“I’ve been sitting in traffic on 435 a mile from the Metcalf exit, and you left me with no gas,” Julie said when I answered my cell phone last Friday night.

My wife was not happy. She was driving our son, Thomas, to the first game of a weekend tournament the Kansas City Stars were hosting at the AMF Ice Chateau-King Louie in Overland Park.

There was an accident a few miles up the road from where Julie was and it closed 435 for five hours.

I was returning to Lawrence from Manhattan with a coworker following a conference on Accurate Messages in Times of Crisis. The conference’s topic was fitting for what I was now experiencing.

“Um, sorry,” was about all I could say to Julie on the other end of the line. I was hoping the conversation would end soon.

I had driven Thomas to practice the night before in Julie’s van and thought there was enough gas for her trip to the game on Friday. I was not counting on her being stuck in a major traffic jam, staring at the low fuel light that was now glowing from the dashboard.

Traffic was at a standstill and the game was to start in a half hour.

I told Julie that I would call Thomas’ coach and let him know she was stuck in traffic and should get there soon.

I think she said, “Whatever.” There was no pleasing her at this moment.

I got Coach Jeff Madill’s voice mail and left a message.

As I made my way through the Flint Hills on my way to Lawrence, I fretted.

Thomas hates being late, and Coach Madill wants his players in uniform 30 minutes before the first face off. Our boy had changed into his pads in the car, wearing everything but his skates.

He began thumping his hand onto the door rest as if he were the drummer aboard a Roman warship setting the pace for the rowers in chains.

My cell rang again as I pulled into our driveway. My colleague headed to her car and wished me luck, having heard the previous calls.

Julie reported that she had inched along just another half mile and had yet to reach the Metcalf exit. There was no way they were going to be at the rink in time for the game. She was frazzled, nature was calling and she was driving on fumes.

I called the team manager, Hector Luevano, and told him Julie’s status. He said he would inform the coach.

When she and Thomas finally reached the rink, the third period had started and the Stars were losing 2-0 to the Des Moines Buccaneers. Thomas rushed onto the ice for his first shift and the Stars were promptly scored upon. That’s the way the night was going.

When Julie returned home, I poured her a glass of her favorite wine. We had a good laugh about our earlier phone conversations, but I chuckled hesitantly at first.

“Men try to fix things,” she later observed, “when all women want to do is vent.”