help she provided, but Mom was always keen to play nurse when one of her boys was sick or injured. Her tendency to "over-mother" was something not lost on me or Dad, but we loved that about her.

Mom quit working a couple of years ago, thanks to the large pension provided by my Father who was nearly ten years her senior. Her early retirement meant that the two of them had been spending more and more time with each other. Though they were still very much in love with one another, her brand of independence can disappear after so many years with one person. Giving up work to live on my Father's -- admittedly enormous -- pension had given a blow to that independence, so any reason for an adventure was one she would gladly take.

While I knew she was enjoying the freedom to garden at her leisure, I was sure there was an even greater desire to get out in the world and connect with people. My Mother was a social butterfly and, being that I felt sequestered to my cocoon most days, I was thrilled to be getting out of the house for something other than a casual beer with my friends.

Mom continued to excitedly plan our outing while I looked through my laundry for anything salvageable. I didn't usually go out on laundry day, but I knew "I have no clean clothes" was not an excuse she would accept. My choices were sparse; a pair of menacingly thick sweatpants (a quick glance at the pavement melting in the heat outside told me to keep searching) or the baggy cargo shorts I had sworn to burn in a barrel next time I saw one alight. I seriously considered my options, and concluded that a fashion faux pas would suit me better than a fatal heatstroke. Cargo shorts, here I come.

"Does that work for you, Muffin?" The mention of my childhood nickname snapped me to attention.

"Does that...does that work for me? " I repeated, hoping to buy some time without revealing I was busy rifling through my dirty laundry for something salvageable. "Uh, yes! Yes, of course it does."

Without finding so much as a pair of semi-clean boxers in my dresser, I was forced to accept defeat. Going commando, here I come.

Mom giggled excitedly. "Oh thank you, baby, I'll see you in about forty minutes."

Mom said something about finally being able to wear a new "flowery sundress" she was excited about before she hung up. If I hadn't dropped the phone while trying to tighten a belt around my horrifically ill-fitting shorts I might've heard her, but I don't focus well in a rush.

Thirty-nine minutes later my phone buzzed with Mom's signature ringtone. I was going to the bathroom to avoid using the dreaded communal nightmare known as "the public urinal", so I had to rush to grab my phone before I missed the last ring. I would have missed it if not for my incredible reflexes. Well, perhaps not so much "incredible reflexes". A more accurate phrase is "my disastrously impulsive rush, resulting in a zipper jammed beyond repair".

"Shit!" I vocalized my frustration, gripping the zipper and yanking it upwards with all my might as I answered the phone.

With a sudden release of tension the small piece of metal snapped off in my hand. I stared at the black rectangle and clicked my tongue with disapproval before tossing it into the trash bin. My fly was left irreparably agape, so I knew I would have to keep that in mind if I wanted to avoid embarrassing myself in public. "Piece of junk, you are."

"I'm sorry, I must have misheard you." Mom's voice lost its typical chipper. "I'm a what?"

My stomach sank. "No! Oh my god, no. I'm sorry, Mom. I broke my damn zipper and-."

"Dang." She corrected me.

"Oh, right, I broke my damn dang and now my shorts-."

"Evan!" She hollered. "I know you think you're being funny, but that kind of language is simply unacceptable!"

Beat.

We both burst out in a fit of laughter, neither one of us winning the game of chicken she thrust us into.

"Almost had me, Mom." I lied. Half my mind was running the numbers on how likely I would be to keep my dick in my pants without a proper zipper, but nothing came to mind.

"Damn right, I did! Now, get your ass down in this car before you have to bring my remains home in a soup bowl." I could hear the A/C blasting in the background, so I knew she wasn't kidding about the heat.

Is it really that hot outside? I groaned to myself, stifling any hope of survival if I opted for sweatpants instead of my newly zipperless shorts. I begrudgingly tightened a belt around my waist and folded the front flap so it stayed closed; the single line of defence stopping my dick from flopping out the front.

Just relax, nobody is even gonna notice it. Who needs boxers, anyway? They're totally overrated, just sit still and don't shuffle around too much so you don't blah, blah, blah...

This kind of internal assurance ran laps through my head until I stepped outside into the familiar warmth of summertime air, at which point I was too distracted by Mom's outfit to keep any other thoughts in my head.

My Mother was adorned in a bright white sundress dotted with vibrant yellow flowers that stopped just above her knees. The hem around the bottom sported a subtle, delicate frill of lace that was nearly thin enough to overlook, with a thin, brown braided belt stretching across her tummy that held the whole thing together. Her arms were slightly pudgy, legs sturdy but not chubby, and her cream coloured skin reflected the light in such a way that the word "angelic" would be an understatement. When compared to most women her age -- hell, even half her age -- she was immaculately put together.

Her shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair, as naturally vibrant as you could imagine, sat loosely from her face and blew freely in the crisp breeze. She had been rocking the same matronly haircut since I was a kid, but it framed her beauty in such a pronounced way that I would consider it a crime against nature if she were to style it differently. Sure, maybe I was biased, but she looked great and she knew it.

