My Father's Style

To dad, who through everything is the man I believe in the most.

The back of his head, with his black hair softly blowing in the September wind, pops out of his red sedan. The shadow from his dress shoes appears lengthy, dispersed among the gravel parking lot. He opens the trunk and lifts a chair out into the sun. The chair remains, leaning against the bumper of the car. Dad shows up at the tennis court in his work suit and tie. His eyes search the court for the little girl he tucks in to bed each night. She is there between the fence holes, swiftly decking a ball across the net into her opponent’s ribs. He hesitates before smiling.  Dad claps his right hand against his thigh to celebrate the point. He rubs his eyes and peeks around the walkway to the school. There aren’t any other fathers watching their daughters play. There isn’t a spectator on the rusted wooden bleacher seats. The girl takes a tennis ball and bounces it twice. She spots her father on the hill outside the courts and breathes a deep sigh. Her serve is wide to the left of the service box. Dad advances to the bottom of the hill, showering her with a reassuring grin as he descends the muddy grass. He is there for her, although it’s not in style among her peers. She is his reason for smiling. He is her purpose for believing.