Dad Camp

One

If we don't win this girls nine-to-eleven softball game, it might actually be the end of the world.

Well, my world anyway.

I'm leaning against the chain-link backstop just next to our dugout on the third-base line, fingers gripping the metal for dear life, the late-summer sun beating on my neck, which would be sweating from the nerves even if it were January. Number 9, a girl named Isla, is up at bat, and the count doesn't look good. One ball and two strikes. We only have one out left, but I feel, let's say, pretty good about who's coming up in the lineup.

If we can make it there.

Number 9 takes a ball-2-2 now. At twelve, she's the tallest and biggest girl on the team, by far. She's here only because of a late birthday and a clerical error, so everyone assumes she's our secret weapon. Every week, parents of kids on the other team sit up with a nervous energy when she steps into the batter's box. Little do they know that she's utterly, undeniably terrible. She hasn't quite got full control over her fast-growing frame yet. Her stance is elbowy and awkward, like a baby ostrich learning to run. Great girl, great kid, but she's more effective as psychological warfare than as an actual player.

So . . . we might be in trouble.

The pitcher winds up and launches a fastball. Number 9 swings hard and, miraculously, gets all of it, driving it deep into left field. A shocked "Oh!" escapes my throat.

"Go, go, go!" I shout as she drops the bat, sounding like a drunk guy at a bar who bet way more than he could afford on this game. She takes off for first. The ball just gets over the outstretched glove of the fielder, and 9 takes second. A bad throw skips between an infielder's legs, and, just like that, she's on third.

This is the part where the team behind me should be going nuts, but I steal a glance over my shoulder, and our bench is a sea of disinterest. Girls snapping selfies. Tying their baggy jerseys up into cutesy side knots. Chatting lazily, bodies turned completely away from the action. I've never had as hard of a time getting a team engaged as I did this year, with this age group, with these girls. But no time to worry about that now.

There are two outs, a runner in scoring position, and Avery's up.

She jogs up to the plate, adjusting her helmet over brown hair sticking out in two braids on both sides. She's never cared about game-day hair before, but this season's hottest look, apparently, is pigtails, and Avery has adopted them along with the rest of the team. She wears her signature eye black, smeared like war paint all over her face. I catch up with her and pull her aside.

"So it all comes down to this," I say in my most ridiculous movie-trailer voice.

"Yep," she says, tightening her batting gloves, mostly ignoring me. Par for the course lately.

"We're all tied up. All we need is a base hit to bring Isla home. Just give it a little nudge into the gap." I point out a gaping chasm between two infielders. "And we walk off as champions. Think you can do it?"

Avery scoffs. "Dad . . . ," she starts.

"It's Coach Dad out here."

"I'm not calling you that," she says, tightening her batting gloves again, apparently unhappy with their snugness. "And I know what to do."

Now, here's the thing. It might sound a little cocky, but Avery and I have won more than our fair share of little plastic trophies that say Number One! or Great Job! She eats high-stakes scenarios like this for breakfast, and I mean that almost literally. Over Lucky Charms most mornings, she makes me quiz her on situational play. The more convoluted, the better. So she does, in fact, know what to do.

But there's always the chance that something goes wrong. A millimeter can be the difference between a home run and a pop fly, the difference between a joyful romp around the bases and Avery furiously bludgeoning the dirt with her bat. Today of all days, I'd much prefer the former.

I've got something I need to tell her, and she's not going to like it. At all. So, naturally, I've put it off until the absolute last possible second, which is right around as soon as this game is over. If I don't want my head bitten off, I need her in a good mood. If we lose? Who am I kidding-she won't let that happen. I'm sure of it.

(Please, God, don't let us lose.)

Avery brushes past me and settles in at the plate. I give a signal to number 9 at third, waving my arms in the air like a crazed chimpanzee, flicking the tip of my nose, then folding one leg up like a flamingo. She stares back blankly from underneath the brim of the batter's helmet for what feels like an excruciatingly long time.

"What?" she finally says aloud.

I'm really not sure how I could be more clear. We've practiced these! (I think.)

I sigh, then gesture animatedly toward home plate. Now she nods, finally getting it.

The pitcher winds up and delivers-and to my surprise, Avery doesn't appear to be aiming for a controlled line drive through the gap. She cocks back and uncorks a wild, Paul Bunyan-like swing instead.

And completely misses.

Number 9, who took off for home the second the pitch took flight, skids to a stop, confused, and runs back to third.

"Avery! Just lay it down!" I yell.

She glares back at me.

"Or, you know, trust your judgment or whatever. Woo!" I clap pitifully.

The pitcher reloads. Another perfect pitch, and another huge swing and a miss from Avery. The count is 0-2. It's not unlike her to come out aggressive and get behind like this. She has the skill to come back, and she knows it. Which is exactly what gets her into trouble sometimes.

I know what's more than likely about to happen, but it doesn't stop me from chewing what's left of my fingernails right off and spitting them out into the dirt as I watch. Seconds later, though, I'm proven right.

