My name is Joe Dillard, and I’m leaning against a chain-link fence watching a baseball game at Daniel Boone High School in Gray, Tennessee, on a spectacular, sun-drenched evening in early May. The sky is a cloudless azure, a mild breeze is blowing out toward left field, and the pleasant smell of fresh-cut grass hangs in the air.

There are five of us watching the game from our spot near the right-field foul pole: me; my wife, Caroline; her best friend, Toni Miller; my buddy Ray Miller (Toni’s husband); and Rio, our German shepherd. The Dillards and the Millers have been watching our sons play baseball together for ten years, alternately rejoicing in their successes and agonizing over their failures. Rio is a relative newcomer-he’s been around for only three years-but he seems to enjoy the games as much as we do.

Ray Miller and I have much in common. We’re both lawyers. After many years of practicing criminal defense, I switched to prosecuting a few years back, while Ray remains on what I now call the “dark side.” I rib him on a regular basis about defending scumbags, but I know he does it for the right reasons and I respect him. He doesn’t cheat, doesn’t lie, doesn’t try to pull tricks. He tends to see things in black and white, much as I do. We both despise the misuse of power, especially on the part of judges, although Ray is a bit more venomous than I in that regard. We’re close to the same age, and we’re devoted to our families.

We watch the game from our position in the outfield, away from the players and the other parents, because none of us wishes to distract our sons. We don’t yell at them during games as other parents do. We don’t criticize the umpires or the coaches. We just watch and worry. If something good happens, we cheer. If something bad happens, we cringe.