How is Ross’s Foot?
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How is Ross’s foot?
Everybody
In the past five years, my conversational landscape has been dominated by a single compassionate question: “How is Ross’s foot?” Six surgeries and a mountain of pain meds later, I’ve got a story updating the condition of The Red Headed Kid’s reconstructed left ankle/foot.
6:00pm—It’s early on a Saturday night in Boston. Ross and I are cooling our heels in his Back Bay apartment. He’s ready for a night out on the town after posting yet another 80-hour work week. Ross gets no sympathy from me, but he does get access to my credit card. After all, that’s what visiting Dads are for.
6:30—After descending five flights of stairs, Ross, me, three of his management consulting buddies and a certain Miss Gal Pal hit the street and walk three blocks toward the subway. We’re on our way to Redbones, a barbeque joint located five miles away in beautiful downtown Somerville. I’ve always been told there’s no such thing as good barbeque in New England, but I could care less. I’m hanging out with five uber-intelligent twenty-somethings, each of whom plans on ruling the world some day. That’s fine by me. I’ll even buy the beer.
8:00— Ross warned me that Miss Gal Pal, who weighs a hundred and nothing pounds and runs triathlons, was not a huge fan of red meat. That explains why she polished off only half a slab of baby backs. I met her for the first time the night before, where she shocked the world and by putting away a sixteen-ounce New York strip at Smith & Wollensky. Women, I advise my oldest son, are as predictable as lightning strikes. And just as electrifying.
8:30—Stuffed like gluttonous kings on some of the finest brisket and ribs any of us has ever had, The Group of Six decide a walk to the Harvard subway station is just the ticket to relieve our bloated gastronomic state. The humidity from the day’s rain has given way to a cool night, and a pleasant breeze fuels our cheerful banter. Life isn’t just good right now. It’s great.
9:00—I’m told J.P. Licks is home to some of the best homemade ice cream in Boston. They’re right. “Let’s walk to the next station,” says Miss Gal Pal, who wisely wore flats. I like her.
9:30— Our walk has turned into a hike. Two members of our crew break off and head for the subway. They claim they have to go back to the office. On Saturday night?
10:00—Three miles down. The Harvard Bridge crossing the Charles River awaits. “We’re committed,” says Ross. “Let’s keep going.” Our hike has been officially upgraded to a march.
10:30—“I’ll catch up with you later, Dad,” announces Ross. He wants to walk Miss Gal Pal home. He must have learned that from his mother. Thankfully, it’s only one more mile to his apartment. Now alone, I acknowledge the obvious: my feet are killing me.
10:45—I hear footsteps. Ross is running to catch up with me. “What a fun night,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. The smile on his face tells me everything. We’ve just walked five miles, and his foot is fine.
Now it’s his heart I’m worried about.