No frost last night, but close. Time to fix the woodstove, clearly. Yet the dahlias and the scarlet runners are still blooming bravely, even though, sadly, I have been driven to wearing socks. For now it is autumn, which means soccer season, which means huddling in a lawn chair under the last, chill, late-day sunbeams and watching one or the other boy, in his tall socks and shit-kicker cleats, zigzag through a muddy field as the maples redden and the crows complain about their annoying relatives. Today I'll be watching the 12th grader, who is a modest, sturdy second-stringer; on Monday I'll be watching the 8th grader, who is a bragging, high-fiving star scorer. It has been instructive and painful to perform both roles: parent of good athlete who loves to play, parent of mediocre athlete who loves to play. It is sad to watch your senior in high school spend his final season stuck in the J.V. midfield; but it is lovely to watch him shrug his shoulders and play anyway, with a wry smile, without complaining. It is glorious to watch your thirteen-year-old boot a ball into the goal and then raise his skinny arms in triumph and terribly fearful to watch him fail . . . because victory matters too much to him, because he can't conceive of not being the best.

Meanwhile, I will be sitting in my lawn chair, shivering.