“The other goal, Jack! Kick it in the other goal!”
Jack Fitzpatrick is a scoring machine in the Empire Ridge Ages four to five Youth Soccer League. The problem is he’s indiscriminate in his goals, sending the soccer ball sailing into the nearest net for either team. He’s resolute and consistent, and at some point everyone except me gave up trying to temper his enthusiasm. Today, like most Saturday mornings, Jack leads his team in scoring…and he leads his opponent’s team in scoring. Unlike most Saturdays, we actually win.
Coach Larry shakes my hand. “Another great game by Jack Attack.”
I laugh. “If you say so, coach.”
“The kid can score at will, Hank.”
“Problem is he usually does.”
Jack runs up to me, squeezes my leg. “Mommy still sick and at the doctor?”
“Yeah,” I say, “Mommy’s still sick and at the doctor.”
“Hank, I yisten to coach Yarry and scored all duh goals.”
“Yes, Jack, you did score all of the goals.”
“I yike scoring all duh goals.”
Jack has been pronouncing all his L consonants as Y consonants. It’s an adorable speech pattern. According to Jack’s grossly overqualified preschool teacher, a former freelance editor who has a Master’s in speech-language pathology, this is a common substitution. It’s called liquid simplification, whatever the fuck that means. Apparently it’s very common, and most kids self-correct by around age six. If they’re still doing it by that point, that’s when speech therapy may be necessary. I have a feeling it won’t be Jack’s first trip to a therapist in his life.
I take a knee in front of him. “You want to play a game, Jack?”
“Is it hard?”
“No.”
“Is it fun?”
“Maybe.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t tell you unless you play it.”
“Okay.”
“It’s just a word game.”
“A wood game?”
“No, word game.”
“Yeah, wood. Das what I said.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll give you a word, and you try to repeat what I say exactly. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Mommy.”
“Mommy.”
“Daddy.”
“Daddy.”
“Hank.”
“Hank.”
“Jack.”
“Jack.”
“Love.”
“Yuv.”
“Coach Larry.”
“Coach Yarry.”
“Luh-luh-luh-luh-Larry.”
“Luh-luh-luh-luh-Yarry.”
“You’re a goofball.” I tickle Jack until he giggles. I hoist him in the air and pull him into my chest. A vintage Hank Fitzpatrick hug. I give him a big wet kiss on the cheek, which he immediately wipes off.
“Oh, come on, squirt. You too old to get a kiss from your…big bro?”
“I yuv my big bro.”
“Then don’t wipe this one off.” I reapply an even wetter kiss on the side of his face. I can see the crazed look in his eyes.
“You yicked me, Hank.” Jack wipes the kiss off, again. “Das yucky.”
“Okay, I give up. Let’s go, All-Star.” I hold Jack in my left arm while hitting the keyless entry to Mom’s Oldsmobile Bravada with my right hand.
“What’s All-Star, Hank? Do I yike All-Star?”
I strap him into his car seat and ruffle his brown mop with my hand. “Yes, little buddy. You do yike All-Star.”
“I yuv my big bro,” he says to me.
The words are like tonic and poison all at once. Jack is just too young to understand. His memories of a father are of our father, John Henry Fitzpatrick, his namesake. I don’t have it in me to take that away from Jack just yet.
Or do I?
Laura returned to Ian and Pennsylvania, vowing to start her life anew. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the image of Laura reading Jack a bedtime story and rocking him to sleep that last night at Disney. His coffee-brown eyes staring back at this strange crying woman. He reaches up and touches her cleft chin with his hand. She kisses his tiny little fingers, smells his baby powder smell, and tastes on his skin the sweet-salty mixture of baby lotion and her own tears.
Yeah, with all due respect to dear Mom and Dad, fuck them. Laura and I aren’t perfect, and I doubt we find our way back to Jack together. But we will find our way.