It was one of those long evenings where everything seemed to run late. My husband called during our boys’ baseball game, his voice heavy from another exhausting day at work. “I’m not going to make it on time,” he said quietly.
I told him not to worry — “Don’t come. It’ll be over soon.” But I should’ve known better. He came anyway.
He drove twenty extra minutes after an already twelve-hour shift, his clothes still stained from the day’s work. By the time he reached the field, the game had ended. The last batter had swung, the gloves were packed away, and the boys were trudging toward the car.
“You’re late,” one of our sons said sharply, not out of anger, just a child’s honest disappointment. The other just stood there, confused, unsure why their dad bothered coming at all.
But he didn’t say a word. He grabbed his unused folding chair, the one he never got to sit in that night, and helped me carry the gear back to the car. His steps were tired, his back bent, but his presence spoke louder than anything else ever could.
He didn’t come to see the game — he came to be there. To show that no matter how long the day, no matter how late the hour, he would always show up.
The kids didn’t see it then. To them, it was just another night, another missed play, another late arrival. But someday they’ll understand. Someday they’ll remember the man who drove across town after dark just to help pack up their bats.
They’ll remember how love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it looks like quiet effort, showing up when no one expects you to, even when no one cheers.
He didn’t come to be on time — he came to be present. And that’s what they’ll carry with them when they’re grown: that Dad always showed up, even when it was too late to see the game.
That’s love. Not perfect, not flashy — just constant.