"Wow, Mom. You look fantastic!" I tried in vain to swallow a mouthful of sand. I didn't remember Mom as such captivating woman, but with the sun lighting her from behind and peeking through her golden locks I found that I could not take my eyes off of her. "Does Dad know you left the house like that?"

Mom gave a sarcastic curtsy before she rolled her eyes to the heavens. "He knows that he has a cooler full of beer at his feet and the game on his TV. Do you really think he noticed what I was wearing when I left?"

"I didn't think the game had started yet? Are we late?" I pulled my phone out to check the time.

Mom rolled her eyes. "No, the other game. Whether it's from last week, or even this decade, I simply do not know. All I know is that he was watching baseball when I left, and he'll be watching it when I get back -- though the beer will be long gone."

Yeah, that sounded like Dad.

Mom and I caught up on the way to the game, stopping for coffee to enhance the speed at which we could soar through conversation topics. By the time we reached the bus terminal we were knee deep in a tale of Mom's sleepless night spent waiting for me to get home from my friend's house, and the ensuing scene she caused when she mistook me for a burglar sneaking in through the garage.

The longer we talked the more I felt like I was shedding layer after layer of residual anxiety. My Mother was such a tremendous comfort to me, and had been for so much of my life, that I felt suspended between reality and escapism just by spending an hour with her. So much of the stress and woe that plagued me, overlapping like layers of graffiti, were being scrubbed away to expose the person I remembered before I succumbed to the pressure of my studies.

As our conversation went on, I only felt closer to her. That's meant metaphorically, but for Mom it was quite literal. Every laugh was an opportunity for her to squeeze my forearm, every moment of sincerity accented by her head on my shoulder. For her, listening to me talk was an excuse to gaze into my eyes so lovingly that I couldn't help but lose my train of thought. I chalked it up to nostalgia, and having not seen me for such a long time, so I wasn't surprised that she was so affectionate. I never remembered seeing this side of her so strongly, as she pulled back on how dotting she was after I hit puberty, but I was hooked on it. It felt like being on a first date with someone whom you click with such rapid intensity that it feels like you've known them for years.

I was so distracted by her that when Mom pulled up to a bus station, I had some serious questions. I had even more of them when she pulled the car around and parked in the underground garage.

"Uh, Mom?" I jerked my head around like I was trying to spot a surprise party hidden behind a nearby cement pillar. "Do they play baseball here? This place looks kinda...I dunno, like a parking lot?"

She chortled sarcastically "Ha ha, Muffin, how very astute of you. We are going to the stadium, but your Father said this is how he always did it when he went to games."

"Why would he park in a lot that's nowhere near the actual game?" I arched an eyebrow.

"He said, and I quote," She puffed up her chest and spoke in a lower, husky register with her brow tensely furrowed. "Kitty, you gotta take the bus, cuz the stadium is gonna be a nightmare when everybody rushes home. I've seen those busses packed so darn tight it makes sardines look lonely, but it's still better than fighting the traffic!"

"Well, that sucks, but in other news you're apparently crushing your impersonation of Dad." I finished off the last dribble of my coffee. "Do you think it's possible that, after getting pretty shitfaced at a game, Dad might not be left with the option of driving home? Are you sure you wanna take the bus?"

Mom pondered this for a second before throwing her hands up in defeat. "You might be right. He did say it was "part of the experience", though. Either way, we're here now so there's no time to think about just what kind of experience he meant. Driving down there now would be an awful waste of gas, so let's just make the most of it?"

Now that sounded like a reason she would truly insist upon; my Mom was nothing if not frugal, so I knew I would be buying all the drinks and snacks today.

The idea of public transit wasn't my favourite. I'm not a fan of enclosed spaces and once you add in strangers it just gets even messier. "You'd better have several games of twenty questions loaded up, otherwise I'm gonna get cagey."

"Fine, I'm thinking of everything I can to tantalize those juicy brain cells." Mom searched through her purse one last time to make sure we had the tickets, and raised them to the sky in a clenched fist once she found them. "Ready to go, Muffin?"

I thought I was, but no. I was anything but ready for what happened next.

"Mom, the flash is on." I leaned in and tapped the lightning bolt icon.

She sported a huge, cheesy grin before quickly hiding her phone. "Do you think 57 saw?"

I looked down at the pitcher who, from our seats, looked like a small, white weed amid a field of brilliantly manicured green grass. "I think he's got enough going on, you're probably safe."

She breathed a sigh of relief.

"What would Dad say if he knew you were fawning over the enemy, hmm?" I teased.

"Ah, the King of Envy, as he's known?" I saw nothing but white as Mom rolled her eyes to the back of her skull. "He'll be fine, he's a big boy."

As the first inning came to a close I felt my stomach trying to stage a war against hunger, and it was gaining ground. I asked Mom if she wanted anything from the concession stand and she paused to think.

"You know what?" She beamed with self-satisfaction.

"I couldn't possibly."

"I think I want a hot dog, it's that weird?" She scrunched her nose into an adorable pout.

