S e a m u s
Lost and Found
by Tom Matlack
The metal net snapped as thebasketball hit it squarely withplenty of backspin. Shirt off, Ihad launched the ball during afriendly early morning game of horse with my 11-year-old son.His hair was surfer-blond likemine, only with a smattering of red hues. The court had to beone of very few in the countrythat had such a commanding
the beach. The hills of LagunaBeach rose directly out of theocean at an almost impossiblysteep pitch, with homes held upby stilts hanging out over thecliff.“That’s game, brother,” I said,putting my sweaty arm aroundmy boy. “We gotta get youpacked up.”“Just a little longer, dad?”“Nah, Seamus. We really haveto get going.”We walked down to the wetsand. Big waves boomed andrushed at us. A couple of surferspaddled in the distance. Thebeach was still empty, exceptfor early morning walkers anda group of older women doingmartial arts in slow motionsilence. I looked at the ladies,wondering why I had never seenthis daily ritual back east.My son, ex-wife, current wife,13 year-old daughter by the
son by the second—we all livedwithin a mile of each other backin Boston. Together with Elena,my second wife, I had rented ahouse for three weeks in order to escape the thick snow, nowturned to dirty slush. Whereas Ihad been less than successfulin my personal life, I had madeenough money to travel to prettymuch wherever I wanted.Seamus was a head shorter than I was, but we shared morethan an abundance of surfer-dude blond hair. We were bothlong and lean and today wewalked with a similar casualgait, toes pointed outward,staring into space. Neither of uswas talking.As we approached the rentedSUV, the quiet was broken by aloud “Pssssssst!” Water sprayed
yards offshore.“Look at that, Seamus!” I said,as I squinted to see throughthe glare emanating from the
Just as Seamus looked up,Nikes and basketball in hand,he saw the whale breach. “Cool,dad! That thing’s HUGE!”
“You’re telling me! What a beautiful creature!”
“I’ve never seen one that closeto shore,” Seamus continued.“Neither have I. March must besome sort of migration seasonfor them.”We watched for a few minutes
the whale disappeared intothe depths of the clear greenocean.In the car, I couldn’t help thinkingabout the hours I’d spent asa boy with my own dad, anEnglish Professor, readingMoby Dick out loud and beingdragged to whaling museumsin Nantucket and New Bedford.I had learned about scurvy,the monotony of being at seafor months, and the bravery of men in tiny boats attemptingto kill giant beasts. I could seethe spool of rope, just as mydad had described it, spinningas the whale ran. The rope toredown the center of the whalingboat, men on either side rowingto try to keep up with the beast,and one sailor whose only jobwas to pour water on the spool
In the car, if I inhaled deeply, Icould almost smell the stench of blubber being boiled when thebattle was over.Beyond the mythic men of whaling, however, seeingthe whale so close remindedme of my father’s fascinationwith the animals themselves.As a child, my dad had beennicknamed “Whale” for hisability to stay under water for minutes at a time. Sometimes,in the car, he would listen toeerie recordings of screechingwhales communicating withone another. As a Quaker, mydad had been fascinated by theviolence of whaling, just like he
killed man or beast out of fear or hatred or for survival. However,it was the whales he loved most
seemed most in awe.That’s what I was thinking aboutas I drove Seamus up the hill. Itried to remember the last timeI had talked to my dad aboutanything of real importance.And I couldn’t remember.“Dad, I forgot my ball down onthe beach,” Seamus mumbled,as we pulled into the driveway.“I’m really sorry.”I fought off the impulse to snap.“It’s okay. We’ll go looking for iton the way out of town,” I said.“Hopefully, the neighborhoodkids didn’t take it. That was areally nice leather ball.”
packed, it was time to head toLAX. He wasn’t looking forwardto going home, back to schooland the cold, but at least hecould focus on and look forwardto the NCAA tournament. Justbefore leaving, Seamus and Isat down at the computer onelast time and logged into myYahoo account. I had agreed tolet him enter one set of bracketsinto a pool run by an investmentbanking buddy. The entry feewas $100, with the winner taking home a few thousandbucks. I had agreed to front himthe money on the condition thathalf of any winnings would go tocharity. Seamus pulled up thepool. The sweet sixteen wouldstart today and his entry was
“That’s it, dad. That’s thewinning bracket right there!Boston College is going to goall the way this year!”“I sure hope so,” I said, lookingat my watch. “We gotta get
we’re both in big trouble. And
on the beach.”We had both becomeaccustomed to goodbyes. Asfather and son, we had long agoreached a male understandingthat a certain amount of emotionwas a good thing. Too muchwas bad—very bad, in fact. Theease of being together couldeasily turn ugly if the pain of our situation was spoken out loud.We didn’t live together andnever would. This was as goodas it was going to get. We bothknew this, but never wanted tosay it out loud—as if the silencewould somehow diminish thehurt.“There it is!” Seamus shoutedwhen we pulled into the lot onthe beach. “Those guys areplaying with my ball.” A full-courtgame was in progress, shirtsand skins, with high school aged
catching his breath while a foulcall was hotly disputed. Rubber basketballs had been strewn athalf court in favor of the leather Spalding ball.“Stay here,” I told Seamus,wanting to make sure that theextraction was quick and easy.“Guys,” I said, as I approachedthe court, my 6’3” frame puffedout just slightly to make sure mywords were not ignored. “Theball is mine. Sorry.”The reaction was immediate—
“Thanks,” I muttered, beforegetting back into the car andhanding Seamus the lost ball.As we drove to the airport,I spoke brightly about thetournament and about Seamus’ssixth-grade team, attempting in
off the impending storm cloud.
before he had even left.I checked Seamus in at FirstClass. By now, I knew thequestions on the unaccompaniedminor form by heart. I carefullyplaced Seamus’s ticket into aclear plastic pouch held in placeby a string around his neck.
“How come I always feel like a jackass with this thing on, dad? How am I supposed to pick up chicks on the plane?”
Seamus asked with a wry smile.“If the loser badge keeps thegirls away for a few more years,
with a smile.At the gate, I looked into myson’s eyes. We had waited untileveryone else got on the planebefore Seamus boarded. Butthe time had come.“I love you Seamus,” I said,giving him a bear hug. I felt how
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Divorced Dad: Lost and Found
"We had both become accustomed to goodbyes. As father and son, we had long ago reached a male understanding that a certain amount of emotion was a good thing. Too much was bad—very bad, in fact.…
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