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wasn’t—an uncaring father.
    “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “We’ll do it another time.”
    “You sure?”
    “Definitely.”
    He put his phone away and looked at the crowd. Just opposite him, a trio of engineers peered down at someone’s Palm. They looked as if they’d slept in their clothes, which in fact they might have: there was a big deadline next week, and the feeling of barely controlled frenzy on the third floor was getting stronger with each passing day. It was all Red Bull up there now, and the sharp smells of garlic and sweat. These three guys would each drink a Diet Coke and then go back upstairs, probably be here all weekend. Brody knew that drill inside out: working seventy or eighty hours a week without giving it a second thought because that was what you did if you wanted to go places. Then one day you woke up and went:
Oh. This is my
life
I’m living at this desk.
             
    The morning air was bright, the grass sopping. Brody helped Joe’s coaches drag the goals into place and then watched the boys warm up: stretches, drills, a couple good laps around the field. They were at a park high in the hills, with a clear view west of the coastal range: the rise and rise of its thickly forested flanks. Somehow, you could tell the ocean was right on the other side—maybe because the sky at the top of the mountain was so brilliant. If Liz were along they’d have walked the park’s trails until the game began, but these days she tended to skip the early games—so she’d be home when Lauren got up.
    There was this thing Brody did sometimes, thinking about Joe: he ran the movie of Joe’s life, but sped up. It went slippery infant, chubby baby, toddler, truck lover, math guy, smart aleck, athlete. It was Joe-through-the-ages. Like those old Wonder Bread ads from his own childhood: helps build strong bodies twelve ways. And you’d see a flash series of one kid through the years, wearing the same clothes but getting bigger and bigger.
    Right now, Joe was all athlete. The game about to begin, Brody watched him jog in place, touch his toes, jog again.
Ready,
he seemed to be saying.
Ready now.
    The whistle blew, and Joe leaped into play, running wide and receiving a pass from Trent, then dribbling up the side with the opposition giving chase. Joe had moves—he could dodge and feint—and he was fast on his feet, but near the goal something sometimes took over, a hesitation, a lack of focus, and Brody realized he was holding his breath and let it go in a rush.
    He headed toward a couple of the other fathers. “Beautiful morning,” he said.
    “Beautiful,” one guy agreed. His son was in the goal, and he seemed to bear some of the tension in his own body: he appeared coiled, ready to spring.
    “Got to love these eight a.m. games,” said another. He jiggled the keys in his pocket. “This is my twentieth year doing this,” he added, almost to himself.
    Brody had clocked far less than that, but he was pretty sure he was going on a decade. When had Joe started, kindergarten? Back then Brody had never imagined Joe would continue to play year after year, that soccer itself, the blunt, running, back and forth of the game, would so engage him. In the early years it had been as much about the snack as the game—more, probably. He vividly remembered walking across a muddy field—maybe half the size of this one—carrying a huge pink bakery box while Joe charged ahead and called to the other boys, “We brought doughnuts! You can have glazed, cinnamon, or chocolate with sprinkles, but if you have chocolate with sprinkles you have to finish before you get in your car!” Then, when the game was over, the boys crowded around the box and grabbed. Jostling, sweaty, muddy—like pigs in a litter. Brody felt a great kinship with them, intermingled with a kind of finicky adult remonstrance.
    After a while it was halftime. Joe stood with his teammates chugging water, his face red as a steak. Brody gave