Everyone whispered and wondered about it all day. We chattered like a bunch of fifth grade girls waiting for a slumber party.

“Did you get it?” we asked the guy who was supposed to get it.

“All set,” said the guy who got it.

* * *

It’s around 8:45 in the evening, and six or seven players cavort on the field the aforementioned fellow reserved. I pull my car close to the water fountain and jump out, almost forgetting to put the car in park. I’m in a hurry. In a hurry to get my spikes on, to get about five sticks of bubble gum in my mouth, to run onto the field to warm up and get ready to play. To play baseball.

It’s quiet in baseball these days.  Eerily quiet.  The steroid business grabbed the headlines for a moment, but there’s still trouble in the sport, isn’t there? It wasn’t but a couple of years ago we were talking about contraction and small market teams not surviving.

Is it the players fault? Maybe it’s the commissioner’s fault for lacking a spine. On the other hand, is it our fault as we pay outrages prices for tickets, souvenirs, and food at the stadium? Who will shoulder the responsibility for what may once again be the end of baseball? Before we get to that, there is one thing. 

There’s nothing wrong with baseball. Baseball is in fine shape, I’m telling you. We played it the other night.

Baseball isn’t revenue sharing and salary caps. It’s an outfield filled with clumps of weeds and a huge June bug buzzing around your head, too daft or fearless because he won’t be swatted away.

Baseball isn’t small market teams and free agency. It’s the craters around first and third and a cardboard second base that won’t stay put, causing a whale of an argument because it should be right here and not way over there.

It’s not a business replete with syringes and horse medicines. It’s a game resplendent with the crack of a bat and a line drive sizzling through the box, just out of the shortstop’s reach. It’s soft, red, muddy dirt in the spring and baked, gray, rock hard dirt in the summer. Baseball is a game.

So as I ran...um...rumbled out to centerfield, I spat in my glove, gave it three smacks, and with wizard-like magic shed many, many years. Instantly. Starting in centerfield, ten-year-old Kevin Phillips.

We played until about 11:40. The buzz of the light transformers droned a perfect compliment to the rhythm of our practice. For about three hours there were no problems, and no concerns. We made great catches and smacked long drives just foul. One of us even gunned down this fool trying to stretch a double into a triple. Did he not realize that yes, during the day this is a right arm, but at night, from deep in the right field alley, it’s a veritable cannon?

That’s real baseball - no cares, concerns, or problems.  Unlike my arm the next morning.

I found a dollar bill in my pants pocket as I slipped them on for work the other day. The hardy George Washington portrait made it through the wash, spin, rinse, and dry cycle, and I am beside myself with excitement. Then I read the newspaper.

By the time you read this, Bill Gates will most likely have stepped aside as the Big Cheese at Microsoft. Reckon he made a good career move dropping out of college? 

They say his net worth is 58 billion. I have it on good authority his net, net, worth is about thirty-six billion, but that's not counting the money in the old pickle jar on his nightstand.  If you include that, it comes to 58 billion. Figure 6 billion of that is what it will cost to cool that house of his this month, so let’s round it off to 52 billion.

52 billion. What do you do with everything after the first (and here you fill in the amount that equates to the phrase "too much money." For me, these days, $11.50 about covers it)? It might sound weird, but if someone took a hundred thousand dollars from you, it would go unnoticed. Why? That's like carrying around a bag with $520,000 in dollar bills, and dropping one of them. You'd never know.

Now, Bill is going to do good things, running his foundation and all; still, the sum is staggering.

I was in a local store the other day and this thing on the floor that looked like money caught my eye. Instinctively, I put my foot on it, picked it up and sure enough it was a folded up hundred dollar bill. I ran outside to the guy who’d been standing in front of me and asked him if he dropped any money. He fished in his pocket for a minute, went pale and said, "Yeah, a hundred bucks." So, I reached in my pocket, smiled, and gave him the bill.

"Thanks," he huffed, "why didn't you just give it to me in the store? Conscience kick in?"

Ah, people and their money. If you were behind Bill Gates in a little store and . . . never mind.

Fidy-two bill-yun. What if you got up in the morning, and decided your calling was to drive around in the limo, grabbing thousand-dollar handfuls of money and throwing them out the window? What if you did it fifty times each hour?

What if you did it for eight hours a day, fifty hours a week, and fifty weeks a year? (You could take two weeks off for vacation, but that's all).

