Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Category: Friends

  • The Fire Pit at the Residence Inn

    The Fire Pit at the Residence Inn

    Back to work and thinking about this weekend, what will I write about?

    Scoops and Tugs
    No hits before 10, 14U Rangers Black
    Who is going to pitch?
    Peer pressure and Bud Heavy, the Kevin W. Story
    Fire Side Chats with Prosecco-Fueled Moms
    Stephanie M. “America’s Sweetheart”
    Tim and James Go on a Date
    How Gay Is a Veggie Burger?
    Martine’s New Outfit
    “You Know Where I Stand”: Dan T. Hot Takes on Youth Baseball
    Why Did Tom H. Cross the Road?
    Steph Learns How to Pronounce Kara
    Coach Goodie’s Uncomfortable Pretzel Talk
    Willie McBride’s and His Toothless Bride
    Duke Cleans Off the Wine Flutes
    Rich M. Gets Fed on His Anniversary
    Gap to Gap Moms Are the Friendliest

    I was really hoping to write about how we persevered through two seasons and finally came through in season two with a big weekend tournament win. It was our last tournament of the summer 14U baseball season, and we were in upper New Jersey at Diamond Nation.

    We were a team still taking shape, but there were plenty of reasons to be hopeful. We had finally filled some of the spots that had been weak and always seemed just one step away from putting it all together. We are still a work in progress, but it will happen. I have it on good inside information.

    The weekends and trips have become just as much fun for the parents as they are for the kids. We are a stone-cold pack of weirdos, to paraphrase Bridesmaids, and that is how we like it.

    Thinking about all the funny little things that happened this weekend, none comes more quickly to mind than the female equivalent of Don Rickles, the uncompromising Steph M., rarely burdened by a kind word for anyone.

    Steph has always spoken her mind and given us such catchphrases as, “Throw strikes,” and, “Get it up, Joe!” This weekend, she let all the filters go. I can only imagine what instructions Rich receives behind closed bedroom doors.

    Still, it would not be the same without her. She is loved. I appreciate all the uniqueness of our very own America’s Sweetheart.

    The kids battled hard during our second game, but we ended up in the dreaded consolation circle. The final game still felt like our own championship, and we wanted the win. It was a good game, and we were all happy that they finished the weekend hitting and on a high note. That always makes the ride home more enjoyable.

    I am always surprised and thankful for the fun we have. Life takes you down all these winding roads, and somehow you end up at a Residence Inn fire pit with people who were once strangers. Somewhere along the way, a team becomes a family.

    We drank our drinks: seltzers, Prosecco, Bud Heavy, Truly, Michelob Ultra, IPAs, rosé, White Claws, and Sip of Sunshine.

    There were professionally prepared charcuterie boards from Jen, Amanda serving as the s’mores grill safety officer, and her Ranger’s chocolate-covered pretzel sticks.

    There were so many inside jokes and stupid stories as we sat around enjoying our time together. Most would make no sense to anyone who was not there, and some barely made sense to those of us who were.

    This was the last tournament of the summer, with an uncertain future as the boys grow and the team changes. Of course, we wanted the big win and the social media post.

    Instead, we left with a consolation win, a hundred new jokes, and another weekend together.

    Maybe that was enough.

    These seasons feel like they will last forever while we are living them. There is always another practice, another game, another long drive, and another hotel. Then suddenly the boys are taller, their voices are deeper, and you realize these weekends are not endless after all.

    One day, the bats will be put away, the uniforms will no longer fit, and the fire pits will be empty. We will miss the noise, the wet-towel snapping, the bad calls, the inside jokes, and even the games that did not go our way.

    The trophy would have been nice.

    But years from now, I do not think I will remember the score.

    I will remember the boys growing up together, the parents becoming friends, and all of us sitting around that fire, laughing and wondering who farted in that group photo.

  • Good Times

    Good Times

    We drove down to Rehoboth Beach for James’s baseball tournament, two cars, because that is just how we do it now. We had been to Rehoboth before, but I had apparently forgotten the whole place, including the long strip of stores, restaurants, hotels, and traffic that greets you on the way in. By the time we pulled into the Holiday Inn Express & Suites, a few of the baseball families were already camped out in the lobby. That lobby would become our unofficial clubhouse for the weekend.

    Thursday was our beach day, and after a week of forecasts threatening otherwise, we lucked into perfect weather. We arrived early and set up right in front until the lifeguards paid us two visits. First, they made us take down our tent. Then they confirmed that no, we could not fly a kite either. It was Stephanie’s birthday, though, and we were not about to let a few town ordinances ruin the day. We tried to leave enough room around us for the families who would arrive later. The strangers who set up camp around us did not get that memo.

    Then the tournament started.

    We won one game and lost one. The loss was a game we could have won, though I am fairly sure every baseball parent says that after every loss. A double play ended our comeback and took the wind out of us. Charging us $20 to park after we had already driven four hours felt like a personal insult, but that is travel baseball.

    Saturday was our day. We beat the top team in the tournament, then handled the next one easily, which moved us into fifth place and the winners’ bracket. At the time, every pitch felt important, every at-bat like it might decide the whole weekend. A few days later, I could barely remember most of it.

    What I remember now is everything that happened between the games. Families spread across the hotel lobby. The group growing as siblings and extended family arrived for the weekend. Parents trying, and mostly failing, to keep the boys from sprinting down the hallways. We lost a couple of kids at the beach and then found them again. Some boys overate, some got sunburned, and one or two took too many waves to the head and paid for it later. Mysterious feminine hygiene products surfaced from the sand. The bathrooms were too far away, so everyone made their way into the ocean and pretended it was only for a swim.

