Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Tag: parenting

  • The Championship

    The Championship

    Sponsored by your friends, really your parents, who buy you the experience and cart you there.

    After last week’s game, there was a high. We had beaten the first-place seed, not just beaten them, but come from behind and dusted off the psychological ghosts of games past. Knowing you beat the best team, that you were down and didn’t fold but bore down and made it happen, it’s a powerful feeling, almost intoxicating. You knew you could do it, but now you had. Theory became reality.

    So this was our game to win, and with that comes its own kind of angst. But you take a breath, like always, and go back to the basics: see the ball, hit the ball. Take each play as its own little world and live in that moment, play by play, until you create your game.

    The Five Star Gold was our last hurdle, the obstacle to our goal. We had to find our way through, around, under, and over until we were victorious. Our D2 division had fifty teams, and Gold was the number-two seed. We had never played them before. Arriving just before the game started, I didn’t get a chance to see them field or get a sense of their energy. It doesn’t usually matter; good warm-ups don’t always translate under pressure. Metaphors and aphorisms can cut both ways.

    We got off to a slow start, but the good news was we were making contact. Hitting the ball and timing the pitcher eventually lead to good things. We were the away team but couldn’t produce a run after the first inning. The Gold managed to convert one run after two errors in their half. Luckily, we got out of the first only one run down. The parents were pacing along the third-base line. “They’re just warming up, it’s cold out,” one said. It was nice to have a reason. I nodded, though I couldn’t help thinking the other team was outside too. Didn’t they feel the cold?

    In the second inning we started to heat up, scoring two runs and taking a 2–1 lead. The wind started to blow again. We cooled off until the fourth, when a pitching change let us break through for four more. Suddenly it was 6–1. We were quietly optimistic, some of us a little louder, but cautious not to jinx it, just staying positive. Our pitching and fielding were outstanding, shutting the other team out for three more innings.

    By the fifth inning, it was 8–1. The cold wind that had been cutting through was forgotten as the clouds parted and we basked in the fall sun. In the sixth, we were on fire. The other team began to unravel. It’s the oldest cliché in baseball: it all comes down to pitching. We were hitting, yes, but also drawing walks, grinding out at-bats, playing with rhythm and confidence. You could feel it; the whole team was a unit, and they were all feeding and contributing to this win.

    Then Kevin came to the plate with the bases loaded and drove the stake in with a bomb to the outfield, clearing the bases for three runs. Like Icarus, he flew too close to the sun, trying to stretch a double into a triple, and got caught. I was jumping around myself like a kid hoping he’d make it, but he did his job and gave them mercy.

    Now up 15–1, the Gold had one last chance. Three at-bats, three outs. Joe, who had pitched all six innings of this championship game, finished like a star, striking out the final batter swinging. For a moment, time froze. Then the outfield crashed in, all the boys running to the mound, piling on one another in a swirl of laughter and joy.

    Just like that, we had champions in our midst. What an arc from our last fall season.

    For James, it was his first championship win on any team. So many runner-up finishes, so many consolation prizes. So close, so many times. It made me realize why this was the right time and why it felt deeper. He finally had the right team, a group of kids who loved and cared about doing the thing they loved. Maybe that’s what made it hit deeper. You only learn how to win by learning how not to. This victory wasn’t luck; it was layered with all the years of almosts, all the bruises and disappointments, all the small lessons that built the resilience to finally finish the job.

    As the team gathered for the photo, faces flushed, caps tilted, medals being bitten in the midday light, you could feel something bigger than baseball. It was joy, sure, but also proof. Proof that grit, patience, and faith in one another can build something lasting.

    That’s the beauty of a championship. It’s the journey, the stumbles, the rise, the shared heartbeat of a team that finally believed it could get there.

  • Review: Walmart Supercenter – Middletown, NY

    Review: Walmart Supercenter – Middletown, NY

    Norman Rockwell’s Nightmare

    After our nostalgic dinner at Outback Steakhouse, we needed to grab a few supplies we’d forgotten for our overnight stay at the baseball tournament. And when in doubt, you can always count on Walmart. They say the average American lives just 4.2 miles from one. The blessings of unimpeded capitalism.

    We arrived at the Walmart Supercenter in Middletown, NY, around 9:30 p.m., expecting a quiet scene. Instead, we stumbled into something closer to a chaotic night market. The parking lot was packed. People were loitering around their cars like it was a social event. For a moment, I wondered if we’d accidentally shown up for a midnight console release, with eager fans waiting for their chance to buy.

    But no. Instead, I thought of Al Pacino in Heat, describing “the dregs and detritus of human life” circling the toilet bowl, waiting to be flushed.

    As always, I scoped out an open section of the lot. I didn’t want to park too far off and draw attention, just a strategic space near the Garden Center. My son and I moved quickly toward the entrance. My wife trailed behind, thanks to her shorter stride, but we kept the group together.

    The tone was set almost immediately. A couple entered just ahead of us; him dressed like someone in a “white trash male” Halloween costume, and her in an outfit that led me to believe, rightly or wrongly, she was a hired professional. It was hard not to assume a transactional nature to their night out.

    Inside, we were smacked with the unmistakable smell of urine. I half-expected to see someone relieving themselves in a corner or a bathroom door swinging wildly off its hinges. But there was nothing; no culprit, no bathroom, just the stench. The greeter didn’t greet. He stood stiffly like a late-night club bouncer deciding whether we were worth the risk.

    Still, once inside the belly of the beast, things felt oddly familiar. That gentle blue-and-white color scheme of Walmart had a strange way of calming the fight-or-flight system. We got down to business. Band-Aids for my son’s leg. Some forgotten essentials. This place was massive; easily the biggest Walmart we’d ever seen. Fortunately, the first-aid section was just to the left.

