Bad days get better pretty easy...
Lately it's pretty easy for bad days to get better instantly with baby talk or just the presence of June. She's all smiles and patience all the time while I'm mostly irrational and presumptuous at every turn. Somehow I can go to work and listen more than I talk, swallow situations whole and then calmly proceed, even talk intelligently about logical and rational decision making and then I leave the office and fall apart. At home I don't have the most patience, I never seem to slow down and let things come to me, and I always presume the worst. It's a strange phenomenon that neither June or I understand but that she lovingly tolerates and I embarrassingly perpetuate. I stub my toe...I freak out. I need to change my clothes three times before leaving the house...I snap. I trip on the cat...look out. Then I get to work and steer a kid who's just tested positive for HIV through the process of dealing with the matter, or find a homeless student an apartment, or any other endless and unimaginable issue and circumstance. I internalize, I carry the weight of people, and I know that I insist on a just world and equality when there can't possibly be such things. It's a bigger, broader toe stubbing but a toe stubbing no less...and then I get home and there's June all smiling and happy to be here, just hoping she can help the ball club.
"Lay down a bunt? Sure"
"Steal a base? Okay"
"Sit this one out chief. We're goin' with a different arm. No problem"
It's incredible. In June's world sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes, well sometimes it rains. Somehow I can't occupy that space when I leave work. Somehow I'm swinging for the fences and leaving my pitcher in the game too long, almost all the time, in fact. Sure, I win more than I lose but I'd prefer to be more Joe Maddon than Bobby Cox. I'm just not sure of the road map that gets me to that place. I should take a cue or two from my wife but then paying attention has never been one of my strong suits, just ask any girl that hit on me from age 14 to 26, they'll tell you that I'm largely oblivious. June's a better Manager than I ever was.
What's the point of all this you ask? Just look at that picture. That's June...ALL THE TIME...pretty incredible, isn't it? I think so. The girl's sporting an extra I don't know how many pounds, and she's got little Emi kicking her around pretty good all day, every day, and some nights she can't sleep very well and look at her. It's unbelievable. It floors me every time.
There aren't a lot of things I know in this world. There's a great deal of things I don't, and I'm happy to say that I'm more often than not aware of that fact, but one of the few things I do know for certain is that June's a better person than I am. Don't let the job or the talk fool you...I can suck at alarmingly frequent intervals whilst my wife just smiles and goes about her business day after grinning day after grinning day. A lot of times people ask me how I do what I do and work with the people and situations with which I work and I wish I could show them this picture...this is how. If June were my Manager she'd never once pull me from the game and berate me or embarrass me in front of the fans or cameras. In fact, she'd almost always give me the benefit of the doubt, leave me in for one more batter if I said I still had some gas left in the tank. She'd talk me through tough innings and let me get myself out of jams, and she'd certainly...most certainly...give me that little pat on the ass when she asked me to hand over the ball and the game. That's just the girl my wife is...no screaming, no snapping, no oh-so negative prophetic rants...just smiles, trust and bum pats.
I hope Emi knows what she's getting into and what she's got there in her dugout. I do. Of course, it doesn't stop me from throwing the odd wild pitch once in awhile, and I've been known to clunk a batter or two...no problem she says. Just a pat on the bum and a hand for me to set the ball into. Good game. No, great game. I hope I never, ever get traded. I love this ball club.