The Drive Back

A Letter to My Daughter

We are going 80, you and I.

It’s now foggy but we’ve only just passed Chehalis.

We have several more hours to go.

Its dark, too. I comment that it feels like we’re driving in a tunnel, my voice sounds upbeat and playful, but really, I’m anxious and think we’re driving into an abyss.

I casually mention the cars we’re following must be locals and then don’t say it’s because they’re going too fast for my comfort. I need to follow their taillights to help me navigate in the poor visibility.

You and I then become quiet. And that’s ok.

You are killing time on your phone next to me. You’re probably on Snapchat, and I want to ask so many questions.

All of the questions.

I know that’s not possible or even reasonable, but I want to guard you, to laugh with you, to fight for you- all the things, all the time and all at once, if only I could.

Your seat is leaned back for the road trip, and you’re wearing your ‘groutfit’.

It’s just a grey hoodie and grey sweats, but I cherish our bond at even knowing the term and I will always shout, ‘GROUTFIT!’. You giggle, and it makes me feel connected to you and I like that.

Your volleyball tournament was over a three-day weekend and so were the football playoffs, the dads in attendance grumble.

They begin to talk during warm ups about The Bears, the Bills and the Seahawks. Middle aged men huddle around. Maps are viewed on phones. ‘This one is walkable’.

Gridiron plans in a bar are made for the hours in between sets and kills.

I am uneasy because I know what bars used to be like. They have not changed, but I have.

An eight-minute walk from the University of Oregon field house finds a handful of us at a place called The Cooler.

It is a working-class watering hole. Utility trucks with company names on doors are scattered in the parking lot. It looks like a 70’s ski chalet but also kind of like a strip club. The roof pitches deeply on either side all the way down to the sidewalk. And there are no windows. None at all.

Inside, the large single room is loud and full of men with jerseys on.

The middle-aged ones are wearing Jim Kelly’s #12, a relic of the glory days, and perhaps a nod to smaller waistlines as the jerseys are working hard to fit over their bellies. The younger men are mostly wearing loosely fitting ‘Allen’ jerseys with the number 17 on the back.

The Jim Kelly ones are louder, and I see my old self in them.

They don’t know or care about WVBA 16 Moulton.

I’ve now looked at my watch at least twice. The 8-minute walk was closer to eleven minutes, and I now do the reverse math to plan my exit. I have just under 40 minutes to muscle through before I leave.

I will drink two ‘zero percent’ Michelob Ultras. I feel punished as they come in a tall, dainty light blue cans like a Red Bull- a silent announcement that ‘this guy doesn’t drink’. It’s all in my head and no one notices much less cares.

But I care. I want you to notice. I want you to be proud of me, the only man who goes to bars but doesn’t drink. The only man who leaves and gets to your games on time.

I want you to know that ‘before’ I would have been late to your game. I would have probably missed it. I would have absolutely tried to get 3 beers in me within that 40-minute time-frame. Just enough to make it easier to order a fourth and convince myself you don’t even notice me during the game. A fifth beer would assure my responsibility was met simply by driving you ‘all the way down’ here.

I want you to know my guilt and shame at driving you back to our hotel with a buzz after your games are over. But first I will stop at a gas station for a six pack ‘because our hotel has a fridge’ and I’ll get you something sweet because I have the shame and guilt, but it will be gone as soon as I can open one of these beers, so let’s hurry back.

But right now, I am hurrying back sober, to watch your game.

Because you do notice me.

That’s the most important thing right now.

You don’t look at me when you miss a block or your serve goes long. You don’t need emotional support like that. You will look, however, every once in a while, in between points, when you’re up at the net, when things are briefly calm, and make eye contact with me.

I know it’s more for me than you.

But I am present and seen, and the squeaks and screams and whistles of the arena suddenly disappear.

And for that split second, it’s just you and I.