    There were nightly walks to Rita’s, where we learned Tim is a vanilla connoisseur. There was a fiercely competitive round of cornhole and the total dominance of Casey and James on the boards. There was a mysterious blue vase, so out of place in the hotel lobby that someone eventually removed it from the premises and gave it a loving new home in Connecticut. There was my service buddy Duke, a rescue dog and my new favorite beach friend. There was the Crooked Hammock Brewery, the humidity finally breaking, and a sunset appearing through the clouds at just the right time.

    And there were the moms who organized the entire weekend so the rest of us could show up, complain about parking, and enjoy ourselves. I am always grateful for that, even when I forget to say it.

    Not the counts. Not the innings. Not who was up with two outs.

    The lobby. The beach. The laughter. The nonsense.

    By Sunday morning, we were still alive in the winners’ bracket, ranked fifth and facing the sixth-ranked CNS All-Stars, a team that had scored more runs than anyone else in the tournament. Our pitching was great, but two balls found the third-base line. I did not get a clean look at the first one. The second was one of those line-hugging shots that curves away into no man’s land just when you think it is going foul. Those two plays cost us four runs.

    We rallied anyway, pulled within one, gave everyone one final dose of hope, and could not finish it. After all the pacing, anxiety, and hoping, we were sent packing around 10:30 Sunday morning. We later found out the team that beat us went on to win the whole tournament. I still cannot decide whether that is supposed to make it hurt less or more.

    That is the agony of being a baseball parent. Every missed chance feels enormous. Every mistake feels like a small tragedy because, for a few hours, their hopes become your hopes too.

    But they are still kids. Everyone needs to take a breath.

    They are caught somewhere between following instructions and disappearing into their own worlds, wanting their coaches’ approval, their teammates’ respect, and their parents’ pride. They almost certainly do not want their fathers talking baseball at them for four hours on the ride home.

    There is a line from The Office I have always loved: “I wish there was a way to know you’re in the good old days before you’ve actually left them.”

    I think about that line more than I would like to admit.

    The baseball will fade. I will forget the score, the missed chances, and probably even the names of the teams we played. What I will keep is the hotel lobby, the beach, the blue vase, Rita’s, Duke, the cornhole games, and the boys laughing together into the night.

    As we were leaving, I saw a father in the batting cage with his young son, feeding him pitches while the two of them were completely lost in it. I remembered when James was that small. For a moment, I could see the whole circle of baseball life right in front of me.

    The tournament gave us a reason to go. The time between the games was the reason it mattered.

    I already miss it.

    These are the good times.

  • Review: Duff Beer Garden, Universal Studios Florida

    Review: Duff Beer Garden, Universal Studios Florida

    Tucked along the side of the road as you meander through the Simpsons area of Universal Studios Florida, Duff Beer Garden feels like a little oasis in the middle of the park. It is not fancy, and it is not trying to be. It is a simple place to stop, cool down, have a drink, and take in the strange joy of being inside a real life version of Springfield.

    Growing up with The Simpsons, I watched Homer drink Duff Beer for years. Somewhere deep inside, probably at the subconscious level, it made me want to drink Duff Beer too. Then, finally, I got my chance.

    They have Duff Regular and Duff Light, and in the fall they usually have Duff Oktoberfest. I normally get the Light, and it is a nice draft beer. Without all the fanfare and Simpsons nostalgia, you probably would not think twice about it, but that is also part of the fun. You are standing in Springfield, drinking a Duff Beer, watching old Simpsons clips, and for a few minutes it just works.

    But what makes this place special for us is not really the beer. It is the bartender we met a few trips back, named Demar.

    I love watching a well run business, and before we even spoke to him, I noticed how well Demar worked. He was the superlative of a bartender. The bar usually has about three bartenders, and it gets busy quickly with people coming over for a cold beer. They also sell pretzels and corn dogs, although I do not think I have actually seen anyone eat one.

    What stood out to me was Demar’s speed, consistency, and command of the bar. He knew every combination of every order and exactly what it cost, including the tax. At one point, the other two bartenders went on break, and he had the whole bar to himself. That would be daunting for anyone, especially outside in the hot Florida weather, but he just kept moving. He had a knee brace on at the time and still kept cranking along, explaining the differences between the beers, ringing people up, calling out exact totals, and doing it all with almost robotic, lightning fast efficiency.

    But the impressive part was that he was not just fast. He was kind, friendly, and completely present with people. That is not easy to do when there is a line, the sun is beating down, and everyone wants something at the same time. He made it look easy.

    After a few trips, he remembered us, and that changed the whole feel of the place. It stopped feeling like we were just walking up to a theme park bar and started feeling like we were visiting someone we were genuinely happy to see. As my family sat around and hung out, we began to talk with him, and over time we developed a friendship.

    We had a lot of similar interests, and there was something almost reminiscent of Tom Cruise in Cocktail about him. He had ideas, investments, big dreams, and plans for where he wanted to go in life. That is one of the things I really respect about him. He was not just standing behind the bar pouring drinks. He was working hard, thinking ahead, and building toward something bigger.

    Now, part of the retirement plan at Universal is getting a fully loaded jacketed baked potato and making our way over to Duff Beer Garden for an excellent mixed drink or the occasional Duff Light. We sit there, let the gentle breeze carry the day away, rewatch old Simpsons cartoons, and hang out with our friend.

    That is what makes places like this special. It is not always the menu, the theming, or even the drink in your hand. Sometimes it is the people you meet along the way who become part of the tradition. Duff Beer Garden could have just been a quick stop for a cold beer in Springfield. Because of Demar, it became one of our favorite places to return to.

    Review Score: 9.5 out of 10
    Rating: Duff Worthy