The pitcher adjusts her headband, digs her feet into the mound, and fires off another. Avery cocks back, not letting up, only this time she absolutely crushes it. The ball rockets into deep center, way over the outstretched gloves of the hapless fielders.

The team parents erupt in cheers from the bleachers, while the girls casually look over to see what's going on, mostly unenthused. I even spot a subtle eye roll or two-There she goes again. For years, Avery has stood out from her teammates, but they all used to look up to her for for her prowess on the field. This year has been . . . different, to say the least.

Avery throws her arms up triumphantly and tosses the bat, then jogs the bases. Two runs score. We win.

Moments before she stomps on home plate, I position myself a few feet away and crouch down, arms wide, for a customary congratulatory hug, like we've shared so many times before. I see her running toward me down the baseline, and for a moment I can see all versions of her at once. Four-year-old Avery, who forgot to drop the T-ball bat and carried it around the bases; six-year-old Avery with the batter's helmet drooping over her eyes; nine-year-old Avery, who was finally big enough to tackle me to the ground in a fit of giggles. Beaming, I ready myself for the embrace that's been the highlight of my week for as long as I can remember.

It's a little un-coach-like, I admit, but it's one of the few fatherly indulgences I allow myself when we're out on the field. Back when I was in Little League and my dad was the coach, he bent over backward not to treat me any differently from the other boys, to the point where it felt like he was actively ignoring me. I spent years working my ass off in hopes of getting a wink or a warm pat on the back-anything-before I finally gave up and dropped out of sports altogether.

Avery speeds up, sprinting home to secure the win. But instead of us colliding into an epic hug, she whizzes past me, with a small, unintentional (I hope) shoulder bump, which sends me careening backward onto my ass.

From the dirt, I watch as Avery skips over to the bench, beaming, hands up and prepped for an avalanche of high fives. None come. Most of the girls are already abandoning the dugout like a sinking ship, jogging to the infield for a few robotic handshakes with the losing team. Quickly, their attention turns to the nine-to-eleven boys, who just finished up a game on a field catty-corner to ours. They approach each other in packs, eager for the rush of unpracticed flirting but not yet ready to go without backup. The boys and girls throw Gatorade on each other. Giggles ring out. In the dugout, Avery gets a couple of half-hearted Good jobs from the stragglers as they shoulder past her. And then she's alone, shoving her equipment into a worn batting bag.

My heart aches for her, her face so clearly yearning for a little recognition and love. Selfishly, though, I can't stop thinking: I'm right here. But at least we won. That'll mean something to her.

I always hate this part, even the winning, because it means the season is over. I'm suddenly more aware of the rust flakes still stuck to my hand from the chain-link backstop, the rich copper color of the baseball diamond, the smell of popcorn coming from the snack bar. And I'm cherishing it, of course, now that it's too late. These seasons are finite, and once they're gone-they're gone.

Before I can catch up to Avery and tell her how proud I am of her, she slings her bag over her shoulder and zooms off toward the parking lot.

I stay awhile and shake hands with a few of the parents, who congratulate me on a championship season.

"That's some daughter you've got," they say. And they're right.

But eventually, my smiling muscles begin to ache under the strain of forced pleasantries, and I know it's time for me to slip away. The small talk and schmoozing with other parents has always felt like a bit of a chore, an unfortunate side effect of spending all this time with Avery, and now I'm looking forward to a long break from it.

Speaking of Avery, she waits near the parking lot for me to finish, a brooding, impatient look plastered on her face. I squint to see if there's even a microscopic clue in her body language that she might be in a good mood. There is not.

"John?" a man's voice calls out. I stop and turn around.

"Hey . . . Jason," I say, recognizing my old friend's glasses and bushy beard after a moment or two. I'm cornered out in the open like this. At the grocery store, I'd be able to duck down another aisle to avoid the awkward small talk, but here, I'm trapped. "Long time, man."

"So this is how you spend your Sundays now?"

"Apparently so. Your girl on the los-" I catch myself before the word losing falls out of my mouth. "The other team?"

"My son, he's doing flag football." Jason gestures to another field across the way, where a group of jersey-wearing boys are tackling one another violently, apparently missing the point of the flags.

I glance over at Avery, who's getting more and more annoyed as I make her wait, twisting the toe of her cleat aggressively into the dirt. I'm squandering the mere droplets of goodwill gained through our victory.

"We've missed you at the meetups," Jason states, letting it hang in the air like a question, the silence demanding an explanation for why I haven't hung out with the boys in a while.

"Guilty." I laugh. "But hey, listen, I've got to-"

"What's it been, a few years now, yeah?"

OK, a long while.

"Guess I've just got my hands full doing the dad thing right now. Speaking of-"

"I don't see why you can't do both," he says, continuing to bulldoze past my attempts to eject. "We'd love to have you back. Anytime."

"I'd like that," I lie. "You know, if I can ever conjure up some free time."

"Your girl's gotta be starting middle school, right? Don't worry, you'll have all the time in the world soon."