Dad came home last night from a softball double-header
covered in infield sand and man sweat.
It was 90 degrees,
his back was soaked
dust embedded, face sunburned.
I noticed some road rash on his arm,
asked, "You took some hard dives for the team?"
He said, "Yeah."
We throw in the movie, "Friday Night Lights,"
since Dad's never seen it. (Sierra, I'm sorry if I get the
sequence of events mixed up. Dad might have showered
before sitting on the couch to watch the movie.)
I go to bed. Get up. Go to work this morning.
Dad needs a hair cut. So, when I got home from work today,
I start combing his hair out. I see a goose egg covered in
road rash on his forehead and said, "Holy cow, where'd you get that? Sliding?"
He said, "No, a ball hit me."
I laughed. Because, I mean...
how?
(ball slammed the ground first and bounced up with enough force
to leave a big lump and tear a layer of skin)
pics do not show how swollen this is
he wouldn't have said anything, if I hadn't noticed.
(Is the irony lost here--he's all over that field chasing the cowhide,
then gets hit right between the eyes with it?)
