It’s that time of year again. The Little Girls and Boys of Summer have pulled on their protective cups and over-sized polyester pants for another season of toil and frolic on the dirt fields of their youth. But I’m not going to talk about the historical appeal of baseball, or wax philosophical over the unbreakable bond between father and son borne from a never-changing game between the lines.
What? You insist?
No, I couldn’t. Really.
Instead, let’s talk about AJ’s new pet, the one we brought home in a Styrofoam cup with a black cloud of death hanging over its golden head.
This past weekend was Little League Opening Day and it’s like every one you or I have ever been to, with the prayer and the anthem and the pledge and the motto and boring local politicians making boring—and surprisingly disjointed—speeches as we parents stand around in the wet grass while the kids, the whole multi-colored and unbearably cute lot of ’em, play in the dirt and follow the flight of escaping balloons.
Once the pomp mercifully ended, the future big leaguers were treated to a carnival of sorts. Jumpers, human bowling, a dunk tank, feats of strength, airing of the grievances and, that midway staple, throwing ping pong balls into plastic lily pads to take home the prize of all prizes, a goldfish.
The two previous years, I’d steadfastly refused to allow AJ to try his luck. He was too young, too close to Finding Nemo, to understand the harsh reality of the life of a goldfish. I did not want to deal with the fallout from the critter’s eventual, nay imminent, demise. This time, I caved, in no small part to his tearful demeanor after he failed to win a plastic boomerang in another contest.
“AJ,” I said. “You have to understand something: Goldfish do not live long. We’ll take care of it as best we can, but you have to be prepared for it to die. It’s just the way it is.”
(Having done some research on the matter, I now know that goldfish CAN have a long, thriving, existence, but let’s not let facts get in the way of a good story or me teaching my son the concept of death.)
He said he understood. Unlike the plastic boomerang debacle, the one dollar Fish Toss is a guaranteed win. AJ stood confidently mere inches from the edge of the blow-up kiddie pool and tossed dropped his ping-pong ball into the waiting embrace of seven million lily pads. In fact, he padded four out of five.
“Does that mean I get four fish?”
“NO!” I, and seven other parents, shouted in unison.
The bounty secured (the Styrofoam soup cup was conveniently labeled, “fish,” lest we mistook it for corn chowder or something), we headed back home, the car filled with needs—bowl, gravel, food, another twelve dollrs at PetSmart—and questions.
“What shall we name this rascal?” AJ asked, already smitten. I laughed at the way he said it.
“How about ‘Rascal?’”
“No, I think ‘Bob.’”
(Timeout: This is, without any doubt, my son. Tagging pets with mundane human names is something I find extremely hilarious. Nevermind what that says about me. In fact, I once was a part-owner of a stray Chou named Bob, who sadly went insane about a week after we took him in. So, yeah, I was giggling like a drooling moron when AJ suggested Bob.)
Before I could agree, however, he decided Rascal was good enough.
We set Rascal up at home, found him a prime spot on the counter with a good view and did a little interneting to educate ourselves. AJ fed him and continually checked on him during the day. When his mother came to pick him up that evening, I toted the fish bowl downstairs, at AJ’s request, to show her the new family member. I hugged AJ good-bye.
