I keep thinking about the kid on our Little League team who can hit in practice and stands frozen when there's a game. I've told him the same things three Saturdays running, which means either he's not hearing them or I'm not saying anything useful. His father starts calling instructions from the fence before the first pitch. I do it from the dugout. Between us that's a lot of voices for one little guy holding a bat. Next practice I want to watch what he does when we're not both explaining baseball at him. Not changing his whole swing because of one bad afternoon. Mine wasn't much at his age either, despite the stories I tell.

The oldest was showing her aunt a college she'd been looking at, all excited about a place outside the city, and I wanted to be the father who just says that's great. I did say it. Then I asked about coming home and buses and how often she thought she'd visit until my wife gave me a look. She's only looking, nobody has packed a bag. I'm proud she thinks she can go somewhere like that, but hearing her talk about a room where none of us would be living made me feel left out already. Later she asked me to look at the pictures properly. I sat down beside her and felt better being asked, even though it was still far away.

My wife put music on while we were clearing up Sunday dinner and pulled me away from the sink for a dance, right there between the table and the stove. Nothing fancy, the kids were watching and the little one kept trying to get between us. My left knee wouldn't have enjoyed much turning but the slow steps were fine, and after a minute I stopped holding myself like I was carrying something heavy. Funny how different my shoulders felt with her hands there instead of a work shirt pulling at them. I was warm by the end of one song. She wanted another. I said give me a minute, mano, some of us started with a full plate.