Summer Afternoon

My son and I are playing catch. At six he can catch it often enough and throw it more or less to me. My wife bought him a starter glove and a hardball (not quite a baseball, but it makes a smack when it lands.) My wife dug my old glove out from somewhere, it hasn't been used in at least 15 years. The signature on it is Robin Yount (great Brewers shortstop back in the 1980s.)

I toss it to him gently, underhanded. Sometimes I forget myself and throw it a little too hard. I cringe, but he surprises me, cooly stopping it before it slams him in the face.

My daughter, for once, has relinquished the soap bubble pipe and is letting my wife create giant spheres. My daughter shrieks with joy as she chases them across our sun-dappled backyard.

Soon my wife and our children, who inherited her sweet blood, will feel the effects of the mosquito assault. Tomorrow I will wake up with tense shoulders and wonder if I need arthroscopic surgery (like Tommy John had back when I was a kid.)

But not quite yet.

Sweet Tears

At the supermarket today I tried to make a little boy laugh by making faces.  But instead he burst into tears.

I was pretty upset too, since this was killer material.  My signature move is puffing up my cheeks like Dizzy Gillespie.  But I was also wriggling my nose, goofy grins.  If this stuff doesn't work I might as well throw in the towel.

I felt bad for the mom who had a kid sitting the shopping cart quietly, playing with a bag of frozen okra - now screaming.  She comforted him, whispering to him softly in Spanish (all I caught was something about el blanco loco.

We made up with a little peek-a-boo (it was a pretty long line.)

I mentioned it to my wife - and she asked me if I puffed up my cheeks.

"Of course," I grinned.  She said little wonder he cried, the cheek thing is freakish.  Also, I've got a few days of stubble going, so I must have looked like a frightened myopic blowfish.

Meanwhile, a few days ago, I was chatting with the mom of one of my son's friends when we picked up our kids from their pre-school.  The two boys were running around.  My son's friend fell hard, landing on his rump, on a rock.  He burst into tears (who could blame him) and his mother scooped him up.

This little boy has an older brother, so he always seemed worldly and grown-up (for a five year old that is.)  My son idolizes his friend a bit because his friend has actually seen the Star Wars movies and plays on the computer himself.  I'd never seen him cry.  He's a great kid - I didn't want to see him in any pain.  But it was nice to see him as a little boy.

At five all boys want to be tough and big and strong.  They want to grow up and they are like little man dolls - posing and posturing.  But they are little boys too.  Sometimes, when they are squeezed just a little the sweetness comes out.