Lost and Found

by Tom Matlack

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The metal net snapped as the
basketball hit it squarely with
plenty of backspin. Shirt off, I
had launched the ball during a
friendly early morning game of
horse with my 11-year-old son.
His hair was surfer-blond like
mine, only with a smattering of
red hues. The court had to be
one of very few in the country
that had such a commanding
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the beach. The hills of Laguna
Beach rose directly out of the
ocean at an almost impossibly
steep pitch, with homes held up
by stilts hanging out over the
cliff.
“That’s game, brother,” I said,
putting my sweaty arm around
my boy. “We gotta get you
packed up.”
“Just a little longer, dad?”
“Nah, Seamus. We really have
to get going.”
We walked down to the wet
sand. Big waves boomed and
rushed at us. A couple of surfers
paddled in the distance. The
beach was still empty, except
for early morning walkers and
a group of older women doing
martial arts in slow motion
silence. I looked at the ladies,
wondering why I had never seen
this daily ritual back east.
My son, ex-wife, current wife,
13 year-old daughter by the
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son by the second—we all lived
within a mile of each other back
in Boston. Together with Elena,
my second wife, I had rented a
house for three weeks in order
to escape the thick snow, now
turned to dirty slush. Whereas I
had been less than successful
in my personal life, I had made
enough money to travel to pretty
much wherever I wanted.
Seamus was a head shorter
than I was, but we shared more
than an abundance of surfer-
dude blond hair. We were both
long and lean and today we
walked with a similar casual
gait, toes pointed outward,
staring into space. Neither of us
was talking.
As we approached the rented
SUV, the quiet was broken by a
loud “Pssssssst!” Water sprayed
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yards offshore.
“Look at that, Seamus!” I said,
as I squinted to see through
the glare emanating from the
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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 close
to shore,” Seamus continued.
“Neither have I. March must be
some sort of migration season
for them.”
We watched for a few minutes
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the whale disappeared into
the depths of the clear green
ocean.
In the car, I couldn’t help thinking
about the hours I’d spent as
a boy with my own dad, an
English Professor, reading
Moby Dick out loud and being
dragged to whaling museums
in Nantucket and New Bedford.
I had learned about scurvy,
the monotony of being at sea
for months, and the bravery of
men in tiny boats attempting
to kill giant beasts. I could see
the spool of rope, just as my
dad had described it, spinning
as the whale ran. The rope tore
down the center of the whaling
boat, men on either side rowing
to try to keep up with the beast,
and one sailor whose only job
was to pour water on the spool
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In the car, if I inhaled deeply, I
could almost smell the stench of
blubber being boiled when the
battle was over.
Beyond the mythic men of
whaling, however, seeing
the whale so close reminded
me of my father’s fascination
with the animals themselves.
As a child, my dad had been
nicknamed “Whale” for his
ability to stay under water for
minutes at a time. Sometimes,
in the car, he would listen to
eerie recordings of screeching
whales communicating with
one another. As a Quaker, my
dad had been fascinated by the
violence of whaling, just like he
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killed man or beast out of fear or
hatred or for survival. However,
it was the whales he loved most
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seemed most in awe.
That’s what I was thinking about
as I drove Seamus up the hill. I
tried to remember the last time
I had talked to my dad about
anything of real importance.
And I couldn’t remember.
“Dad, I forgot my ball down on
the 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 it
on the way out of town,” I said.
“Hopefully, the neighborhood
kids didn’t take it. That was a
really nice leather ball.”
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packed, it was time to head to
LAX. He wasn’t looking forward
to going home, back to school
and the cold, but at least he
could focus on and look forward
to the NCAA tournament. Just
before leaving, Seamus and I
sat down at the computer one
last time and logged into my
Yahoo account. I had agreed to
let him enter one set of brackets
into a pool run by an investment
banking buddy. The entry fee
was $100, with the winner
taking home a few thousand
bucks. I had agreed to front him
the money on the condition that
half of any winnings would go to
charity. Seamus pulled up the
pool. The sweet sixteen would
start today and his entry was
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“That’s it, dad. That’s the
winning bracket right there!
