The Doubleheader
2025-03-21
Anyone can play a doubleheader in baseball. How hard can it be to go twice in a row in a sport where the greatest player of all time downed beer and hot dogs before every game? Actually, that sounds like the perfect sport. If your pre-game hydration routine doesn’t include Miller Lite, you’re working too hard. My fourteen-year-old, Betsy, falls into that category. Wednesday, she did a doubleheader of track and show choir. It was the pinnacle of effort, athletic performance, and over-scheduling. It even had a few parenting fails on my part thrown in for good measure. The middle of this week truly had everything—except sleep. That will have to wait until after the end of the school year.
I didn’t know everything was happening on the same day in the same time slot until the night before. The coaches and sponsors of Betsy’s various activities gave us full schedules months ago, but I can’t keep track of them all. If I put every practice and game on my calendar, each day would have more text than a Herman Melville novel. Instead, I count on Betsy to give me an update of where she needs to be—and, by extension, where I need to be—less than twenty-four hours in advance. Any notice offered earlier than that will be promptly forgotten or confused with a million other engagements. I need to be warned as late as humanly possible while still allowing for driving time. That last part is where I messed up.
The night before, Betsy told me that, after school the next day, she had a track meet followed by her choir group’s big spring performance. Both activities were at the high school, which seemed convenient. The track and auditorium are directly next to each other. Unfortunately, the timing overlapped. Betsy would have to find a way to be in two slightly different locations at exactly the same time. The close proximity wouldn’t make bilocation any easier. Worse, there was an hour gap between school and the track meet. Betsy couldn’t simply hang around the track for that hour. Such loitering is banned, and with good reason. As a parent of four, I’m well aware that lingering always leads to mayhem. Betsy would have to ride the bus home and then get back to school. She continues to not be sixteen, which is her greatest flaw. If she would just hurry up and get older, she could have a driver’s license and solve all of her problems. Instead, it was up to me to get home during that precise window to return her to the school. I told her in advance that she needed to line up a ride with somebody else just in case. If you’re going to let kids down, it’s a good idea to start in advance. Disappointment works best as a slow burn.
There was a chance I’d make it home in time. I was on the opposite side of Indianapolis that day. As the crow flies, it wasn’t far. As the vehicle drives, it was the longest distance in the world. It was all because of my old friend, perpetual road construction. The city has been redoing its interstates on a continuous loop since the dawn of time. I don’t know where all these overpasses and interchanges will eventually lead, but right now they just go to other construction zones. It’s impossible to get anywhere without passing through camera-enforced speed traps in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I tried taking an alternate route home to avoid the worst of it, which predictably led to an even slower trip. I encountered not one but two traffic-halting crashes on the drive home. For the first one, I got there before the emergency responders. I saw the plume of smoke ahead of me before I noticed the fire trucks roaring up from behind. It was like a Michael Bay movie with cars exploding all around me. Okay, maybe it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but you wouldn’t have known it by the words I said inside that vehicle. Due to all the extra road congestion, I made the thirty-five-minute drive in a mere seventeen days. By the time I got home, Betsy was already gone. Thank goodness she hadn’t burned her bridges with her slightly older friends who have cars. I’ll always be a fan of the hermit lifestyle, but I have to admit being social has its advantages when you need a ride.
Temporarily relieved of my driving duties thanks to my parenting fail, I had a brief gap in my schedule. It was too long to waste without feeling guilty but too short to do anything of importance. That’s a textbook situation for the gym. I had just enough time to change, drive across town, and get in the shortest, most half-hearted workout of all time. It takes years of consistently underwhelming effort to look this mid. I had barely finished my last set when it was time to rush across town again to watch Betsy’s meet in my gym clothes. Of course she was running in the first event.
I made it just in time. In an attempt to save every second possible, I bought my ticket ahead of time. I had to go online for an e-ticket just like when I buy NBA seats in low earth orbit. It was a far cry from back in my day, when my parents just handed a dollar to the volunteer mom at a card table by the gate. Now the ticket on my phone had to be scanned and verified. Technology ensures that no parent can commit fraud by watching their own child for free. As I waited in line to be allowed in, I scanned the field for my kid. I spotted her and waved both of my arms over my head enthusiastically. After a few moments, I realized it wasn’t Betsy. Thankfully, the girl who definitely wasn’t mine pretended not to see me. It turns out most track teams have a lot of small brown-haired girls with ponytails. I should have told Betsy to dye her hair bright red during track season.
I located the correct child right before the gun went off. Betsy did the same double-arm wave to me, and I did it back. Our awkwardness is genetic. I made my way into the stands to watch the crowded track. The boys and girls 4x800 relays were running at the same time, which is spectacular and should be made mandatory by force of law. There’s no reason to make the track meet last twice as long by having the genders take turns. I say cram everyone on the track at once and score them separately. If it were up to me, they’d not only run boys and girls together, but also different race lengths. They could totally do the one hundred, two hundred, four hundred and mile all at once. Just get off the track as soon as you’re done or you’ll be run over by the person behind you. If I were in charge, track meets would be over in twenty minutes. They’d also have an injury rate of a hundred percent. That would be bad for the athletes but great for schedules. All future meets would be cancelled because there would be no athletes left.
In relays, the fastest kid typically runs last as the anchor, the second fastest leads off, and the slower two runners go second and third. Back in school, I went second in every relay I ever did. To my surprise, Betsy was the anchor of the second relay team. It might have been because that’s where she belongs by her training splits, but it also could have been because she excels at chasing people. She practices by running down her sisters like the monster in a horror movie. Her spirit animal is a Jurassic Park raptor. Betsy ran well. I thought the long layoff after cross country might slow her down more, but she wisely avoided getting out of shape. In my competition days, I had an even better strategy of never getting out of shape by never being in shape in the first place. You can’t slow down if you’re at maximum slowness to begin with. Those participation ribbons won’t earn themselves.
Half an hour later, Betsy ran again, this time in the mile. Her old rival from cross country ran with her the whole way, which was good for both of them. Nothing propels excellence like a petty vendetta. I still remember the random races I didn’t quite manage to lose against one-way enemies who didn’t know I existed. Those are the stories that faded glory is made of. Betsy didn’t have any such time to savor her race for future false memories. No sooner had she crossed the line then she had to head into school for a quick wardrobe change. Halfway through the meet, it was time for her choir concert. It was also time for me to go home.
