Those Who Seek

We were sitting in the stadium waiting for the Face. It came at 6:45, right-center field, or that’s what I’d heard because I hadn’t seen it yet.

I was there with my son and one of his friends from the city league—Kierran or Kellan, scrawny kid from the west side. Whose parents were both lawyers and bought him a three-hundred-dollar glove, which he mostly sat on so he wouldn’t get dirty. Which my wife says is none of my business, but there you go.

She was at home, my wife. Said the Face was a marketing gimmick. Some digital whatever—a hologram, I think. Some way to get people to the ballpark early so they could buy more beer and nachos, nine-dollar dogs. Not even a Face, said my wife, probably a logo or something, and she wasn’t driving all the way downtown in traffic when she had things to do—laundry!—by which she meant Netflix.      

So, I’d brought the boys. The hot dogs weren’t bad. And if seeing a game could help my son learn to lean into the plate and stop whaling at the ball like trying to bring down a plane, well, I figured, it would be worth the trip.

Because you had to make a trip if you wanted to see the Face. It didn’t show up in the pictures or the videos people took, so you couldn’t see it online—couldn’t get it on your phone. Which pissed people off, even if it was Jesus.

That’s what people were saying: the Face was the Face of Jesus. Though some said it was the Dominican reliever the team had signed, or the winner of some contest, a reality show. My buddy at work said it was the guy with the weird hair from the China thing.

I turned to my son and his friend. “Guys, you ready?”

“I’m on a level,” said my son, thumbing at a tiny screen.

“For the Face,” I said.

“Dad, not now.”

“There he is!” said Kerwin, or Klennan, my son’s friend.

But he meant the mascot—the guy in the furry suit—and the boys went back to their phones, their games. I checked my own phone: 6:43.

A nun shoved past me. The religious types were here, with the singing and praying and end of something. Or beginning. Not that I’ve got a problem with the religious types, of course. But if you want to hail a Mary, or amaze a little grace?—don’t go putting your elbow in a man’s Coors Lite.

More people mashed in, along the steps and in the aisles. Pushing into rows, trying to get a view. Most of us were on our feet and straining to right-center, when it seemed like in the distance…maybe, I thought I saw…but then the crowd heaved over and we all went down.

So I can’t really say if I saw the Face or I didn’t. When the bodies went horizontal—people shouting and crashing hard, on the seats, on the floor—I pulled my son and his friend close, covered their bodies with mine.

My wife wanted to know why we were home so early. I had to explain about the night and how our son cracked his screen and why we smelled like beer and mustard from the deck of Section J.

She put our son to bed.

I checked my phone for the Face.