A Slight Dispute
by Glanda Widger
Bobby, age
eight, and his best friend, Freddy, age nine,
were playing a one-on-one game of baseball in the
back yard. Bobby hit the ball and started running
the bases. An old deflated beach ball, first base.
The flat rock that refused to be dug up, second
base. Third base was Freddy’s book bag.
As Bobby
touched home plate, his mother’s clothespin
bag, Freddy objected: "You missed second
base. That ain’t no home run."
"Was too."
"Was not!
You cheated!"
"Sez who?"
"Sez me,
that’s who."
"How
would you like a black eye?"
"Oh yeah,
well how would you like a punch in the nose?"
"Aw you
ain’t gonna punch me cause you are a big
chicken. Come on chicken, brauuk brauuk, take
your best shot. I dare you."
Freddy balled
up his fists and advanced on his sworn enemy.
"I will, I swear it. You better shut up."
Bobby could
not resist the challenge. "Nah, you
ain’t gonna do nothin you chicken."
"You
think so? Well take that! Now am I still a
chicken?"
"Waaaaaaa,
I’m gonna tell! Look, I got a broke nose.
I’m gonna tell your mom."
"Aw shoot
Bobby, I didn’t mean it honest. Look, there
ain’t hardly no blood at all. Don’t
tell mom. If you do she will make us stop playing
together and you are my best friend in the whole
world."
"Honest
injun?"
"Honest
injun. Hey wanna go to my house for koolaid?"
"Wow,
sure. You got grape flavor?"
"Shoot
yeah. We always got grape. It is my all time
favorite."
"Mine too."
The two boys
walked off arm in arm, chatting happily about the
merits of grape koolaid. I, on the other hand,
needed a glass of wine to steady my nerves.
Raising kids is tough. Having your idiot husband
holding you back from rescuing your only child,
while laughing like a hyena and insisting the
boys will work it out, is devastating.
Maybe I should
just punch him in the nose!
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