Check engine light

I don't listen to sports on the car radio often. My dad does, all the time. My childhood memories are dubbed with the voices of Skip Caray and Don Sutton calling Braves games. I prefer music or a podcast, but tonight, I'm driving home listening to the Denver Broncos. I’m not really paying attention to the game. My mind is elsewhere.

The check engine light comes on again just past the Weigel's on Washington Pike. The gas station disappears behind me with the last lights on the dark road. My headlights don't work well, so I've got the fog lights on too. Even still, I struggle to see what's beyond them down the road, just dark.

That orange light doesn't tell you what's wrong with the car, just that something is. This used to send me into fits. Since I bought this 4Runner (half with a down payment, half regrettably financed), it's had problems. But the last few times, the light has come on because the gas cap is a little loose, so the car freaks out. I've learned to ignore it.

I had a counselor tell me emotions are like lights on a dashboard: they can't tell you the truth, just that something isn't right. Sometimes I can ignore them, sometimes I can't.

My daughter is asleep in her car seat behind me. I rub her head to make sure she's breathing like I've done 3,005 times in the seven months since she was born. She lets out a sigh, and so do I.

The car shakes a little when I tap the brakes. The car salesman sold me the vehicle with aftermarket tires. There's a shake since I've had them rotated because they're out of balance. I could hear my dad griping at me for it, but he wasn't there when I bought it, and I didn't know much beyond kicking the tires to see if they had air in them.

"What if a tire goes and I run off the road?" I think. Suddenly, the hill I'm driving down feels like a death threat. I can see the car going over the edge into the woods, and down the hill. Would we both survive that?

I didn't think much like this before my daughter was born. Now, death seems to always be skulking just beyond my headlights, for me, for her, for both of us. She sighs behind me.

John F. Kennedy said having children is giving fate a hostage. I grip the wheel and pray.

The Broncos are punting. The radio whirs static, feedback jitters in and out. It sounds like it's scanning for stations, but I didn't press any buttons."Fair catch at the —" static. "—will take over at the 34 when we come back—" then it's gone.

After a few seconds, I hear voices: garbled, static, then they get clearer. "Fred McGriff is 0-3, last time he hit the ball hard" static. "I doubt he'll see a fastball here," static. "Everybody standing here. Klesko is on deck. The 1-1, here it is."

Skip Caray. And that was Don Sutton who wondered if he'd get a fastball. I'd know those voices like my own mother's. Is some radio station broadcasting an old game? Skip and Don are dead. Fred McGriff retired years ago.

And then he's there — My father is sitting in the passenger seat. But he's not the 66-year-old man who lives 15 minutes from me. He's the man I knew when I was a kid back when Fred McGriff played first base for the Braves. He still smells like his old F-150 work truck, the ones he'd listen to ballgames in and drive us to the Old Mountaineer to get Reese's Cups. He’s got on his Scott's Farm cap that has the little rope on the front.

He leans over and looks at the speedometer. If I were 16, he'd criticize me but now I drive as slow as he does.

I wish I knew what to say, but I can't reconcile the man sitting next to me with the giant I knew when I was 4. He was my dad, the giant. This one's just … a regular guy. By my age, he had two kids with another on the way.

"What’s happening?" I ask.

"I think Klesko’s on deck," Dad leans over and turns the radio up.

"Let's see if he can get a hold of one," Skip says.

"He likes to mix in a sinker here," says Don.

We sit there and listen to the ballgame. After McGriff walks, Klesko strikes out, and Javy Lopez doubles down the line.

I turn the dial down, my eyes on the road looking out beyond my headlights.

"Dad, were you ever like … scared?”

“Mlicki’s up in the bullpen as Lemke digs in here. Looks like Chipper Jones stepping into the on-deck circle,” Skip says.

“Like when we were kids, they’re so fragile. And the world is terrifying,” I’m rambling. “Didn’t you have a heart attack every time you put them to sleep at night? Didn’t every car seem like a missile drive by a drunk mad man? Hell, a foggy drive with her in the back feels like a death trap.”

He's riding in the passenger seat the way he has a thousand and one times with me, holding the handle above his head, and leaning on the door. I realize I’ve said “Hell” and I worry he will scold me. He just chuckles in the way he does when he feels forced to talk about his emotions. Then says nothing.

"I mean, I don't know. I have no idea what I'm doing," I say. I have to brake around a curve, the car shakes. Dad scrunches his eyebrows and checks my dash.

I see him. "The engine light comes on sometimes. It's the gas cap … I think," I say.

Mark Lemke singles in Javy. Skip and Don are really excited.

I look out beyond my headlights for a while.

"Well, yeah … yeah, I was scared, that’s just part of it, you’re fine. You’re fine," Dad says.

I want to cry, but that would really make Dad uncomfortable. The 66-year-old is better with it. But for this guy, I turn up the dial and listen to Chipper Jones hit a walk-off double into the gap. Skip and Don are going wild with the rest of Fulton County Stadium.

It's dark, the car shakes a bit, the check engine light is on, and I can't see far beyond my headlights. But tonight, I guess I just feel less alone about it all: Dads have the power to do that.

"You really need to get those tires checked out," Dad says.

I turn up the radio dial and smile.

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