If you follow closely enough, you’ll know my elder son, Owen, has become a big “Billy Goats soccer” fan.
When I appeared in our kitchen dressed in my Effzeh sweater Monday morning as Owen sat at his “little table” enjoying a small bowl of “pink cereal,” my son’s face brightened at the sighting of Hennes on my chest.
“Guess who has a big game today, buddy?”
(in a hushed whisper) “The Billy Goats…”
Now, since the day care is in the same building where my wife works, she takes the boys to and picks them up from what we call “school,” except on days with soccer practice, when I come to get Owen. Our last practice, however, was last Tuesday, so I’m on duty only for the rare odd circumstance.
“Daddy,” starts Owen, dancing out of his chair, “when…when…when you pick me up from school today, if you pick me up, will you tell me if the Billy Goats win?”
I tell him I’m not picking him up, but that I’d try to let him know as soon as possible if the Billy Goats win. My intent had been to email his teachers and let them have the fun of seeing his excitement, but I forgot that entirely.
Fast-forward to my family arriving home minutes after I get off the bus.
I’ve collected the trash, recycling, and compost bins from the curb and waiting by our carport gate to let everyone come into the house the more-direct route before locking the gate.
Owen gets out of his car seat and, after a minute of negotiating candy with Mommy, comes over to hug my leg. I lift my viking-hatted kid into my arms, telling him how glad I was to see him.
First words he speaks to me: “Did they win, Daddy?”