 You'd "spend" a $100 million. That's akin to a tossing a $100 if you made fifty-two thousand a year. You'd be a national hero in the first scenario; in that second scenario, your wife and her father would be going rock, scissors, and paper to see who gets to commit you first.

Anyway, I'll just take my dollar, thank you. Best kind of money, isn't it, found money? I'll bet even Bill gets a little thrill when he finds a ten spot in his pants when he washes them on Saturday morning. 

He's twenty-six, tall, a good softball player, and a Texan through and through.  She's twenty-five, blonde, smart, and flashes this smile that can light up a room.  The baby is almost three, probably spoiled, but sharp as a tack.  These twentysomethings decided they're not happy anymore, and are fixin' to call it quits.

All those over twenty-seven raise your hand.  When you were young and someone laid that, “it is the journey, not the destination that makes up ‘life,’” stuff on you, did you buy it?  Me neither.  So, when this twenty-six year old Texan ran down his reasons for this breakup, I needed to bite my tongue.  And I have.  Until now.

Happiness, fella, does not come with the morning paper.  It doesn't come as a bonus with the purchase of that fine, spiffy phone, or in the glove box of that sports car you spent a ton of money on, or inside that wedding card you received a few years ago.  It's not an inalienable right, although the pursuit of it is.  If you look up the word pursue, you'll find it comes from Latin words meaning "forward," and "to follow."  Words are funny in that you can arrange them any way you want to fit your need, but I see pursue as meaning to keep on going in one direction.  Especially when it comes to a commitment.

Happiness, young lady, isn't a state you attain and then keep.  Not on this earth, anyway.  Everyone, at some point in their lives, has this wonderful vision of bliss and contentment once this or that happens.  Not so.  There are days complete with automatic, no cost upgrades, but not often.  Most feature idiots who don't know how to drive, ear infections that won't go away, muscles that ache for no reason, and doubts about the choice made. 

You told me once time that me and my wife looked happy.  We are.  Each moment of each day?  Um…

Some days we are business partners trying to figure out the best way to run this "corporation" and we go at it like junior executives vying for a promotion.  You won't find a bluebird within a country mile of either's shoulder. 

Some days I'm nine years old again and expect my "mom" to pick up after, take care of, and do everything but wipe it for me.  Tough to find any eyes sparkling with moon dust those days.  Some days she’s reached a point where she simply can’t sacrifice yet another thing because it’s the mom thing to do.  Lovely soundtrack to those evenings.   Some days are just days.  Those are the important ones, I think. 

On the days that are just days, we try to remember to say something nice, do something helpful, and thank God for healthy kids who’ve grown into great young adults.  Besides reminding each other Who is really in charge of this whole thing, there's one more thing we try to do on all the days; good, bad, or uneventful.

We work at it. 

Just like your jobs, which you both love, it takes work.  Do you have good days and bad days on the job?  Do you have days that couldn't go any better if you wrote scripts for them?  Do you have days that make you ask, "Where do I go to give up?"  It all leads to this.

If you quit your job because it wasn't happy days all the time, how many jobs would you have in your life?  Thousands, I think.  If you don't quit your job for lack of happy days, why quit this relationship for that reason?

Work at it.

"Hi, we're the Phillips', and we eat too much ice cream and cookies."

"Hi Phillips'" our Thursday crowd replied. 

# # #

I suppose it was obvious to our family, each in our own little way, but the missus named it a week or so ago.  Let me take you back in time…

Brother stopped by after work, opened the freezer and said, "Hey!"  Then he opened the pantry door and said, "Hey!  Dad!  How come you got no cookies or ice cream?"

"No more!" the Evil Mom bellowed.

"’Til tomorrow?" we asked.

"Ever," she hissed.

I’m guessing her mind was made up the evening before.  Big Sis was in town, so Brother came by to visit.  Lil’ Sis had the day off and we all celebrated by going shopping for a big supper.

Someone snuck a bag of Oreo's in the grocery cart; she grumbled about it at the checkout line, but bought them, and when she went to get some after supper, they were gone.  Not a crumb left.  White foam dribbled out the side of her mouth – a marvelous contrast to the beet redness of her face - and we were all wise enough to drop it for the moment.  Until Brother brought it up on the day mentioned.  The goober. 

I let her cool off for an hour or so and then cautiously approached.  "What's up with the cookies?"