Boston College is going to go
all the way this year!”
“I sure hope so,” I said, looking
at my watch. “We gotta get
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we’re both in big trouble. And
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on the beach.”
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. The
ease of being together could
easily turn ugly if the pain of our
situation was spoken out loud.
We didn’t live together and
never would. This was as good
as it was going to get. We both
knew this, but never wanted to
say it out loud—as if the silence
would somehow diminish the
hurt.
“There it is!” Seamus shouted
when we pulled into the lot on
the beach. “Those guys are
playing with my ball.” A full-court
game was in progress, shirts
and skins, with high school aged
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catching his breath while a foul
call was hotly disputed. Rubber
basketballs had been strewn at
half court in favor of the leather
Spalding ball.
“Stay here,” I told Seamus,
wanting to make sure that the
extraction was quick and easy.
“Guys,” I said, as I approached
the court, my 6’3” frame puffed
out just slightly to make sure my
words were not ignored. “The
ball is mine. Sorry.”
The reaction was immediate—
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“Thanks,” I muttered, before
getting back into the car and
handing Seamus the lost ball.
As we drove to the airport,
I spoke brightly about the
tournament and about Seamus’s
sixth-grade team, attempting in
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off the impending storm cloud.
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before he had even left.
I checked Seamus in at First
Class. By now, I knew the
questions on the unaccompanied
minor form by heart. I carefully
placed Seamus’s ticket into a
clear plastic pouch held in place
by 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 the
girls away for a few more years,
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with a smile.
At the gate, I looked into my
son’s eyes. We had waited until
everyone else got on the plane
before Seamus boarded. But
the time had come.
“I love you Seamus,” I said,
giving him a bear hug. I felt how
my little baby boy had become
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where before he had been so tiny
and fragile. I noticed Seamus’s
stuffed dog, Pal, sticking out of
his backpack. Maybe he’s not
all grown up just yet, I thought.
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to all the times I’d scoured my
apartment to make sure that Pal
had not been lost. I held onto
those memories, and to Pal, as
tightly as I held my son at this
point.
“I love you too, dad,” Seamus
said, holding on a few moments
longer than usual. “I’ll text you
as soon as I hit the ground at
Logan.” Then he turned and
walked down the jetway with
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baggy black cord shorts that
reached down to his shins, and
a mustard Volcom sweatshirt.
Except for the basketball under
his arm, he was pure surfer
dude. I hadn’t had the heart to
force him to change into clothes
for the snowy weather predicted
back east. He turned one last
time to pound his chest and
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air with a weak smile. I did the
same. Then my son was gone.
Driving home from LAX, I had
to again remind myself why
going back to court to get equal
time with my kids would be a
bad idea for Seamus and his
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my kids, despite the heartache
of long periods of separation,
was the best thing I could do.
I had been kicked out of the
house when Seamus was less
than a year old and Kerry was
just two. Despite taking a large
company public, then selling it
for billions, I had been a drunk
and in no position to demand
joint physical custody.
In the years since, I had devoted
myself to becoming a decent
father but had repeatedly sought
legal advice regarding the way
my time with my kids was doled
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only to be told that changing
a custody arrangement after
years of precedents would
require proving that it was in the
best interests of the children.
I had never had the courage
to call Colleen on her bluff
that I was a bad father and
not worthy of equal custody.
The arrangement ate away at
me, but I hadn’t been willing
to reopen the wound. Whether
that was to protect the kids or to
protect myself, I wasn’t sure.
In the car on the way back to
Laguna Beach, I felt, along with
a growing sense of loss, at least
a tiny sense of relief. The visit
had gone well. I always worried
that Seamus would be bored or
would decide he was too old to
be hanging around with his dad
on vacation. We had hit some
amusement parks, shot hoops,
eaten great food, sat in the sun,
and talked. It had been fun and
relaxed. I was happy to have
the mission accomplished.
