So we were lying on our backs on the grass in the park next to our hamburger wrappers, my 14-year-old son and I, watching the clouds loiter overhead, when he asked me, Dad, why are we here?
And this is what I said.
Ive thought a lot about it, son, and I dont think its all that complicated. I think maybe were here just to teach a kid how to bunt, turn two and eat sunflower seeds without using his hands.
Were here to pound the steering wheel and scream as we listen to the game on the radio, 20 minutes after we pulled into the garage. Were here to look all over, give up and then find the ball in the hole.
Were here to watch, at least once, as the pocket collapses around John Elway, and its fourth-and-never. Or as the count goes to 3 and 1 on Mark McGwire with bases loaded, and the pitcher begins wishing hed gone on to med school. Or as a little hole you couldnt get a skateboard through suddenly opens in front of Jeff Gordon with a lap to go.
Were here to wear our favorite sweat-soaked Boston Red Sox cap, torn Slippery Rock sweatshirt and the Converses we lettered in, on a Saturday morning with nowhere we have to go and no one special we have to be.
Were here to rake on a jack-high nothin hand and have nobody know it but us. Or get in at least one really good brawl, get a nice shiner and end up throwing an arm around the guy who gave it to us.
Were here to shoot a six-point elk and finally get the f-stop right, or to tie the perfect fly, make the perfect cast, catch absolutely nothing and still call it a perfect morning.
Were here to nail a yield sign with an apple core from half a block away. Were here to make our dog bite on the same lame fake throw for the gazillionth time. Were here to win the stuffed bear or go broke trying.
I dont think the meaning of life is gnashing our bicuspids over what comes after death but tasting all the tiny moments that come before it. Were here to be the coach when Wendell, the one whose glasses always fog up, finally makes the only perfect backdoor pass all season. Were here to be there when our kid has three goals and an assist. And especially when he doesnt.
Were here to see the Great One setting up behind the net, tying some poor goaltenders neck into a Windsor knot. Were here to watch the Rocket peer in for the sign, two out, bases loaded, bottom of the career. Were here to witness Tigers lining up the 22-foot double breaker to win and not need his autograph afterward to prove it.
Were here to be able to do a one-and-a-half for our grandkids. Or to stand at the top of our favorite double-black on a double-blue morning and overhear those five wonderful words: Highways closed. Too much snow.
Were here to get the Frisbee to do things that would have caused medieval clergymen to burn us at the stake.
I dont think were here to make SportsCenter. The really good stuff never does. Like leaving Wrigley at 4:15 on a perfect summer afternoon and walking straight into Murphys with half of section 503. Or finding ourselves with a free afternoon, a little red 327 fuel-injected 1962 Corvette convertible and an unopened map of Vermonts backroads.
Were here to get the triple-Dagwood sandwich made and the football kicked off at the very second your sister begins tying up the phone until Tuesday.
None of us are going to find ourselves on our deathbeds saying, Dang, I wish Id spent more time on the Hibbings account. Were going to say, That scar? I got that scar stealing a home run from Consolidated Plumbers!
See, grown-ups spend so much time doggedly slaving toward the better car, the perfect house, the big day that will finally make them happy when happy just walked by wearing a bicycle helmet two sizes too big for him. Were not here to find a way to heaven. The way is heaven. Does that answer your question, son?
And he said, Not really, Dad.
And I said, No?
And he said, No, what I meant is, why are we here when Mom said to pick her up 40 minutes ago?