She pointed to her favorite pair of jeans.  That’s it; just pointed at them.

"Honey, I'd love you no matter what the . . .”

"Oh, shut up."

"But I just want some cooook-ieeeess!" 

"That’s it!" Saddam...I mean she...announced.  "I've already called MADDy, and our first meeting is Thursday."

“What's MADDy?"

"Mothers against Delicious Desserts, y’all."

"Oh."

The meeting contained lots of fruit trays, posters listing the terrible caloric and fat content of goodies (headlined by some fancy European cookies), and annoying, high energy, carb–hating freaks.  It was all very motivating and we rode home in high spirits that night. 

What I’m going to do is grab this eight-year-old fellow down the block, and declare him a candidate for the Presidential campaign. 

I’ll be his campaign manager, and our whole message will be based on the First Streetlight platform.  It’s old school but very effective.  If you didn’t grow up in a big city, you may not know about First Streetlight.  If that’s the case find someone who did and they’ll tell you all about it.  For me, it went something like this. 

When I was a kid, my friends and I played hard all day.  As the spark of bright blue afternoon ignited orange-sky early evening, tempers simmered as we played ball or tag or superheroes.  Someone would get mad, a scuffle would follow, and just as the thing really came to a boil, we'd all get called to supper.  It only took one call to get us to supper.  One call, three big gulps, and for dessert a luscious helping of tease for the little sister.  After supper there was a three-course bath – much scrubbing with a side of giggles, washed down with water to cover the entire bathroom. 

Finally, we'd dribble out of our houses; little men with hair slicked back, finger wiggling in one ear trying to get the bath water out, and dressed only in a pair of cut-offs.  Once again we were an entourage of smiling, smirking, mischief-makers.

The two main scufflers from earlier would be the last to come out, briskly scrubbed and scolded by their mothers, mildly scolded and secretly questioned by their Pops.  As anger from the afternoon gurgled down bathtub drains, laughter and jokes about swinging like a sissy bubbled up.  The concoction was made complete with terrible hollers at each other all having to do with various body functions, parts, and assorted nonsense followed by the word "head." 

We'd stand around, clean and relieved of the dust and dirt of the day, and before long sunset would officially arrive.  As dusk lazily drifted in and around, a streetlight would burst into glow.  The second light would sizzle to life, then the third way down the block, and so on. 

The first to notice would yell, "First Streetlight!" and with smug satisfaction assume his roll as Big Stuff for the remainder of the evening.  Second Streetlight was not as good as first, but in the value system that made up our competitive childhood, fairly respectable.  Third was better than a stick in your eye, but not much.  If anyone was foolish enough to yell out "Fourth Streetlight," they were subject to immediate and bitter ridicule.  Someone usually, foolishly, yelled it.

In that moment, we'd unconsciously pause to lick our lips over everything the day had been, take a big bite and enjoy the evening’s things that were, and relish the promises yet to come.  The hot bath and summer breeze cooked up goosebumps and giggles in the approaching night.  As our parents perched on the porch or dallied in the driveway watering brown laws, we'd savor precious minutes stolen past our usual bedtimes. 

If you drove down our block you’d probably drive past ten boys patting their bellies at you while they pretended to pick their noses, and if you were really lucky we’d pass a little gas your way.  This day was joyously in the bag, and "First Streetlight!" was the stamp of approval on the whole thing.

The heat of the day – be it winter or summer – gives birth to battles, and this happens on a city street, at a town council meeting, and in Washington.  Always will.  In my candidate’s administration, the workday won’t start until around 11 AM.  This means scuffles can’t really get serious until late in the day, and that means suppertime can come before anything really stupid happens.  Tough, forgiving, appreciative of all things, maybe even little sisters; that’s what you’ll have to be to succeed in this administration.

After supper, my candidate will encourage all of Washington to take a bath, and he’ll require it if it’s been a particularly nasty day.  As the night begins to fall, everyone will stand outside the capitol wiggling a finger in their ear, enjoying the goosebumps the air produces.  As the day closes, someone will acknowledge it with a resounding cry of "First Streetlight!" as they forgive and forget and make funny faces at the cars passing by.  They’ll wake the next day ready to do it all over again. 

Soon enough, stuff will start getting done and we’ll all be better off.  All that other shmutz; economy, oil, and the Middle East?  Maybe we’ll just have to teach the world about First Streetlight.  That'll square things up.