Safe

        I want to drive myself home, but I simply don’t have the will right now. My door slams after I finish swinging my left leg in. Before I do anything, I let my body dissolve into the driver’s seat and am immediately met by a shiver – the sweat on my shirt isn’t completely dry yet. It’s a sharp contrast to the hot interior of the vehicle brought on by the late August sun. It’s hotter than forty hells in here, that’s what dad would say. I feel like I’m suffocating and turn the engine on to get air flowing. Thousands of cheers greet me through my speakers. I look at my clock through the smudged glass on the screen. 7:08. Game time. 

              As Brandon Gaudin begins ringing off the lineup of the Atlanta Braves, I let my head lay against the rest and shut my eyes. I haven’t been into baseball since I was a kid, but recently I never miss a game. It helps fill the space of newfound free time in the evenings where I just need something to occupy my mind. The announcer introduces the first batter for Atlanta, and I allow myself to slip into a daydream, one from my childhood. I’m walking to home plate confidently, Braves written in red cursive across my chest, baseball bat in hand. The crowd’s on their feet and as my name and face flash across the screen in center field, I catch a glimpse of my dad in the seats behind the dugout. He is pointing and clapping; he’s never looked prouder.  I let the image linger for a moment before opening my eyes to the empty parking lot of my workplace. Bits of dirt and dust dotted my windshield that revealed cracked white lines defining the few spots for our fewer employees across a now barren parking lot. How odd that I’ve spent years counting the hours, sometimes minutes, until I could leave and now, I’m again the last one here. Part of me hates going home now, at least the drive. If I can get there, I’m fine. It’s getting there that can be dangerous though, especially on a bad day. Thank God it’s the weekend and I don’t have to do this again tomorrow.   The transmission crunches as the light on my dash switches from “P” to “D”; the baseball game begins. It’s time to make that dreaded drive home. 

              The highway runs straight through downtown and is the quickest way, usually around 15 minutes, but lately, I’ve taken the drive by the lake to capture the picturesque sunset on my evening commute. I don’t see why tonight should be different, and the extra ten minutes it adds to the trip still doesn’t bother me. There are also no stores by the lake. I cut across the divided four lane highway and took a left onto the river road as Riley led off the Atlanta lineup and took ball one. The last rays of the summer sun dipped their golden fingers into the lake as I crossed the bridge and gazed over the water. Children splashed within the confines of the yellow boundary of a swimming area while their parents sat in chairs on the sandy lakeshore reading books and scrolling on phones. Boats zipped around the deeper water dragging tubes and skiers. The odd fishing boat was anchored here and there bobbing up and down from the waves of their more active counterparts. It’s a view that deserves to be appreciated, and it will take more time than the truck behind me or the speed limit will allow. There’s a viewing area halfway down the bridge made for occasions such as this.    Dik-dok-dik-dok-dik-dok. I imitated the noise with my tongue and cut the blinker off as my tires glided into the curb of the pull off. Squeaky brakes brought me to a halt and fresh air replaced the smell of sweat as my windows came down. I put it in drive and took in the waterscape through the passenger window. The kids in the swimming area had now partnered up and were chicken fighting each other as their parents applauded. Waves rhythmically slapped against the lakeshore. A heron attempted, and failed, to catch its supper. Riley sent a line drive through the gap to right field.

              “And it is…OFF THE RIGHT FIELD WALL! Riley will easily get to second, Williams bobbles the ball in right field, recovers, makes the throw, and they will WAVE RILEY AROUND TO THIRD! Here he comes headfirst, and he is…”, Brandon’s excited voice came to a pause, “SAFE! And the Braves start the game with a man on third! My, oh my, what a hit! We’re watching the replay here in the booth and you can really see how he…”. I let Brandon’s voice drift off and came back to the scene before me. A ceasefire in chicken fighting had been declared and all combatants were now wading up to the lakeshore where parents waited with folded chairs and packed coolers. I bet they all asked for just five more minutes, I thought to myself and smiled. Where there was once sun there was now only a sherbert colored pink and orange sky, though, and it was time for everyone to go, me included.  I shifted gears and rolled slightly before pressing on the brake and giving the lake one last look. I’m finally beginning to find pleasure in small moments again. I lifted my foot off the pedal and continued my way home.  Albies grounded out to third which brought Olsen up to face the pitcher. 

              After the bridge, I followed the road through rolling hills for five miles before coming to an intersection guarded by a faded stop sign with a sticker saying “Don’t Be A Litterbug!” I’m usually good with a California roll here, but an oncoming car forces me to come to a complete stop and yield the right-of-way. It passes and I look left, right, and paused as my eyes focused on the spread of bottles and cans littering the roadside, ironically beside the stop sign displaying the dancing bee.  I pressed on through the intersection and noticed my knuckles had turned white from my grip on the steering wheel. I was thirsty and the highway could take me to a store, but I could only do it this once. It was Friday after all. Meanwhile, Olsen stepped into the batter’s box with no balls and two strikes. 

              “Now Matt Olsen who is usually good in these situations steps up to take his third pitch of the evening. And here it is folks! Now for the 0-2, and….IT’S A WILD PITCH! RILEY WILL HAVE A CHANCE TO STEAL HOME!” The cheers of 40,000 fans erupted over my radio and banished the moment of temptation I’d had.  Now was my chance, I had to get home. As Riley charged toward the plate, helmet flying off as he slid headfirst, I made the final turn into my neighborhood and started down my own homestretch. Riley’s hand stretched under the glove of the catcher and barely touched the corner of the plate. My tires rolled onto my cracked oil-stained driveway. We were both safe. I smiled as I pictured my dad in my mind. He was smiling and clapping; he’s never looked prouder.