What’s His Name

June 17th, 2009

My son, Vincent, decided he didn’t want to play on his baseball team anymore. Neither his dad nor I played the “but you committed you must stick with it ’til the end” card. The coach was a jerk. It was baseball for 9-year olds and the coach was treating the star players well and the wandering attention players poorly. Then the star players started telling my wandering attention child to pay attention when he was paying attention. They started talking like the coach. It wasn’t a good situation.

Last night the Redhawks had a game. I watched it from afar while walking Maggie around the perimeter of the park. The coach’s adrenaline was palpable and his antics were visible from the other side of the park. I could hear shouting and cheering from the other side of the tennis courts as I walked Maggie around the perimeter of the fields before “dog park time” and wondered if our team was winning or losing.

From a park bench, I watched Vincent’s team playing without him. There were only eight players in red uniforms but the team didn’t forfeit as the coach had indicated in his email if he didn’t have enough. I watched Cameron, the coach’s son, make three outs in a row by fielding grounders and tagging first base, one, two, three. I wanted to cheer, out of reflex, but instead felt the bittersweetness of the moment as the boys jumped up and down and waved their arms and mitts, while they ran off the field. I think they might have won their first game after that beautifully played inning. Vincent wasn’t there.

As it approached eight o’clock, the time when the park empties out of uniformed boys and parents and lawn chairs and fills up with happy, playful, leashless dogs and their owners, a few early birds showed up and yelled to their dogs to stay away from the baseball diamonds when they wandered away from the dog park spot. My dog, Maggie, only wanders off to poop under the locust tree. She thinks it’s funny to trick me. I stand under the tree twirling, looking among the locust beans for her poop, making sure I don’t find it with my shoe. She’s timing me. I just know it. I can hear her thinking, “She’ll never find that one!”

Some very large dogs that Maggie will never play with chased each other clear across the field, between two active baseball games and their owners couldn’t call them back. Not that the dog’s couldn’t hear them. The owners were just not effective. I kept hearing “Bob…Bob….Bob…..”. It was coming from a man who could have passed for Ferris Bueller’s teacher with his blasé way of taking attendance. “Bueller? Bueller? Bueller? Bueller? Anyone?”

Bob was not going to come. Who names their dog Bob? I was standing next to a woman I had just met and the two of us are giggling at this guy who looks and sounds like Ferris Beuller’s teacher.

I said to my new giggly friend, “You know, the name that they give the dog at the dog pound isn’t really the dog’s name. So if he’s not coming to it, give him a new name, maybe throw a few names out there at once and see which one turns his head.” I can’t stop giggling either. The man keeps calling “Bob…Bob…Bob.” He is tall, wearing a pink golf shirt, carrying a leash over his shoulder, a water bottle in one hand and a plastic poop bag in the other.

I explain to my new giggly friend that I always thought the name that was displayed above the dog’s pen at the pound was the name that the dog was given at birth. “Rainbow? Oh, how sweet. A dog with the name Rainbow couldn’t possibly have issues. Possibly a child named that dog. It was raised by a loving family. I bet they moved and couldn’t take the dog with them. I bet I’m just really lucky and this is the best dog here. I want it.”

You think this ’til you get the dog home and realize his name should be Killer or Chew Chew Charlie, or his Native American name, Pees in the House. Who moves and can’t take their dog with them? That’s like leaving a child behind. Sorry, dude, it’s a three bedroom. There won’t be enough room for you, and your sisters, too. You stay here, and wander the streets. Someone will come along, give you a silly name and adopt you.

The Ferris Bueller teacher look-alike is still ineffectively calling a dog who obviously does not want to be called Bob. He’s looking around robotically and he can’t see Bob amongst all the other dogs that have arrived one by one or in pairs. I am not done giggling at this man’s expense and I feel badly, because he could be blind, and that just makes me laugh harder, knowing that I shouldn’t. Seeing eye dogs are way more attentive. This is just a random dog and a random owner. It’s okay to laugh.

I start turning robotically and calling “Barb….Barb….Barb” to my dog. Who would name their dog Barb? It’s so close to Bob but it’s Barb. Get it? This is the sort of thing that makes me laugh. I can’t help myself. My new giggly friend and I are crying, we’re laughing so hard. Barb is not coming, because her real name is Maggie. But I don’t stop trying half-heartedly calling “Barb….Barb….Barb….” to Maggie and watching her sit in the grass at the edge of the sidewalk, completely oblivious to the this Barb person I’m calling. I look up and behind her is Vincent’s baseball coach, walking to his car, carrying a black bag with a long zipper. I yell, “Hey, Coach!” He doesn’t look up. But Bob comes running from across the field. He’s running past his owner and all the other dogs and sits next to me, panting and looking up at me. “Coach?” Coach wags his tail and tilts his head.

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