The Mock Dock

I love the game of baseball. As an attempt to stave off the pang of loneliness that I feel every Sunday when my kids go back to their mother’s house, I sat at my neighborhood Little League diamond watching boys grasp the American dream. I was hoping that surrounding myself with the joy might be positive. Also, being that it was “All-Star weekend”, I thought for sure all of the hot, single moms would be feeling great about their “Kevin’s growth-spurt” and find comfort in the cold, dead blue eyes of a life-battered fellow like me.

As I sat my ass and my awesomely developed calf muscles down on the sun-scorched steel bleachers, I thought, “Wow. It’s a beautiful summer day and I’m sitting alone. Maybe I should fill my cargo shorts with pennies and jump into that pond.”

But I stopped myself short. I saw her raven hair, alabaster skin, pouting breasts. “Perhaps that attractive woman looking at magazines near the concession stand will come over and fall in love with me. No. I am unloveable. I know this. Maybe she will have sex with me.”

Then some guy steps up and kisses her on the cheek. Bastard. Look at him. All showered and color-coordinated and holding Fortune magazine.

Man, I need some hope. I look for it in the face of a young boy waiting to buy some Pixie sticks and Big League Chew. He catches me watching and bellows out, “Mommy, that creepy guy is staring at me.”

His mom is the attractive lady I was looking at ten seconds ago. Now she whispers something to her Izod-ed lover.

He puts his arm around her, pulls his son close and gives me that, “Why don’t you just kill yourself, you creepy hanging-around-kids-parks dull-eyed bum-smoker?” look.

Oh go play golf, you manicure-getting, comfortable-shoe-wearing dope.

I check my phone, see who called. Nobody. Hmmm. Okay.
I take out my notebook, write. That always makes me feel better.

She says, “You’re just afraid of your feelings.” Of course I’m afraid of my feelings. Who am I? Michael Bolton. I don’t know what to do with feelings. That’s why whisky was invented. So I don’t have to feel.”

I peek over at the happy family. Now Dad is ogling younger women. The kid is picking his nose. Mom is eyeballs-deep in OK! magazine, wishing she was richer and younger but not as lonely even though she has a kid and a husband and friends she shops with almost every day.

She truly believes if she had better tits and was banging George Clooney, she’d have peace. Maybe she is right.

I’ll get a cup of coffee. That will help. Yeah. Then I’ll be jumpy and have to urinate. Perfect. Just like them.