The Boy of Summer

The sun was shining brightly that afternoon. A gentle breeze wafted over the field. In another place, at another time, it would have been a wonderful day for a picnic, a drive in the country, a stroll on the beach. A day to relax, to spend time with loved ones, a day upon which, when you looked back, you would say, “Wasn’t that a special, wonderful day?”

But today would not be like that. Today was a day for a battle. A battle royale, a clash of titans, the collision of the immovable object and the unstoppable force. There would be only one winner.

And that winner would be me.

I stood tall, ready, waiting. Who would I be facing? It didn’t matter. I’m on top of my game. Indomitable, unhittable. This day would belong to me.

I heard the crowd roar, a deafening sound, as my opponent entered the arena. Though not a tall, imposing figure, he carried himself with a confidence, a swagger that belied his height. He moved with an easy grace, supple and relaxed. It was clear the crowd loved him, and he knew it. He moved as though he, too, was sure of the outcome, an outcome which would favor him.

As he drew closer I recognized him. Fair hair, blazing green eyes. In many ways, much like myself. Only smaller.

‘Big Stick’ Chris had entered the arena.

He glanced at me, contemptuously. As if I’m not worthy of his time. He turned his back on me, raised his arms to the crowd, accepting their accolades as though it were his birthright.

I noticed him scanning the crowd, his glance finally falling upon two figures. A tall, fair lady; slender and majestic. At her side, a young, fair-haired lad, glowering at me. His mother and brother, here to cheer him on. Sure of his victory, they appeared relaxed, confident.

I would make sure they left disappointed.

Big Stick Chris turned again, facing me. At that moment he revealed that which had given him his name – a large, sledgehammer of a bat. Nearly as tall as he, and wider than his arms. He wielded it as though it were a matchstick, as though it weighed nothing.

A slight shiver ran up my spine. Just for a moment.

He stepped up, closer. Stood facing me, just off the mark in the field. He tapped his bat, smiled a wicked, devilish smile at me, and silently mouthed the words.

‘Bring It.’

It was time. Mano-a-mano. Me. Against. Him.

I reached into the bucket at my left, selected my weapon. One of many, a simple white ball. Plastic, with holes. Seemingly harmless, yet in my hands a weapon sure to wreak devastation and frustration upon Mr. Big Stick himself.

Bring it, you say? You’ll regret those words, my little friend.

I made my move, whipping my arm and unleashing my sphere, every ounce of my strength used to disguise my change-up. Surely he would swing at air, then watch from the ground as my pitch floated slowly past him. My ball flew softly toward him as I stood back, waiting for the crowd to be silenced as he fell to the earth, defeated.

It was not to be.

He didn’t bite on the change-up. Instead, he waited, a huge smile on his face, as my pitch slowly floated right into his wheelhouse. Now the big stick is moving, creating through the sheer force of his power a wind that was felt for miles. His bat connected, crushing the ball, sending it high over the crowd and into the dusty street outside the arena.

He watched it fly. It took a long time and he enjoyed every minute of it. When the crowd finally stopped cheering, he turned back to me. His eyes said it all.

“What else you got, old man?”

I must tell you I gave everything I had that afternoon. Pitch after pitch I threw, every ounce of strength I possessed behind each one, only to watch with despair as Chris smacked each one with careless ease out of the yard. His mom and brother cheered his success. With every swing he grew stronger, more confident, as I became more drained and discouraged.

Finally it was over. I threw my last ball, he swung and drove it right past my head, knocking me to my knees, defeated. He dropped his bat and raised his arms to the crowd, accepting their accolades, their love. They roared, they cheered. They love him.

I sat alone, forgotten.

Finally he walked over to me, offered his hand.

“Hey, Dad,” he said, “let’s play football now!”

Not a chance.

It's Great to be The Family Man