Saturday night we took my girlfriend’s kids to see the Bridgeport Bluefish, a nearby minor league team. It was Scout Night and after the game there had fireworks and then we camped in the outfield.
It was a cool and blustery night, but that didn’t stop the kids from running around well past midnight.
We had to be out of there by 7 a.m. Sunday morning, Father’s Day.
Several parents said happy father’s day to me and I wished them a good day too – I’m 53 and it’s the first time anyone has wished me a Happy Father’s Day. It felt strange, but if you’re hanging out with the Boy Scouts you’re either a parent or a perv—best to be mistaken for a parent than the latter.
Afterward, I took Mary and her two boys to a diner for breakfast.
At some point the little one said, “Sometimes people think you’re my Dad.”
“Sometimes people think you’re my Dad,” I volleyed back.
He smiled and dug into his pancakes.