    As we gathered our items, we watched a group of young teenagers spraying perfume liquids on each other while their dazed, over-medicated parent enjoyed a late-night Dr. Pepper, hunched over a cart like they were on mile 23 of a grocery marathon.

    My wife was ready to leave. But my son, Elroy, wanted to explore the place he now referred to as the Mecca of Commerce. So we walked, partly to digest the Kookaburra Wings still testing our stomachs. Inevitably, we ended up in the video game aisle, where we saw our old friends from the entrance. The man in the costume and his late-night lady. He was trying to buy a game, and had sent his companion to find an employee to unlock the case.

    There was something weirdly honest about it. Taking your go-to escort to Walmart on a Saturday night for the Girlfriend Experience, capped off with some light retail therapy. Buying video games together. In a way, this man was my white trash spirit animal. Thank God I’m married, because I could almost understand the appeal. Cost-effective. Low maintenance. Fun.

    Perhaps I had this guy all wrong. I found myself wondering if he had stock tips. Maybe he’s the best accountant in Orange County. He probably runs a wellness clinic and helps fatherless kids set up Roth IRAs for their future. The light bulb of imaginary musings dimmed as I was pulled back to reality by the cold glow of the self-checkout kiosk, prompting me for payment.

    Walmart, in all its fluorescent, urine-scented glory, delivers what no curated Instagram feed ever could: truth. uncut, unwashed, unbothered. Where else can you see a budget-conscious couple’s version of romance, a greeter playing nightclub security, and teenagers engaged in what can only be described as a diabetic late-night shower of perfume?

    In the end, we accomplished our mission. And we got something better than supplies: an unfiltered snapshot of America after dark.

  • Selling Our Childhood Home

    Selling Our Childhood Home

    My mother died unexpectedly on March 16th, 2024, from what we still don’t truly know. For a lot of people, that uncertainty causes angst. It seems that when people know what someone died of, they can soothe their own fears or file it away in a box to be shelved and never reopened. Science currently tells us that genetics only account for about 5 to 12 percent of our health outcomes, so I’m not concerned for myself.  What’s more disconcerting is that the people we love can be here one moment and gone the next. We all know this on some level, but when it’s your mother, it hits differently. You can’t fully grasp it until she’s no longer there.

    Her passing caused my father to follow not long after; he died in July of what I believe was a broken heart.

    Your childhood home is always your mom’s house. A father might pay for it or be the main contributor, but your mom makes it a home. She creates the atmosphere, the warm air of comfort and serenity that makes it a safe haven against the world. My parents were warm and loving, and our home was a fortress of solitude filled with a childhood of happy memories. My favorite spots were the living room, the downstairs game room I created, and the property outside.

    My brother and I are blessed in that we could keep the home. We could leave it empty indefinitely as some kind of forever monument to our parents. But choices aren’t always blessings. They can bring ambiguity, and with that comes stress. What should we do? Should we sell it? Turn it into a giant man cave with video games, projectors for movies, pinball machines, arcade cabinets, a meeting place for family dinners, pickleball courts, and maybe even a lazy river around the perimeter? My son was fully on board as the vision for this funhouse kept ever growing in scale.

    We also considered turning it into a rental or Airbnb, but when we looked at the income versus the upkeep, it didn’t make sense. It does have an in-law apartment, but that couldn’t be used unless we lived there. When your parents die, you grow up. Even though I’ve been doing all the adult things for years, I have managed to remain childlike until now.

    My parents were what I’d call “light” hoarders. They had an addiction to stuff: knickknacks, bric-a-brac, collectibles that lost value over time, obscure curios, and they just kept adding shelves to hold more and more. They enjoyed the thrill of acquiring things they’d rarely touch again. We always joked that when they passed, we’d need a bulldozer to clear out the house. Instead, we’ve spent months going through everything slowly, trying to be respectful and dutiful sons. We did our best to keep what we could and ended up moving several shelves’ worth of their things to my mother-in-law’s house. My mom’s Beanie Babies made the cut, and I hope she can forgive us for what we threw away.

    All the while, we kept deliberating on what to do with the house. Eventually, we made the decision to sell, and once that choice was made, I felt a huge wave of relief. We’re still in the process of clearing it out. Three (soon to be four) giant dumpsters later, and we’re finally getting close to the finish line.

    After finishing another long Sunday of cleaning on a beautiful spring day, I brought my brother up to the deck. My father had fallen in love with the house because of the property. Even though it was on a busy road, the back of the lot reminded him of Central Park, a peaceful escape for someone who grew up on the streets of Manhattan. And he was right. It’s beautiful, quiet, and serene. The deck is surrounded by the family room and the master bedroom addition he had built. It created a kind of protected enclosure with a park-like view. He never dreamed, growing up, that he’d have something like this. I can still see him floating in the pool on his raft, soaking in the sun.

    The nostalgia hits hard: hanging outside, growing up, playing in that yard, parties, holidays, family movie nights. With those memories, my resolve wavers. My brother has been conflicted as well. But I know those ghosts of the past are just that, memories. What we had can never be again. That is incredibly hard to reconcile and yet as the same time, it is still okay.

    I’m incredibly grateful. I love the life I have now, I love my family, and I treasure the way we grew up. I feel renewed and oddly content. I think about the future and the family who will one day buy this home. I imagine them walking through the door and somehow feeling what we always felt coming home: peace, safety, love. I hope the home my mother created, the protection my father provided, and the warmth that filled these walls blesses their lives the way it blessed ours.