Friday Night In The Ghetto

It's Friday night in the ghetto, and that means that Andrew is outside playing catch with our boys under the street lights.  It also means that he is playing catch with half the kids in the neighborhood.  The ones who don't have dads, and the ones who have fathers that are too busy getting drunk to play catch with them.

Andrew knows most of these kids by name.  He knows which ones are left-handed.  He knows when they've gotten better at throwing the ball.

A dog has gotten loose and its owner chases it through the shadows, calling its name.  

A tricycle sits abandoned on the sidewalk.  I think it's Trent's.  

An occasional breeze brings with it the pungent odor of cheap cigarettes.

As it gets darker people seem to talk louder.  There is chatter up and down the street about a cat fight between two moms.  All the kids are discussing what the other kid's mother called their mother.  We're glad to have missed that show.

It's almost dark.  A few porch lights come on to aid the street lights in stretching the football game just a few more minutes.

Some parents call their kids inside.  Some don't seem to even care where their kids are, much less when they come in for the night.

Andrew says goodbye to the last orphan child to leave the game of catch.  Then he enjoys a few minutes alone with his boys.  Bicycle seats are adjusted for growing legs, helmet straps tightened, manly hugs distributed.

The night's first yawn makes its appearance and it's time for balls and bikes and foam swords to be collected and put in the garage until tomorrow.  

All of the boys troop inside and the screen door screeches a close to a pretty lovely Friday night in the ghetto.