Jake stands near the kitchen island waiting for his father’s response. Jake’s brother, Zach, waits as well, while sitting at the dining room table, about to ask his father the question again.
“So, are you going to answer or what? Who are you taking to the Pirates game with you.” Their father, who was normally a very still and calm man, squirmed with irritation at his sons’ redundant questions.
“What’s the hold up, pops?” Jake added.
The father, about to respond, was overtaken by another inquiry.
Zach asked what it was going to take for his father to pick him. He laid out his reasons. Jake rapidly recoiled by listing his own qualifications to make up for the brief silence.
The 56-year-old father, soon to be 57, rose from the couch, glared at his two sons with a hint of agitated anger and walked outside to find some kind of reprieve.
The two sons followed, each trying to be the first one to reach their father. The Pirates were playing the Philadelphia Phillies that night and competing for first place in its division this late into the season for the first time since 1997. It was only July.
“I’ve made up my mind,” the father said. “I want to let you two know that I will be taking neither of you.”
Each son looked at the other, a bit perplexed.
Minutes later, the mother of the two sons walked past them confidently loaded with a sly smirk.
There was the other ticket, snug in the back left pocket of their mother’s cargo shorts.
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