The American Spectator

p> Tuesday br> Here I am in Easthampton, Massachusetts, standing in a drizzle, next to a football field where my son’s team, Williston-Northampton, is playing their arch-rival, Suffield. This is a big game. Suffield is rated number one in the league. And our side is not rated number one. Nevertheless, we have a fine coach, Mr. Conway, and a hard working team, and a few parents on the sidelines. For some reason, there never seem to be any stands at these games so we have to stand on our own feet, in the sopping grass, and cheer and yell while holding umbrellas. /p>

I had a real adventure getting up here. I stayed overnight in New York at the glorious Essex House. I am a thousand times too tired to drive myself, so I hired a car and driver to take me from Manhattan to Easthampton, a distance of about 180 miles. I insisted that the driver be experienced in New England and that he have a thorough map.

Naturally, the driver was a little man with one bum eye. He was from Guinea, in West Africa. He spoke almost no English. He had a primitive map. He had no clear idea of how to get to the destination. Great.

Anyway, I gave him very clear directions and told him to wake me when we got to the right exit, namely exit 18, in Massachusetts. I promptly and trustingly went to sleep. Next thing I knew he was awakening me and telling me we were there.

I don’t think so. We were on a tiny road under construction with no sign of the lovely town of Easthampton, but a very full scene of Guida’s Diner. We pulled in there to get directions. My driver, Mr. Bah (real name), had turned off on Exit 18 in Connecticut, not Massachusetts. We were only about a hundred miles from our target. The people at the diner could not have been friendlier or kinder. They gave me directions, wanted autographs, were ultra enthusiastic. A UPS driver said, “Just go back a mile, get on the 91 throughway, and stay on it until exit 18 in Massachusetts. But whatever you do, stay in the left lane and don’t get into the right lane for the Mass Pike.”

I thanked everyone profusely. We got back into the car. For the next hour, every time there was the slightest chance, Mr. Bah tried to get onto the Mass Pike. I was really getting angry. Finally, we came to the right exit and I ordered him to get off. He did and said, “Where de school?”

There was an immense sign right in front of us saying, “Williston-Northampton School” and pointing right. “Can’t you read,” I asked him. “It’s right there.”

He grumpily followed the signs and soon we were at the school.

Well, no use crying over spilt milk. The man was trying his best. But what does it tell us about the employment situation in this country when, for a well-paying job with the chance at really big tips, one of the major limo companies can only get one-eyed drivers who barely speak English and really cannot drive?

Anyway, I saw my glorious wife waiting there at the main driveway of the school for me. She has been up here for a few days for parent-teacher conferences. They have been going well indeed. As always, the teachers say, “He’s really bright but he doesn’t concentrate.” Only this year, they say, “Sometimes though, he does concentrate.”

He has an astounding gift in mathematics and I think eventually he will bring it to bear. But for the meantime, he has a lot of friends, does not smoke or drink (which I did at his age), does not use drugs, and is on the football team. I certainly could not have done that. In many ways, he impresses me very much.

In fact, to get back to the present, he’s standing in the rain looking massive in his padding. He’s second-string fullback. (That’s largely because he’s a junior.) Only his school is not playing him. Not once. Not at all. So, he’s standing there cheering on the boys who are playing. Well, it’s still nice to see him right there looking so big and strong. Even in the rain.