Missing baseball cleats

It is a typical Monday morning. There is plenty of news to cover and a few weekend issues to deal with. The in-basket on my desk is full. My e-mail inbox is at 30 and climbing. My favorite pair of reading glasses broke over the weekend and I need to stop and have them repaired. I have two library books to renew. I haven’t been to the YMCA since Thursday and need to get there tonight. Michael and Danny have a combined three baseball games and will need rides between 4 and 9 p.m.
But at 11:30 a.m. Monday I was worrying about something more important.
“Did Danny find his cleats?,” I ask my Mary on the phone.

This vision of Danny, 14, playing baseball two baseball games in his sneakers had been in my head on and off for about four hours. I couldn’t wait any longer for an update.
It started about 9:30 p.m. Sunday night. Danny was packing his baseball bag and announced he didn’t see his cleats on the back porch. I swept and cleaned the porch Saturday, filling two contractor size garbage bags with cardboard and other debris, including a lot of dirt from Danny and Michael’s baseball cleats.
“Gee Dan I think they were there when I cleaned up Saturday,” I told him as we headed out to double check. No luck.
Danny said he was sure he had left them there. Maybe I accidentally put them in the garbage bags, which were sealed with duct tape.
“Is there anywhere else they might be?” I ask. If I empty the bags it is going to undo much of the work I did Saturday.
Danny tells me the only other place they could be is mom’s van. We head out to check. No luck. Before I start emptying the bags I quiz him again on when he last saw the cleats. He’s certain he brought them into to the house Friday night. I’m skeptical because when his things go missing Danny is always certain he didn’t do anything to lose them.
My wife was calmly sitting at the computer checking e-mail. I went into the basement and reached into one of the bags and immediately pulled my hand out. “Ouch,” I said, remembering that I had swept up some broken glass. I peek inside and don’t see cleats.
The other bag is still on the porch, packed tight with cardboard. There is no way I can see inside the bag or feel for the cleats. As I empty it, I hear Danny talking to Mary.
“That wasn’t Friday night Danny, that was Thursday night,” she said. “Friday it rained and grandma and grandpa picked you up. Do you remember having the cleats on in their car?”
Danny’s memory is a lot fuzzier than when I spoke to him by the van. Looking down at the pile of garbage and dirt on the porch, I see no cleats.
Heading inside, I bark at Danny for making me empty the bags. He tells me he now suspects he may have left the cleats in the school locker room.
“But Dad you had to check to make sure,” he says.
“And now that I’ve checked and not found them I have to pick up everything that I poured out. Don’t I?,” I shoot back.

An hour later Danny is sleeping and I’m feeling guilty about barking at him over losing something.
When I reach my wife Monday at 11:30 a.m., she has not heard from Danny but has a backup plan. If he can’t find his cleats at school, she will ask my in-laws to pick him up a cheap pair and bring them to his 3:30 p.m. game since they were planning to attend anyway.
“Let me know if you hear anything.” I ask, hanging up.
I went back to work feeling a little better. About 2 p.m. I received a text message that my wife had forwarded from Danny. “Found my cleats in the locker room.”