Elena, Cole, and I went to the
playground. I climbed a huge
rocket ship with my son and sat
him on my lap to blast down a
long slide, landing in the sand at
the bottom, both of us laughing.
Elena and I held hands on the
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and slender with blond hair.
Cole urged us on from the
stroller as we pushed him up the
hill. “Faster daddy, faster!” Like
Seamus, he had his dad’s hair.
But he had his mom’s bright
blue eyes.
I thought about another day at
the playground. It was Father’s
Day, when Seamus had been
just three months old—one
of the last times we had been
together before the end. That
day, I had a plane to catch—a
private jet actually—as I was
taking my company public and
needed to be in London that
night for a presentation. A black
limousine awaited us outside
the front of the house that
Colleen and I had just built on a
cul-de-sac in Barrington, Rhode
Island. As I left, a bag containing
my blue suit, white shirt, and a
red tie slung over my shoulder,
Colleen had ripped into me for
being a shitty father. I had not
responded. I’d just kept my head
down as her words made their
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pain.
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sat down at the computer and
pulled up the American Airlines
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had just taken off for Boston.
Seamus was in the air. I noticed
that, at the top of the website,
the airline was reporting delays
in New York and Philadelphia,
but didn’t think much of it. I
went back to the TV room to
watch The Backyardigans with
Cole, who snuggled into my
neck and quickly fell asleep. I
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had Seamus overnight at my
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sense, I had been lost myself
until I’d held my son in my arms,
fed him a bottle, and inhaled
the smell of him. That’s when I
knew that being a dad was the
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the thing that I had missed for
all the deal making. By the time
Elena came to check on us, we
were both snoring.
I awoke with a start. The sunlight
outside was already beginning
to fade. My Blackberry buzzed
with a new voice message. It
was Colleen. I hit the voicemail
button and listened.
“It’s snowing really hard here,”
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took off so they must have
thought it was going to be okay.
But I just got off the phone with
Logan and they are already
down to one runway and his
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hour and a half. I’m really worried
about Seamus. Call me or email
me.” Click. She had hung up
abruptly, as always. But the
message was troubling, even
with a hefty Colleen-hysteria
discount factored in.
At the computer, I pulled up the
map of the United States on the
American Airlines site. Flight
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around Buffalo in western New
York. When I moved the cursor
to the dot and right-clicked the
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popped up: “Estimated time
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p.m.” I looked at my watch. It
was just past six, west coast
time, so he should be landing
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against returning Colleen’s call.
Email was always better when
dealing with an angry or scared
ex-wife, even in a crisis. I typed
a message on my Blackberry,
saying that American Airlines
had Seamus landing shortly,
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over an hour delayed.
Thirty seconds later, Colleen
replied,
“ He has been
circling Logan
for the last hour.
The plane is near
Buffalo to avoid the
storm until they can
clear the runway.
This airport is shut
down completely.
Even the security
guys have gone
home.”
That didn’t sound good. I looked
out at the beautiful sunset over
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with its expansive view, sat up
high on the hill, just behind the
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our bed, Elena and I watched
the lights of tankers passing
miles offshore from one horizon
to the other. Why anyone
would ever leave this for snow,
ice, and bitter cold wind was
beyond me. I tried to remain
calm as I picked up the landline
to call the after-hours service
at American Express Travel. I
knew that trying to get through
to American Airlines directly
would be useless. The website
was the best I was going to do
as far as communicating with
the airline.
“This is Jeremy at American
Express emergency services.
How can I help you tonight?”
“Look, I have a problem,” I
said, trying to sound calm. “My
son, Seamus Matlack, is on
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He’s a minor. I am really worried
about him. I’m wondering if
they’re going to land.”
