Miguel entered the qualifier for the school's geography bee as a joke. His friend, Sam, said, "I'll do it if you will."
Miguel said, "OK." They both raised their hands and were entered. He never even told me.
Then he shared last week that he had qualified for the school-wide geography bee held earlier today.
"Miguel, that's great," I said. "How did you do?"
"OK."
"How many questions were there?"
"Forty," he said. "I got 23 right."
"Wait," I said, driving dangerously close to the side of the road. "You missed 17 out of 40? Just better than 50%?"
While I was proud of his accomplishment, I wondered how someone, even my son, could qualify for a school-wide test of knowledge after only answering slightly better than half the questions.
"The questions were hard," Miguel explained with a hint of defensiveness in his voice.
He then explained that the top 30 kids automatically qualified for today's competition. So, conceivably, one could have missed even more than half the questions and still made it to today's final showdown. Sam was bounced from the preliminary round for talking too much.
"Miguel, you need to study. Did they tell you about some websites with sample questions?" I asked.
"I can Google them," he said.
Turns out that National Geographic, the main sponsor of the geography bees, has sample questions and test-taking advice on its website. There are three or four other free sites as well. We immediately went to them on Friday and Saturday.
"Miguel, the biggest advice is that the question often contains a clue for the answer," I said. As an example I read one question to him: which European country possesses oil reserves and is known for its famous fjords?
He was stumped. I said that the clue is famous fjords. He'd never heard of a fjord. So he didn't know the answer was the country from where his grandfather's ancestors called home, Norway.
I read him another question: which state's climate is suitable for growing citrus fruits, California or Maine?
"Maine," he answered.
"Maine?" I bellowed. "Maine?"
"California," he said meekly.
I then explained how the clue was in the question. Citrus fruits grow best in warm and sunny climates, which would lead one to answer California, a much more temperate state than Maine. I started thinking, "He's going to get creamed. I am proud of him for making the school tournament, but he doesn't know that much."
He did several practices tests and quizzes over the weekend. He said they were hard. They were. Questions such as Dresden, a city that has been rebuilt since WWII, is situated on what river? The three choices are the Darling, the Elbe, or the Thames River. The correct answer is the Elbe. Or name two large islands separated by the Strait of Bonifacio. The choices are Corsica and Sardinia, Corfu and Cephalonia, or North Island and South Island. The correct answer is Corsica and Sardinia.
Miguel went to school late today because he got just two braces and his headgear this morning. Within nine months his whole mouth will be glittering silver.
"I don't want to stay for the tournament," he said. It was held after school. "I barely studied."
"Miguel, you are staying for the geography bee," I said. "You brought your permission slip?"
"Yes."
I told him I'd pick him up outside school at five. He called me at 4:30 and said, "Dad, can you pick me up now? The geography bee is over."
But I couldn't leave work because I was covering the break for one of my staff. One of the teachers helping to proctor the competition volunteered to drop Miguel off.
Miguel advanced to the final round to determine the Miller Creek Middle School 2010 Geography Bee champion. The final question was in which European city would you find the Piccadilly Circus? Miguel thought it was an actual circus and he did not know the answer.
"I guessed the first city that came to me, London," he said. "The other kid, a 6th grader, said Rome."
Miguel was right and was crowned school champion. Next he competes in a regional tournament to decide who goes to the state bee in April in Sacramento. Each state winner will be flown to Washington, DC, all expenses paid, for the chance to win the National Bee and a $25,000 scholarship. Miguel said he plans to study, study, study.
He showed up at work wearing his winner's medal and proudly flashing his winner's certificate. He also got a gift card to Jamba Juice, a specially engraved pen, and a earth globe keychain, which he gave to Maya.
I beamed with pride as he walked into the retirement facility where I work and shouted to two of my colleagues, who were probably discussing work, "Miguel just won his school's geography bee." My voice had jumped at least three or four octaves.
"Miguel, I am so, so proud of you," I said, stunned and amazed and ecstatic.
"I was so nervous in the final round," he said, "I was shaking."
When we left the house a little while later, after retrieving Maya and one of Verna's closest friends, Joan, on our way to a celebratory meal at BJ's, a lone star twinkled just below the moon. We all looked up and greeted Verna.
"Miguel, Mommy would be so proud of you, too," I said, a rush of sadness mixing with the sweetness of his accomplishment.
Showing posts with label competition. Show all posts
Showing posts with label competition. Show all posts
Monday, December 13, 2010
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Coming of Age
Miguel played tackle football with a girl this past Saturday, and I was the chaperone.
