Trust for the Best

Which kid should I hurt today?

a) Theo. b) Isaac. c) Both a and b.

I was wrestling with injustice the other morning, and losing, as I tried to figure out how the hell I could attend two different track meets for two different kids in two different cities. At the same time.

My 9-year-old son Theo was competing in the fourth-grade all-city elementary school meet — start time 9:30 a.m., end time “around” (ha!) 1:30 p.m. — in the town where we live, at the high school not far from our house. My 13-year-old son Isaac, meanwhile, was competing 10 miles across town in the all-city middle school track meet. Start time: 9:30 a.m., naturally. End time: Unknown. The thing could go til midnight for all I knew.

I had an order of events in hand for each meet, though only the one for Theo’s offered an estimated time schedule.

Things didn’t look even remotely good: The way the timing seemed to be shaping up, if I were to choose to go to Theo’s meet first, I would probably miss all three of Isaac’s events at his meet — particularly since his last and favorite, the 800-meter run, would likely clash with my needing to be home by 3:00 to meet the school bus with the other three kids (Theo, 7-year-old daughter Katie, and 7-year-old son Kian) aboard.

If I were to choose to go to Isaac’s meet first, on the other hand, I would almost certainly miss all three of Theo’s morning events, including his favorite, the 400-meter run. I’d see only a relay of his late in the meet — if I wasn’t stuck in the car behind a train or one of those impossibly slow drivers that the gods put right in front of you only when you’re in an ungodly hurry.

I’ve been working hard lately on trust. Trusting myself fully and completely. Trusting the other people in my life — especially my caring and beautiful-inside-and-out fiance, Adrianne — fully and completely. Trusting that the seemingly complicated and overwhelming will somehow work out in the end, with no one dying, if I simply keep going forth. Trusting that I’m not all alone in this world despite my frequent (mis)perceptions to the contrary. Trusting, as Albert Einstein once suggested, that we live in a friendly universe, not a hostile one. And therefore trust falling into the arms of that universe for real, instead of taking a step backwards or putting my arms out to catch myself.

Which kid should I hurt today?

I picked Isaac — and hoped for the best.

I drove to Theo’s track meet praying things would move along quickly there. Not. So. Much. The final busload of kids was running behind, so the opening ceremony began 10 minutes late. The first event, the 50-meter dash, required 77 heats (as the gym teacher only half-jokingly put it over the loudspeaker) thanks to the small country of fourth-grade athletes and non-athletes who had flocked to sign up for the shortest, fastest race.

By the time Theo’s first event, the 400, was under way, it was about 10:45. But at least I was there. And Theo could see me, and hear me, cheering and taking pictures and shooting video as he crossed the finish line.

“I’m going to head over and see if I can catch Isaac’s medley relay!” I shouted at him as he came off the track. “I’ll be back later!”

“OK!” he replied as I took off running — literally — for the parking lot.

I hopped in the car, dialed up Isaac’s cell phone number, and started driving.

“How are things going there?” I asked him when he picked up.

“Good. I just finished the medley relay.”

Damn it!

“Aw, man, Isaac, I was just driving over there to see it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK, Dad.”

I pulled over into the parking lot of an old liquor store — I hadn’t even traveled a block from the site of Theo’s meet at the high school — and told Isaac that, the way things were looking, I probably wasn’t going to be coming to his meet. That I’d miss his 800. That I’d end up missing everything at his last meet of the year.

“It’s OK, Dad.”

“I’m really sorry, bud.” I could hear the disappointment in his voice.

“It’s OK.”

“But Isaac?”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t give up. So text me and keep me posted on where things are there.”

I drove back to Theo’s meet, a Casey’s General Store egg salad sandwich, chips, and coffee in hand (everyone needs sustenance). Since I hadn’t strayed too far or for very long, I was able to catch both Theo’s morning relay and the start of his long jump event, capturing it all once again in both photos and videos.

Ping. Isaac texted me a little after noon: The 800-meter relay was already in progress there, and his 800-meter run was only two events after that. It would be close — very close, I thought — to my 3:00 curfew, but I could probably get over there and see Isaac’s 800 and still beat it on home in time to meet the school bus.

Then it occurred to me: I might well be able to arrange an instant insurance policy.

I texted our neighbor, Sunny, while I was waiting for Theo and his friend Hudson to take their second and final cracks at the long jump. “Question for you, Sunny: If I’m not back from Isaac’s track meet by 3 o’clock, is there any way that you could grab my three from the bus today?”

Her reply moments later: “Sure thing!”

And with that I was off once again to see Isaac, Hudson’s father promising me that he would take pictures and video of anything I might miss at Theo’s meet.

I got to Isaac’s meet in plenty of time — early enough, in fact, that I could sit in the stands and take advantage of the very unexpected opportunity to … write. Scribblings that became the seeds of this very essay. Later, I cheered and shot video as Isaac crossed the finish line in the 800. Then I hugged him goodbye and drove home — where I met the school bus in plenty of time as well.

And just today, Theo brought home from school a CD of the pictures and video Hudson’s father shot for us at the elementary meet.

Which kid should I hurt today? Turns out the answer was:

d) None of the above.

Not merely because I hoped for the best. But because I trusted for the best.

Peter Vogt

I’m a writer. An essayist, to be more exact. I tell stories here—true stories, from my own life, in hopes they will make a positive difference in yours.

I share laughs and tears, insights and observations, frustrations and realizations, relying all the while on the storytelling wisdom of Julia Cameron, author of The Right to Write.

It is a great paradox that the more personal, focused, and specific your writing becomes, the more universally it communicates.