Homecoming

Between high school and college, I went to all of one homecoming, which is one more than my wife, for what it’s worth.  I’ve lost count of the Elmhurst College homecomings we’ve attended.  Is it five or six?  Will we ever stop going?

Saturday, Michele and I walked amongst the tailgaters until we found Clare and some of her fellow alums.  We ate, we small-talked, we made our way to the stadium in time for the 1PM kickoff.  I’m pretty sure the game ended just a shade under 2-1/2 hours.  Really, there is no better way to spend a perfect autumn afternoon than to watch a crisply played football game.

Except, maybe, if you can watch your daughter hit the next day against live pitching.  I was that lucky, kneeling behind the backstop to record Clare bat in the game between softball alums and the current team.  Clare being Clare, she did something out of the ordinary, with a 12-pitch at-bat that went on for four minutes and seventeen seconds.  My daughter being my daughter, she quickly went into the hole at 1-2 before working the count full.

I long ago taught myself to find respite in the time between pitches; Clare’s at-bats were so draining I would’ve passed out otherwise.  And so I reverted to form, holding the camera steady, trying to breathe steady, waiting for the next chance to relax.  The only intrusion on my routine was that “whack-whack” of bat to back, which happened after every pitch; some hitters adjust their batting gloves, my daughter hits her back like a baseball flagellant.  Three balls, eight fouls, a line shot to center that hung up a second too long.  Marlon Brando had nothing on Clare Bukowski.