Today I went to a soccer game with Middle Son. In a preseason special, we saw Chattanooga Football Club neatly whip Knoxville One 1–0. It was about 60 degrees. The sun had passed just behind the rim of Findlay Stadium, meaning we sat in shadow. At first bad stadium pizza kept us warm, but by halftime we were cold again. Middle Son and I ran up and down the concrete stairs (our section was pretty empty) and then Cage the Elephant’s “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked” came on the loudspeaker and I had to dance it all. Since there was plenty of empty concrete, I danced it pretty big. Middle Son kept running stairs.
The game was exciting but not a white-knuckler. Alex McGrath scored early in the first half and after that we traded near misses on goal and lots of cards — well, Knoxville earned lots of cards while we mostly kept our cool.
I went to look for one friend in the pep squad’s section — they’re called the Chattahooligans, ya know? — and found him and another friend, too, and after a long talk with her I came back and stayed in my place more or less until halftime and then, as I said, there was dancing and running stairs, and then a dance friend saw me and came to say hi and after a while I ran up over to her spot to continue the conversation, which was about dance gossip and dance community, grant applications and personalities and choreography, how we grapple with each other in all our craziness because the art won’t let us let go —
Middle Son sat patiently.
A few seats down from us, a lone dad was wrangling two sons. Lone Dad wore a waxed and curled mustache with his black fleece and jeans; he might have been auditioning for a period drama. The sons consisted of a dreamy preschooler and a toddler with a heart set on running away, climbing the railings, and generally traveling as far as he could in whichever direction he happened to be pointing. Toddler made a break toward us, was baffled by Middle Son’s legs stretched across the aisle to the railings, and stopped. The second or third try, he put his hand on Middle Son’s jeans and looked up adoringly until Lone Dad, laughing, called him back.
What shall I tell you about Middle Son?
First he was a red-headed butterball, next he was a red-headed sylph of a boy, then he was a large malicious red-headed youth, and now he’s stretching out into something between solid and sylphlike — and much, much taller than I am.
He looks down serenely from his height, soft and aloof as a cloud — that powerful softness that lets him very gently tumble you onto a sofa in a pillow-fight game and pin you tight without ever having to hurt you.
He’s very fair — milk white. His eyes are true, dark blue, almost indigo.
He wears his bright auburn hair in a high-and-tight because he is in high school ROTC. He’s in the color guard and drill team. He loves all of it. He loves dressing correctly and organizing his belongings precisely and doing his work promptly. He loves the gossip (apparently junior officers are the very worst gossips) and the physical training. His gregarious and meticulous mind has found a perfect home.
From his happiness flows a beautiful serenity that lets me bounce away from him and come back, bounce away and come back, as a child might from a parent.
After my second excursion he looks at me gently. “You could sit here for a while, Mom.”
So I sit with him and agree with all his observations about the match. I don’t know anything about soccer and he probably doesn’t know anything about soccer either, but who am I to judge?
It’s a sparkling March day. A green mist hovers around just a few early trees, luminous patches on the dark leafless mountain that rises down beyond the far end of Broad Street. Bradford pears are blooming and stinking.
Middle Son smells like Old Spice — a perhaps overenthusiastic application of Old Spice.
The game goes into overtime. Toddler becomes restive — tries to run off, then yowls in Lone Dad’s arms until Lone Dad puts him down. Lone Dad turns to tend to Preschooler and Toddler makes a break for it, flying straight down the aisle toward us and swarming up the barrier. It’s just a couple feet high on this side, a bit of concrete and two galvanized bars, but on the other side the walkway is at least six feet down.
Without hesitation Middle Son puts his hands on either side of Toddler’s ribcage, lifts him off the bars, and sets him on his feet aimed in the direction of Lone Dad. Toddler looks back over his shoulder at Middle Son with that wide-eyed baby wonder, crinkles his nose in a smile, then sets off at a run toward his family.
Lone Dad nods his thanks, and Middle Son nods back.
The shadow moves down the stands. The game ends in light.