The sun blotted out by a hefty overcast, it seemed some kind
of cold front was moving in. According to weather.com it should have rained
several hours ago, but we didn’t give a huffle puff. We’re PMT (Paco,
Morrissey, and Toussaint). Paco and
Morrissey are two young men I mentor and work with for the summer. Since our
inception last summer, we’ve lead a trail of definitive adventure, argument,
and accolade.
Given the option to go to Valley Fair for the day, or wait ‘til
better weather and take it up next week, we opted for the former. Trashed on
overpriced funnel cake, mini donuts, and a sweltering vertigo from the Power
Tower, I am not the man I used to be. There is a time in your life where you
will abandon every activity and action from your childhood, and suddenly be
wrought back to life with the simplicity of swinging on a swing at a park. Soon
after that, your body will revolt with headache, stomach curdling, and
questions of how old you really are. At this point, people usually stop, bid
adieu to the swingset, and revel in content that they at least went back and
tried it once. In hanging out with Paco and Morrissey for my summer job, there
is no going back after that point one usually retreats from. I’ve developed
caluses on my hands holding on the monkey bars too long, a distinct sense of
balance from walking the tops of the swingset to escape during games of
Sandman, and a stomach for any ride this carnival can throw at me.
Temperatures dropping to 60-something, we had to depart Soak
City. It was just too damn cold to be dawning a bathing suit and inner-tubing
down lazy river to not get hypothermia. Retreating to the food stand to eat for
a few minutes, our conversation took a sharp turn from the sarcastic-potty-mouth-joke
rants we go on to an actual topic.
“Morrissey, what do you think of the hall of fame for
baseball. You think they should let those guys in if they used steroids?” I
asked across the concrete picnic table.
Morrissey is 11 years old, and is a natural when it comes to
baseball. Yeah yeah fn yeah, everybody’s dad says their kid’s a natural at
somethin’, but I ain’t this kid’s dad, and I will be the first to tell you that
an competing athlete is less than talented if they are. However, in Morrissey’s
case, I’ve watched him throw a pool toy ball at a speed that just wasn’t
intended for 11-year olds to be able to do. The kid displaces objects with his
arm through the air at an accuracy I can’t keep up with. Attending one of his
games, a little league style of play with actual pitchers and regional
competition, he smacked the ball every time he stood up to bat. He’s the kid
that pisses off all the opposing-team parents in the bleachers because no
matter what over-hyped suburban talent is pitching to him, there ain’t a damn
thing they can do to get the ball by him for a strike. It’s too early to say if
he’s a phenom, but for now I differ to him for any baseball inquiries.
“I don’t think they should be let into the hall of fame,
because y’know- if a guy walks into a bathroom and takes a small crap, then
walks out and tells his team that he took a big crap- y’know- it’s lieng.”
Morrissey casually answered.
A few moments pass as Paco and Morrissey still eat, while I all of a sudden froze from the answer Morrissey had just given to my question.
“Caruthers & Christ” I
thought to myself, molliwhopped at the mere feat of trying to interpret the dialogue that had just gone down.
I processed what Morrissey had said as: a player on
performance enhancing drugs could only exist as a lie. I’d never thought to
interpret lying as more than an instance, whereas Morrissey was suggesting that
the player, the player’s statistics, the physical movement of the player… was
all a lie. There is no part of the player beset in truth long as he is on
PEDs…
…
“Hey, let’s go to the Wild Thing one more time before we
leave” Morrissey announced.
“I don’t know. The line looks kinda long.” Paco replied.
I finished my meal and affirmed with myself that I had the
best job in the world… and woulnd’t trade it for anything.
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