bocced up

Father's Day was quite a busy day. I think I could take a day of rest and relaxation to recover.

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Our church's Spanish group invited my family to a picnic. It was almost unbearably hot. Mrs. Craver will not attend outdoor events until the cicadas are gone. My kids do not speak Spanish (yet), and my own Spanish is only so-so. But we had a brief, cool, refreshing rain, great food and the company of really nice folks, so it was a good time. They had a few games, but I brought Bocce Ball. I like that game. It's low impact, but it gets people off their seats and out on their feet. First, you toss a little yellow ball (the jack), and then each team tries to toss or roll their wooden bocce balls as close to the jack as possible. My kit even includes a measuring tape, because sometimes it's hard to see which one is closer.

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There was another group in the park that day. I gathered that these were the wives and children of soccer players. The uniformed athletes dropped them off and then drove away. There was one toddler from their group who was running around in his underwear. His haircut was like a mullet gone from bad to worse, spikey on top, with a super long, thick "tail" halfway down his back.

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My 17-year old son was forced into an awkward situation. He would either have to play with the little children or sit speechless with the grown ups. Mercifully, I asked him to play bocce ball with me. He's good... real good. But while I was soundly receiving a whoopin' in the game, that underdressed kid with the crazy hairdoo decided that he should go to where we were tossing the bocce balls and move them around, even the jack ball! Do you know how hard it is to try to get a toddler to stop doing something without making them cry? He just acted like he didn't understand what I was saying.

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There it is, both of us beaten by this little pantless spikey-tyke stranger. We packed up and went home.

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Image by mrettig