Tuesday, April 28,2026
> I'm on turf. Nestled between 2 posts holding up the outfield fence. Blue solo cups pressed into fence slightly to my right in the shape of my daughter's uniform number. 7 other numbers line the outfield fence. The sky is clear.
Do we give the flowers now or later? A pitcher's parents have 3 bouquets lying on a bench. "Get the flowers" my wife tells me. "In the car?" "Yes" she replies. Its 11:30am and the ceremony is supposed to start at 11:30am. So I run. We parked far. There are NE10 lacrosse playoff games on campus. Parking was at a premium. I find the car. I open all doors and no flowers. I say a bad word. I call my wife. She doesn't answer. I say 2 bad words. I run to my daughter's dorm, luckily close to the field. I take the stairs 2 at a time. This is why I jog, I tell myself. I'm too old to be doing this yet I am doing it. The flowers are on the table.
I run back to the field. My daughter calls us over and we walk behind the fence to left field and for a minute or two, I'm a left-fielder tracking a tailing liner towards the foul line. When I hit the brown turf of the infield, I feel something inside that my alexithymia only knows as good. I like being on the field. My daughter directs us behind the dugout. "We're first" she says. "My number is the lowest."
And as if they were waiting for me to run down those flowers, the public address announcer begins. He describes my daughter's 2-year career statistically, crafted to maximize impact even though she is struggling in 2026. He lists her Junior College accomplishments. He describes her passion and love for the sport. And then we're walking back onto the field. The young, Female, recently-pregnant Head Coach hugs my daughter. Then my wife. Then me. I'm not a hugger. I was not expecting this. But I'm on camera. Everyone is watching. Autism put aside. "Congratulations" she says. "Congratulations to YOU" I reply with replacement-level smoothness. She hands my daughter a giant frame with a Jersey and her number. Her name in blue below it. Its amazing. "I'm putting this in my office" I say as we walk to take a picture at home plate. "Can I?" She smiles and nods but I know my timing is off and she gets to choose.
We take the picture. I think I smile. And then we walk to an imaginary line that the photographer points us to between the pitching mound and second base.
We wait as the other 7 seniors come out with their families. Some have grandparents. Some have aunts and uncles. Some have boyfriends. Some have brothers and sisters. Some have brothers girlfriends. Everyone has someone. I'm glad for that.
And 20 minutes later, we are walking back to our spot next to the blue solo cups. They announce the starting lineups with my daughter batting 7th and playing first base. A Senior Day privilege. And then they play "Oh Canada" for us. For my daughter. We feel seen and we smile as we stare at the American Flag beyond Centerfield.