“That’s no fun. What a way to
end spring break, huh? Let’s
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“I’m sure he’ll be okay. He’s my
oldest son.”
“I understand. Says here that
his plane is headed for Hartford.
The storm has passed through
there already. Logan won’t be
open until the morning.”
“Shit!” I said, forgetting
momentarily—or perhaps no
longer caring—that I was
speaking to the customer service
rep and not an old school friend
in a bar, “Do ya think his mom
can pick him up there?”
“If she can get through.
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the morning.”
“His mother isn’t going to let him
stay by himself with strangers,”
I said.
“Happens all the time, Mr.
Matlack. Your son’s going to be
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“He’s probably scared shitless,
but let’s hope you’re right.
Thanks,” I said, before hanging
up.
I emailed Colleen, “FLIGHT
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hit ‘send’ and waited for the shit
storm to hit.
The response was terse and,
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I went back to the computer to
refresh the American Airlines
screen. The dot came up over
Albany. When I clicked, it
showed arrival in Hartford in half
an hour. I went out on the deck
to look at the ocean, trying to
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do 3,000 miles away from my
son. I took out my Blackberry
and decided to leave him a
message so that he would call
as soon as he landed.
I got his voicemail. “This is
Seamus. Please leave me a
message.”
“Seamus, it’s dad. I know your
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Hartford. Your mom’s on her
way. She will get there as soon
as she can. Call me when you
can. Sorry for the hassle, but
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out, dude.” I clicked the phone
off, then texted him as well,
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HER WAY. CALL ME. DAD.”
I went back inside to watch
the basketball tournament and
to try to take my mind off my
son. Twenty minutes later, my
Blackberry was beeping again. I
was hoping it was Seamus, but
it was Colleen. “Shit!” I muttered
to myself. Her message read,
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12:´
I hit redial on my Blackberry
and again got voicemail, “This
is Seamus…”
“FUCK!” I shouted, slamming the
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panic set in. How could I let this
happen? Why the fuck hadn’t
I checked the weather before
putting my son on that plane?
He had to be scared by now.
Why wasn’t he answering his
damn phone?
I went back to the computer and
clicked ‘refresh.’ The dot settled
on Hartford. I clicked again.
The computer blinked at me,
“LANDED.”
I furiously typed yet another
message on my Blackberry,
“CALL ME!” I went back outside
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and to try to talk myself down.
Seamus is not dead. He’s
not even sick. The airline is
responsible for his safety and
even though they can’t get most
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different. They take this shit
seriously. The crew members
on that plane must be parents
too. They must know what it’s
like to have your kid stranded
somewhere you can’t reach
him.
I went back inside and hit redial
again. “This is Seamus…”
My Blackberry rang. It was
Colleen. I had to pick it up
now. “What do you know?” she
blurted out.
“Nothing. I haven’t been able to
talk to him yet. His plane’s on
the ground but he is probably
just getting his luggage. This
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He’ll be home in no time,” I said,
trying desperately to maintain
an even tone.
“I can barely see the road. Call
me when you hear anything,”
Colleen said before hanging
up.
I went back outside on the
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back inside and tried to watch
a tournament game that had
gone into overtime. I tried to get
involved in the game. I actually
went back to the computer to
check who Seamus had in his
bracket. The phone rang.
I ran to the kitchen to pick it up.
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Seamus asked.
“Man, am I glad to hear your
voice, Seamus!” I said, letting
go of the pocket of air that had
been buried deep in my chest
all afternoon.
“No big deal, dad. They set
us up at a Holiday Inn. This
stewardess Annie is in the
next room. She just bought me
a cheeseburger, fries, and a
chocolate milkshake. Getting
ready for the Boston College tip-
off. They’re going to dominate,”
Seamus said.
“You’re too much, kid. Is this
Annie treating you okay?”
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her?” Seamus replied.
“Please.”
“Here she is,” Seamus said.
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phone. A woman’s voice
eventually came on.