"I think you might get some strange looks, but why not break the mold and- wait, nevermind, that guy has a hot dog." I dialed the sarcasm up to eleven. "If you wanna join the 'Cult of Dogs Hot' you could probably ask him."

Mom stuck a twenty dollar bill in my face. "Will this buy your silence, funny man?"

"Whatever you give me is coming right back to you, Mom." I took the bill from her out of her left hand and passed it back to her right hand. This was a game I knew she would play, and though her offer to buy the treats was appreciated it was empty at its core. She just wanted to see if I would let her pay, and I wasn't going to fall into her trap. "Let me pay, it's the least I can do."

More self-satisfaction spread across her face as she relished the presence of my undying chivalry. "How noble of you, Muffin. Let's make it two hot dogs, then?"

I tilted my head as if to question her spending habits on ballpark meat, but she insisted: "One for each of us, you goofball."

Fully prepared to play the hot dog delivery hero, I raced off towards the concession stand.

The line wasn't as long as I had expected: maybe I beat the rush? I wasn't allowed to be alone with my thoughts for long before I felt a tap on my shoulder. Wondering why she would have left her seat, I turned around expecting to see Mom standing there. Instead, there was a guy roughly my age standing with a dumbstruck look across his face.

"Dude," He spoke slow, as though he wasn't sure if I spoke English. "How did you get that fucken smokeshow to come to the game witcha, bud?"

My brain ran an analysis and came up short: who the hell was he talking about?

"I think you have the wrong guy, buddy." I spoke firmly and began to turn around in the hopes of cutting the conversation short.

He waved his hand back and forth as if to fan the remains of my answer out of the air, then grabbed my shoulder. "No, dude, I have the rightest guy there is."

Before I could ask what the fuck he was talking about, he gestured back towards the stadium.

"That fucken blonde hottie that's sitting next to you in there!" He was practically jumping up and down, like he had wrapped the present for me and was bursting with excitement watching me open it. "She's with you, no?"

"Well, yes, but also... no?" We shared an expression of equal bewilderment.

"Oh, damn, I see you." He hastily scanned the room to see if anyone was listening to us, as if we could discern anything besides each other amid the sea of shouting parents and crying children. "So she's like...a hooker or something?"

Irrational anger replaced the blood flowing through my veins. "Excuse me? Who in their right mind would bring a prostitute to an afternoon baseball game?" I now turned to face him and shook his arm off my shoulder. "That's my Mom, you dickhead."

"Oh, no I just, like -- I mean I didn't -- aw, fuck...I'm sorry, man." His eyes relayed an apology that his mouth was stammering to convey. "I didn't mean it like that, she's just a lil' older than you and she's got that nice dress on, so I was like-."

"I get it," I snarled. "Thanks, man."

My new friend seemed to no longer be concerned with offending me now that he had been snapped at. "Whatever, bro, I'm just sayin' that your mom is wicked hot. Shit, she's lucky she's not my mom, you know?"

Disgust gurgled in the pit of my stomach worse than the hunger, and I knew I couldn't resist the urge to taunt this guy. I intentionally raised my voice louder than necessary for conversation of this nature. "So, if she was your mother, you'd just... What? Fuck the shit out of her?"

Again, he scanned the bystanders in a panic to see if he was about to be made a spectacle. I thought I had dissuaded him from pestering me further, but he seemed encouraged to continue.

"No, bro, listen," He moved in close and wrapped his arm, clad unapologetically in dried paint, around my shoulder. "I'm just saying that if you gotta do you, you gotta do you, you know? A woman is a woman, end of the day."

Never in my life had I witnessed a human being speak so confidently about such utter bullshit.

"You're a bit off-kilter, aren't you?" I scrunched my nose as if the sheer odour of his character repulsed me.

He half-shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Maybe, but I think the real psycho is the guy who doesn't tear into a beautiful woman like that when he gets the chance."

By the mercy of every deity that humanity has ever worshipped, it was finally my turn to order. I paid and said goodbye to my wisdom laden life coach and tried to rid my head of his words.

The only problem? I couldn't stop hearing them.

A woman is a woman, end of the day.

A woman is a woman, end of the day

A woman is a woman, end of the day

I sounded like a broken record, saying the words "excuse me/sorry/pardon me" so many times that they lost all meaning. After my trek across many a nacho-covered lap, I plopped back down beside Mom with a huff.

She scanned me up and down in search of something. "Beers?"

Oh...oops. "I meant, you didn't ask for them." I winced, hoping she would accept the non-apology.

"Evan, it's a baseball game, I shouldn't have to ask." She put on the most dramatically sad face she could muster. "This better be the best hot dog I've ever had."

Shockingly, it wasn't, so I was back up to buy the forgotten beers by the end of the next inning.

The heat was staggering, but Mom and I were having such a good time that we hardly felt it. Every laugh felt like it shook my entire body, loosening the worries that had built up over the past few months from burying myself in school work.

The whole afternoon seemed to pass by in a blur, though that may have been thanks to the four or five beers I bought for us. I didn't see my overly friendly comrade again, but his words still echoed in my head every time I went back to refill our refreshments.