Tales From Suburbia: The Doughnut Conundrum

It was one of those moist hazy mornings that you just knew would turn hot at any time.  Yet you were still cold.  Perhaps it was the fact that you’re still asleep as you walk from the minivan, across a few fields of grass still wet from the morning dew.  Fresh green grass clippings stick to the side of your new leather Reeboks, and a few reach your socks.   You think “If only I’d woken up a few minutes earlier, I coulda made myself a piping hot cup o’ Joe.  That would go down real nice right now.”  But, alas, you say that every Sunday on the way to the Baseball Field.  “Come on Jordan,” you yell to the six year old trailing behind you and seeming to dawdle.  He’s not dawdling, of course.  It’s just that your legs are quadruple the length of his, and he just can’t walk that fast with only  25% of the legage.   

As you pass Field 1 (or Field 3, who can remember the numbers anyway?), Gottlieb asks if you’re playing his kid’s team.  No, we’re the Marlins and we’re playing over there on Field 2 (or 4).  Gottlieb says: “we’re playing the Marlins here on this field.”  You’re annoyed.  “Look Stu, there’s nobody with teal shirts here; kids wearing Jordan’s uniform are over there on Field 2" (or 4).  No, Gottlieb says, “that’s the Mariners, not the Marlins, and they’re playing on Field 5.”  “Jordan,” I inquire, “are you on the Marlins or the Mariners?” “I don’t know” he replied, clearly more interested in the worm he just found than baseball.  “Lemme look at your cap.”   Jordan removes a red Phillies cap from his back pocket.  “That was your cap from last Spring, you don’t wear that now!!!”  Jordan continued to play with the worm, completely oblivious to the sartorial faux pas he just committed, and unconcerned that the other parents will no doubt snicker and disparage his father when he takes the field (Who are his parents?!). 

Gottlieb reached into his back pocket and removed his league  schedule. “OK this is week 2, so --- wait, are you the Marlins or the Mariners?”  You think to yourself- does not knowing make me a bad father?  You pause, hoping he won’t make you admit you don’t know the name of your son’s little league team.  “Is your coach McGillicudi or Cherpa?”

This is getting worse.  “It’s Joe.”

We say it together:  “They’re both named Joe.”

Taking the offensive, you say: “and it’s not week 2.  Two weeks ago was week one, and last week was week 2.”  Gottlieb, always in tune with what’s going on: “Week 2 was rained out, so this becomes week 2, even though it’s two weeks after week one.”

“Well I don’t care anymore, I’m pretty sure that’s Jordan’s team over there,” pointing to Field 1 (or 3), “and that’s where we’re going.”  Hurumph.

You head for that field and pass seven people in fold up cloth chairs, already relaxing.  Their kids are out on the field, practicing fielding grounders, and being minded by the Coach.  You haven’t been relieved yet of your duties, and if Jordan doesn't get his 25% legs moving a little quicker, we’re going to get there at half-time.  “I’m tired.” Jordan whines as we pass over the walk of pink and white pavers.  “Tired?  It’s 8:30 in the morning, you haven’t even played yet, and you’re six!!! Move it.”  Now is not the time to repeat the “I had to walk barefoot and uphill both ways when I went to school” speech.

We arrive at the field, and recognize some of the other parents.  I say “hi” to Joe, who says hello to Jordan, and tells him to “go and do the drills with Ryan S, Eddie, Dominic, and Spencer.  Assistant Coach Mike is working with Robert, James, David, and Ryan B.”  Apparently, Joe is good with names. 

I step back to the “parents” section.  Four women in designer sweatsuits, permanently ensconced in cloth fold up chairs, are drinking double mocha lattes from Starbucks, and discussing how difficult life is for the stay at home mom (“how am I supposed to fit my Escalade into a parking spot that small?”).  The Starbucks smell reminds me of the coffee yearnings I was having a mere few minutes prior.  I don’t need a double lattee Frappachino.  A good cup of Joe would be fine. No milk, no sugar.  At precisely that minute, something caught my eye in my peripheral vision.  It was something glorious, and beautiful, and as seemingly unattainable as the Arc of the Covenant.  Ryan B’s father was sitting in his own fold up chair, by himself, wearing sunglasses, and talking on his cell phone.  In the little cupholder at the front of his right armrest was ---- a  cup of Dunkin’  Donuts coffee, extra large.  But that’s not all.  At his left shoe was a Dunkin’  Donuts bag, filled no doubt with something fried, glazed and magical.

Along with the registration materials distributed prior to this season, the Baseball League sent out a “Rules for Parents”.  The imposition of these rules was necessitated by some ugly incidents in the past few years of parents yelling at kids, arguing with coaches and umpires, and (this is most troubling) literally getting into fist fights with parents on the opposing team.  The parental rules were deficient in one serious respect by omitting one important -- perhaps the most important -- rule, in my opinion: No Dunkin’ Donuts unless you bring enough for everybody.  It’s a simple courtesy, like your first grade teacher used to say about candy or gum.  Frankly, I could not care one wit if the umpire makes a bad call, but if you eat Dunkin’  Donuts in front of me, while I stand here chairless, coffee-less and donut-less, you’re taking your life into your own hands.  I think that should be an excuse for assault (“Your Honor, he had a chocolate glazed”).