He and Lyla, who is also 11 and lives a couple of blocks away, scootered past me as I drove in the neighborhood after officiating at a wedding. They took turns passing each other and then jumped off the curb, executing some scooter maneuver whose name I can never remember.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine,” they both said, which is slightly better than “Nothing” or “I don’t know.”
“Hey dad,” said Miguel, “Can you play football with us?”
It was 95 degrees outside and not quite 4 pm. I was almost indignant at his request.
“No,” I nearly screamed. “It’s boiling out here. I am not playing football right now.”
“We just need you to be the quarterback,” Miguel implored.
After ten minutes of pre-teenager persistence, I agreed to toss the ball to each of them.
“I don’t know what it is,” said Lyla, who has two younger sisters. Her parents are very sweet as well. All of them moved into the complex about a month ago. “But we always compete against each other.
A week or two ago, she and Miguel joined a few other neighborhood kids and Lyla's father, James, who coaches Lyla’s soccer team, for a spirited game of soccer in the park outside our home. At one point, Miguel sprinted alongside Lyla, trying to prevent her from breaking away for a goal. She zoomed ahead of him and he elbowed her, causing her to tumble to the ground.
Later I said to him, “So the only way to beat Lyla is soccer is to knock her to the ground.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said.
Yeah, right.
Since then, Miguel and Lyla have engaged in friendly but moderately intense competitions against each other: Soccer, skateboards, scooters, basketball, even baseball. They’d basically split the various contests and saw football as another opportunity to school the other person.
Once we got to the field, Miguel said, “We’re playing tackle.”
Tackle? What exactly was going on right in front of me? I played co-ed tackle football in high school during a Jewish youth group outing at Penwood State Park in Bloomfield. I thought the object that day was to play tackle football. Being the naïve nerd that I was, I didn’t realize that several of my male friends saw tackle football with girls as a quick and relatively hassle-free way to cop a feel of a member of the opposite sex.
Given that Miguel is younger than I was then and certainly more naïve and innocent, I wasn’t worried that he was anticipating a grope-fest with Lyla. On the contrary, he has yet to express any interest in females as sweet and lovely beings who get our hormonal motors racing. In fact, he becomes incensed if I even tease him about girls or girlfriends.
A few years ago, one of his classmates at the Greenwood School in Mill Valley was Monet Weir, daughter of Bob, a member of the Dead. “Miguel, I’d love to be in-laws with Monet’s parents.”
Miguel cringed and he appeared ready to belch fire at me.
Last year, I attempted some psychological matchmaking when I said, “So is Sela your girlfriend?” Sela is a very outgoing and fun-loving kid who I saw as a perfect complement to Miguel’s more reserved but active nature. Plus her dad teaches PE, so he'd be a great in-law to welcome into the family. He’s a Games and Fitness God.
Miguel’s response, though, was to basically threaten me with bodily harm when I joked about Sela. Two weeks ago I finally declared that I would no longer tease him about girls. As Miguel approaches adolescence, I know I risk alienating him at a crucial time in our lives if I persist in joshing him about girls or anything else. So I stopped.
But when Miguel said they were playing tackle, I did pause for a moment to ponder any deeper pubescent meanings behind his statement. But all he added was, “I’m going to school her.”
“I hope you’re not taunting,” I responded.
Lyla got the ball first and she and I lined up about ten yards from the sidewalk, which was the end zone. The rules were simple: four chances to score a touchdown. Lyla crouched slightly behind me. I handed her the ball and she ran right into Miguel, who wrestled her to the ground. On the next play, I lobbed the ball toward her and she scampered a yard or two before Miguel tackled her. She finally broke free on the next down and scored.
When it was my turn to quarterback for Miguel, he wanted to run as well. But given that Lyla had never played football before, I thought that was unfair. So I passed it to him. Lyla grabbed his jersey and eventually managed to drag Miguel to the turf.
“Lyla, grab him around his waist,” I called to her. “It’s easier to bring him down.”
She and Miguel traded touchdowns twice, so the score was tied, 2-2. It was broiling hot and Lyla was ready to quit. Miguel had the ball, so I said, “Next touchdown wins.” Then I proceeded to make a few poor passes on purpose because I didn’t want him to win. I didn’t want to him to lose, either, but I thought a tie was a successful outcome. And neither of them complained when the game ended after the ball soared past Miguel onto the grass beyond the sidewalk. They raced over to Lyla’s house to cool off into the wading pool.
A couple of hours later, as dusk settled on the neighborhood, a gaggle of girls came upon me and said, “Where’s Miguel? We want to meet Miguel.”
For reasons that defy human logic, Lyla’s father invited all 21 members of her soccer team for a bonding sleepover and 12 accepted. About eight of them stood before me, a pulsating mass of giggles and energy and female determination, and asked me to help them find Miguel.
