The Tickets

The tickets are glossy and firm in his hands. He keeps taking them out of his wallet to check and make sure they are still there. “These tickets smell like victory,” he tells anyone who will listen as he paces around and around the waiting room of the maternity ward. The other expectant fathers are sitting in the shiny, plastic chairs or are also pacing around the room. All are nervous, whether it’s their fourth baby or their first. They all feel useless, and are both grateful and annoyed that they have been relegated to this part of the hospital.  Jerry is especially annoyed and especially grateful. He has been waiting for this game for almost a year, and his daughter for only nine months and two weeks.  He feels justification in wishing his wife would hurry up already so he can get to the game.  He has, after all, loved the Red Sox since he was practically an infant, and he hasn’t even met Julie yet. Furthermore, Julie will be a Red Sox fan as well, just as all MacKissocks have been before her.  She would definitely understand. 

            The time ticked away. He thought, “If she is born now, I could get there before the first inning.”  Then, “If she is born now, I could get there by the third inning.” By the time the National Anthem was finished, which was blasting from the TV in the corner, he was just hoping he could get there by the last out.  He tried to talk to the other dads, but they were occupied with their own thoughts, or by their own private obsession with the game on TV. Hoping that the luck of a Red Sox color would hurry the birth of his first child, he sat in the only red chair in the room. He chuckled to himself, thinking that the Sox had really never brought him luck before, so why would they start now? As the game entered the 9^th inning and all hope of getting to his first game in 15 years faded like a fly ball in the lights at Fenway, a nurse in bloody scrubs walked into the waiting room.

            “Mr. MacKissock – I’d like you to meet your daughter. This is Julie Lorraine.”

He was looking at the television, where the Sox had just tied the game up with a walk-off home run.

            “Mr. MacKissock.”

            “Huh?”

            “This is your daughter.  Do you want to meet her?”

            Jerry turned away from the game reluctantly, taking a minute to remember the whole reason he was in this room in the first place.  He looked into the eyes of the nurse and she smiled at him – clearly she had met this type of dad before and her eyes were filled with kindness.

            “Here she is! She is just perfect, all 10 fingers and toes.”

            The nurse walked up to Jerry and placed his daughter in his arms. She opened her eyes and blinked at him. He stood in the middle of the waiting room staring at tiny human in his arms. Everything else went disappeared.

            “Do you want to see Anne? She is tired, but she wants to see you.”

            He started to follow her out of the room when a man came running in, almost knocking into Jerry and Julie. He glared at her, already feeling the need to protect his baby girl from the world. The man was out of breath and seemed frantic.

“Hey, man. Did you catch the sox game?  What was the final score? Did they win?”

Jerry just looked at him, his brow furrowed, and said “What game?”