“This is Annie. You have one
special boy here, Mr. Matlack.
He kept the whole crew
entertained at baggage claim
with his Harlem Globetrotters
routine.”
“Annie, I don’t know how to
thank you enough for taking
such good care of my son,” I
said.
“Don’t mention it. I’m a divorced
parent too. I would want the
same for my little girl if she got
stuck somewhere. Besides,
your son never panicked. He
kept telling us all what a great
adventure this was, when we
were getting ready to poke our
own eyes out with the delays.”
“Well, thanks. Can I talk to him
again?”
Seamus came back on the
phone and spoke in a whisper.
“Dad, Annie is kind of hot.”
“Son, she sounds about twenty
years older than you. Be
thankful she’s takin’ such good
care of you and don’t get fresh
with her!” I said, in mock anger.
“I was just kidding, dad. I’ll
give you a call after the Boston
College game. We can watch it
together on text. Let me know
what you think along the way.
2ND\"´
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son.”
“Love ya too, dad.”
I then went into the TV room,
turned the television off, and sat
in the dark. After a few moments,
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The next morning, Cole woke
us up early but Elena let me
sleep. Boston College had won
in a blowout. Seamus had called
midway through the second half
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over. At 10:30 in the morning, my
Blackberry was buzzing again.
It was an email from Colleen:
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“There’s one!” Seamus shouted,
pointing into the pool of salt
water under the rock he had just
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grasped for the tiny hermit crab
as it scurried across the sand.
He caught it and placed it gently
in a yellow plastic bucket, joining
a dozen others.
Elena and I lounged on the
beach nearby, watching the boys
and holding hands. Sailboats
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the beach, we could see the
house that we had built sitting
high up on a bluff just over the
Massachusetts and Rhode
Island border. As a girl, Elena
had come to Westport Harbor
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7ZHQW\¿YH\HDUVODWHUVKHKDG
convinced me to come back to
rent. All her childhood friends
were still there. It had become
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and a respite from the stormy
weather.
Seamus and I swam out to
a massive rock shaped like
an elephant, a few hundred
yards out in the ocean. For
generations, kids had jumped
off the head, shoulder, and rump
of the elephant, then pulled
themselves up and across
barnacles to lay on the rock and
warm up.
“Dad, I can’t believe we won four
hundred bucks for our bracket.
That was cool.” Seamus had
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the grand prize. At Elena’s
suggestion we had all gone to
Boston Medical Center and
used half the money to buy car
seats for homeless moms.
“Yeah, next year we’re going all
the way,” I said, getting up. I ran
off the rock and plunged thirty
feet into the cold, green water,
coming back to the surface just
in time to see my son follow my
lead.
 CLICK HERE TO WATCH THE MOVIE
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Short Story: Thomas Matlack Directed&Adapted: Josh Mitchell Shot&Edited: Jon Wolf

Thomas Matlack
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appeared in Fogged Clarity, The Philadelphia Inquirer, Rowing News, Penthouse, Boston
Common, Boston Magazine, Boston Globe Magazine, Wesleyan, Tango, Pop Matters, and
PenSpark, and he is a frequent contributor to 7KH+XI¿QJWRQ3RVt.

,Q0DWODFNIRXQGHG7+(*22'0(1352-(&T with his venture capital partner James

Houghton. He has appeared on national and local television and radio as well as in print
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inside the Sing Sing Correctional Facility and ended in Hollywood with a screening of THE
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and Shepard Fairey. All proceeds from the Project go to helping at-risk boys.

Matlack has an extensive social media platform including:a

· http://www.scribd.com/tmatlack · KWWSZZZÀLFNUFRPSKRWRVJRRGPHQSURMHFW
· http://www.facebook.com/thomasmatlack · http://www.youtube.com/goodmenproject
· http://www.facebook.com/thegoodmenproject · http://matlack.blip.tv/
· http://twitter.com/tmatlack · http://www.goodmenproject.org/blog