“I’m sure he’ll show up,” I said.
And he did, completely oblivious that he was the object of their desire in ways that probably made little sense to any of them.
Miguel is growing up right before us. On one hand, he voluntarily sat on my lap yesterday when we studied Hebrew together after school, a gesture of innocence and immaturity that I treasured. But he has also taken on more responsibility in and out of the home as he earns our trust. And now he may have a crush (which might be reciprocal) on Lyla. I am just happy that they are friends and can share a love of sports and playing outside.
My chaperone duties will resume later in the school year at the 6th grade dance in the spring. I have been assured the event involves no tackling or tossing of any pigskin objects. Touchdown!
He and Lyla, who is also 11 and lives a couple of blocks away, scootered past me as I drove in the neighborhood after officiating at a wedding. They took turns passing each other and then jumped off the curb, executing some scooter maneuver whose name I can never remember.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine,” they both said, which is slightly better than “Nothing” or “I don’t know.”
“Hey dad,” said Miguel, “Can you play football with us?”
It was 95 degrees outside and not quite 4 pm. I was almost indignant at his request.
“No,” I nearly screamed. “It’s boiling out here. I am not playing football right now.”
“We just need you to be the quarterback,” Miguel implored.
After ten minutes of pre-teenager persistence, I agreed to toss the ball to each of them.
“I don’t know what it is,” said Lyla, who has two younger sisters. Her parents are very sweet as well. All of them moved into the complex about a month ago. “But we always compete against each other.
A week or two ago, she and Miguel joined a few other neighborhood kids and Lyla's father, James, who coaches Lyla’s soccer team, for a spirited game of soccer in the park outside our home. At one point, Miguel sprinted alongside Lyla, trying to prevent her from breaking away for a goal. She zoomed ahead of him and he elbowed her, causing her to tumble to the ground.
Later I said to him, “So the only way to beat Lyla is soccer is to knock her to the ground.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said.
Yeah, right.
Since then, Miguel and Lyla have engaged in friendly but moderately intense competitions against each other: Soccer, skateboards, scooters, basketball, even baseball. They’d basically split the various contests and saw football as another opportunity to school the other person.
Once we got to the field, Miguel said, “We’re playing tackle.”
Tackle? What exactly was going on right in front of me? I played co-ed tackle football in high school during a Jewish youth group outing at Penwood State Park in Bloomfield. I thought the object that day was to play tackle football. Being the naïve nerd that I was, I didn’t realize that several of my male friends saw tackle football with girls as a quick and relatively hassle-free way to cop a feel of a member of the opposite sex.
Given that Miguel is younger than I was then and certainly more naïve and innocent, I wasn’t worried that he was anticipating a grope-fest with Lyla. On the contrary, he has yet to express any interest in females as sweet and lovely beings who get our hormonal motors racing. In fact, he becomes incensed if I even tease him about girls or girlfriends.
A few years ago, one of his classmates at the Greenwood School in Mill Valley was Monet Weir, daughter of Bob, a member of the Dead. “Miguel, I’d love to be in-laws with Monet’s parents.”
Miguel cringed and he appeared ready to belch fire at me.
Last year, I attempted some psychological matchmaking when I said, “So is Sela your girlfriend?” Sela is a very outgoing and fun-loving kid who I saw as a perfect complement to Miguel’s more reserved but active nature. Plus her dad teaches PE, so he'd be a great in-law to welcome into the family. He’s a Games and Fitness God.
Miguel’s response, though, was to basically threaten me with bodily harm when I joked about Sela. Two weeks ago I finally declared that I would no longer tease him about girls. As Miguel approaches adolescence, I know I risk alienating him at a crucial time in our lives if I persist in joshing him about girls or anything else. So I stopped.
But when Miguel said they were playing tackle, I did pause for a moment to ponder any deeper pubescent meanings behind his statement. But all he added was, “I’m going to school her.”
“I hope you’re not taunting,” I responded.
Lyla got the ball first and she and I lined up about ten yards from the sidewalk, which was the end zone. The rules were simple: four chances to score a touchdown. Lyla crouched slightly behind me. I handed her the ball and she ran right into Miguel, who wrestled her to the ground. On the next play, I lobbed the ball toward her and she scampered a yard or two before Miguel tackled her. She finally broke free on the next down and scored.
When it was my turn to quarterback for Miguel, he wanted to run as well. But given that Lyla had never played football before, I thought that was unfair. So I passed it to him. Lyla grabbed his jersey and eventually managed to drag Miguel to the turf.
