Atticus   

The big fella sat in the sweltering midday sun two rows in front of me on the aluminum outfield bleachers of Rosenblatt Stadium. Wearing khaki cargo shorts, a Cal State-Fullerton baseball cap, brown-leather-strapped sandals and a gray sleeveless T-shirt that, in the center of the shirt in black block letters, read “Mines,” representing what I assume was Colorado School of Mines, he was about 5-foot-11 and weighed around 230 pounds. Thick slabs of muscle hibernated beneath stores of bulk around his midsection, his upper arms and his back.

A 30-something lifestyle less active than his earlier years and a metabolic rate slowing with age were likely to blame. He could stand to lose at least 20-25 pounds. But he, as my grandfather might say, carried his weight well.

To his right were his brother and his pre-school nephew. The three of them appear to be some mix of English and German ancestry.

On his brother’s right was another man in his mid-30s, who appeared to be a friend of theirs, maybe 6 feet tall and 185 pounds, as well as their friend’s parents. They were Italian.

The guy in the Mines T-shirt removed his cap and swept his right hand across his closely cropped hair to whisk some of the pooling sweat from his head. That’s when I saw the silver wedding band.

I couldn’t believe it. Another gay guy besides my friend Steve and me was attending the College World Series, and somewhere he had a partner.

The next day, Father’s Day, I saw him again. He was climbing the steps toward our section in right field before the elimination game between Mississippi State and Louisville. This time, to stay out of the sun, he made his way to a spot no more than 10 feet to our right beneath the awning on the last row. Following him to the seats were the handsome Italian guy in the Arizona State baseball cap from the previous day and, once again, the guy’s parents.

Suddenly the picture became clearer. The partner behind the ring on the right hand wasn’t just somewhere. He was sitting at its side. In this scenario of four people, the big fella was the son-in-law.

“Those lucky bastards,” I murmured to Steve.

“You don’t know for sure that the picture you’ve put together is correct,” he said. “They might not even be gay.”

In the fourth or fifth inning, I watched as they left the game early. I imagined them taking the parents to an early dinner before catching a flight to the city where they share a home and a life. At the airport, the Italian guy will remind his mother that they plan to spend Thanksgiving this year with his in-laws and will be home again at Christmas.

And out of the corner of my eye, I could see Steve smiling as he observed me, knowing the story I was creating for them in my head. Without even glancing his way, I uttered my small request.

“Let me have this one, OK?”