In every memory of them I have, Dad leaves 

the game early during the 7th Inning Stretch.

 

I’ve spoken with several friends with similar

experiences of fathers packing up and departing

 

then. I imagine (and in a way it was) a coliseum

chock full of dads, gathering all at once

 

kids and belongings, scaling concrete stadium stairs

past the thousand orange plastic seats. Rush of parents, 

 

hallways bottlenecking and bathroom lines endless

with various pairs of fathers and their kids

 

exiting. The parking lots were also bad, but not as bad

as the end of the game, Dad said. Some never made it

 

even as long as the 7th. But, from what I learned

from him, their situation would be no different. I hope

 

they, too, together listened rapt to those last few innings.

The radio fading out, then in, wavelike. Static

 

traffic finally lulling the son’s swaying head to rest

on his dark window. The figure next to him

 

limned golden in high beams. The ride home

would feel to him so fast, like blinking.