Jordan runs out on the field, totally oblivious to the fact that he does not have his mitt. Joe tells him to go get it so he runs to me and I pull it out of his bat bag.  For those of you who have not been to a Little League game in this millennium, long skinny bags with a shoulder strap to carry your bat (and other things) are de rigeur.

The guy in the cloth fold out chair with the extra large Dunkin’  Donuts coffee and the bag of glazed treats was still on his cell phone.  (“Lisa, if we go to your sister’s house today, we’re going to be on the LIE for like 3 hours.  And I’m not going to do it.  I've got to get Nicholas to soccer in 45 minutes [looking at his watch], and Ryan’s baseball doesn't end for 45 minutes.  When is Tiffany’s dance class over? [long pause].  Well if you want to hit Wegman’s, we’re not leaving here until 12:30 at the earliest, and realistically, 2 o’clock, so we won’t get to Marilyn’s until 5.  Why do we have to bring something, anyway, it’s your sister?  I’ll stop in at Buy-Rite and get a case of Bud, and Steve’ll be ecstatic. [pause] We’ll I don’t care what Marilyn thinks, but if you want to bring a salad, bring a salad. [pause] yes dear, I think they grow on trees.  Look, why didn’t you just make it yesterday?”)

For the uninitiated, the cardinal rule of suburban spousal peace is never question the stay at home mom’s ability to fit something into her day.  You must simply go on the assumption that if it wasn't done, there were not enough hours in the day.  Ryan’s dad made this costly mistake by asking why his wife did not make the salad the day before, insinuating that, perhaps, given the apparent importance of said salad, that Lisa’s time management skills are weak, or her priorities were misaligned. A long pause followed that question.  I could not hear what was said, although I could tell that Lisa’s vibrato rose significantly.  I assume her monologue went something like this:

“From the moment I woke up, Brianne was crying.  She wouldn’t let me do anything.  Before I knew it, I had to get Ryan, Nicholas and Tiffany off to school.  Ryan said he didn’t feel well, Tiffany wouldn’t eat her cereal, and we had no bread for any of their lunches.  I had to borrow $10 in singles from Ryan and Tiffany so I could let them buy lunch. By the way, stop at the ATM on the way home so we have cash for this weekend.  Anyway, lunch at Ryan’s school was tuna fish, and he won’t eat it because they put celery in it.  So the others bought lunch, Nicholas got PBJ on a hot dog roll.  Nicholas’ bus was late, so by the time all the kids were out of the house, it was time to take Brianne to our Mommy and Me class.  No shower, no make-up, and I barely had time to wolf down my coffee.  I’m sure I looked like drech.” 

This soliloquy continued for a full 7 solid additional minutes.  Ryan’s dad said nary a word.I assume a full blow-by-blow minute-by-minute accounting of the entire day ensued, so as to more than adequately respond to the “why didn’t you do it yesterday?” question.  Guys in the know are more than happy to accept “I was too busy”, whether actually stated, or as in this situation, implicit in the tone.  It saves hours over the course of a year. 

By placing himself in such a defensive posture, he had no choice but agree to the lunchtime departure for the interminable trip to Marilyn and Steve’s on Long Island.

“How are you, I’m Herb, Jordan’s dad.”  We shook hands and he said his name was Dave.  Dave, Dave Dave.  I try to keep repeating it so I’ll remember it.  He was still obviously annoyed from his discussion with the Misses. If you’re wondering why I waited for Dave’s phone call to end, the only other choices were to sit by myself, or plant myself near the ladies, which ordinarily I’d be happy to do, except that I heard the word “massengill”, and while a know a family in town with that name, I was not willing to take that risk.   Besides, Dave had a bag of Dunkin Munchkins. 

We began with the classic suburban discussion among working people: the horrid commute into New York City.  Dave had been doing the New York City commute for 10 years until recently when he got a job in North Jersey.  The traffic on the Parkway and 287 is legendary, and also makes for good male bonding discussions.  I still do the New York route, though I drive to a train.  Most walk to or drive to a bus.  Finally, he offered a Munchkin.  While I began savoring my white powdered treat, I noticed that a number of kids and adults were huddled up between third base and the pitcher’s mound.  Hmm, looks like some kid got hurt.  Boy, I’d love some coffee.  Mike, the assistant coach yells out, “where are Jordan’s parents?”. 

I’ve been a bad parent.  I admit that.  Three years of spring and fall Little League made me so jaded, I wasn’t even watching.  Dominic’s mom came running up to tell me my son got hit on the forehead with a hardball off an opposing player’s bat.  A third of the other parents rushed out onto the field to make sure it wasn’t their kid.  I was too busy with my Munchkin. Of course, two-thirds of the parents did what I did.  Nope---can’t take any solace there. 

Turns out Jordan’s OK.  He didn’t get hit by a line drive, in fact, he didn’t even come into contact with the ball.  Rather, he  fell forward lunging for a dribbler.  His head and arm hurt a little, but he sat out one inning and was back in the next time the Marlins (or Mariners) took the field.   Me? I spent the remainder of the game calculating the odds of my wife Laura finding out about Jordan’s fall and his dad’s “lightning quick” response.   Maybe I should join Dave on his trip to Long Island.