“Lyla, grab him around his waist,” I called to her. “It’s easier to bring him down.”
She and Miguel traded touchdowns twice, so the score was tied, 2-2. It was broiling hot and Lyla was ready to quit. Miguel had the ball, so I said, “Next touchdown wins.” Then I proceeded to make a few poor passes on purpose because I didn’t want him to win. I didn’t want to him to lose, either, but I thought a tie was a successful outcome. And neither of them complained when the game ended after the ball soared past Miguel onto the grass beyond the sidewalk. They raced over to Lyla’s house to cool off into the wading pool.
A couple of hours later, as dusk settled on the neighborhood, a gaggle of girls came upon me and said, “Where’s Miguel? We want to meet Miguel.”
For reasons that defy human logic, Lyla’s father invited all 21 members of her soccer team for a bonding sleepover and 12 accepted. About eight of them stood before me, a pulsating mass of giggles and energy and female determination, and asked me to help them find Miguel.
“I’m sure he’ll show up,” I said.
And he did, completely oblivious that he was the object of their desire in ways that probably made little sense to any of them.
Miguel is growing up right before us. On one hand, he voluntarily sat on my lap yesterday when we studied Hebrew together after school, a gesture of innocence and immaturity that I treasured. But he has also taken on more responsibility in and out of the home as he earns our trust. And now he may have a crush (which might be reciprocal) on Lyla. I am just happy that they are friends and can share a love of sports and playing outside.
My chaperone duties will resume later in the school year at the 6th grade dance in the spring. I have been assured the event involves no tackling or tossing of any pigskin objects. Touchdown!
Friday, May 22, 2009
Randomly Yours
Random musings before a holiday weekend:
Bay to Breakers
I lined up with more than 50,000 other runners, walkers, drinkers, revelers, and assorted non-conformists last Sunday morning as temperatures soared near 90 at eight in the morning. I was with Verna’s brother, Marty, who’d trained for about three months for the 7.46 mile race, but is quite fit.
The Bay to Breakers is basically San Francisco’s version of Mardi Gras: you have costumed people clad in various stages of dress and un-dress and copious amounts of alcohol. Soul-pulsating music reverberates through speakers at different points along the course. No theme from Rocky, but plenty of foot-thumping music to make you shake your booty and run faster.
My goal was pretty simple: stay with Marty. We last ran together three years ago and he beat me by a few minutes. I have no problem losing, but Marty is a casual runner at best (although he is a better athlete by a long shot), so I hate getting whipped by similar runners when I’ve pounded the pavement for more than 30 years and finished four Boston Marathons.
“Oh, it’s going to be great,” said my father-in-law, Martin, as we walked to his car so he could drive us cross-town to the start. He lives two blocks from the Pacific Ocean, so the breezes there were misleading. “The temperature is going to be fine.”
However, the heat of the day made the initial miles of the race, when the course was clogged and we were chugging along at nothing more than a somnambulant trot, feel easily like the inside of a health club sauna. I was almost dizzy.
Marty and I ran together for about 100 yards. Then I had him in my sights for another mile, maybe, before relenting as an inner voice said, “Let him go. Preserve yourself and run slower. It’s hotter than hell.” Translation: OK, I am a wimp.
[Speaking of really hotter than hell: our neighbor Tony, 31 and nationally ranked at the club level in doubles tennis, ran a 50-mile race the day before Bay to Breakers in Bishop, CA, outside Sacramento, where the temps neared 100. He finished in under 12 hours. As his wife said, "The man's a freak."]
City officials and race organizers supposedly cracked down this year on alcohol and public nudity in an effort to curb highly inebriated people trashing the city and urinating in public. But I passed several people who were naked and several more who shouldn’t ever be sans clothing in public or private.
“There goes one who is uncircumcised,” I said at the end of the race as Marty and I watched finishers with Martin, my niece and nephew, and my other brother-in-law, Jim.
Marty pulled a calf muscle a half-mile from the finish but still managed to best me by ten minutes. He was limping badly, so I rationalized my performance by saying, inwardly, “I may be slower, but at least I’ll be able to run tomorrow.”
I wonder if I will ever push myself to the brink and embrace more than minor discomfort in order to succeed in a physical effort. I knew running under an hour, as I did seven years ago, was probably out of the question for me, but keeping pace with Marty should not have seemed impossible.
Oh well. But as someone once said, “The race does not always go to the swift, but to the ones who keep running.”
Teacher-Teacher
I subbed at Miguel’s school last Tuesday. And while I didn’t sub for his home room, I was the teacher for Ms. Naughton, who teaches Miguel’s class science on Tuesday afternoons.
“Miguel, you have to call me Mr. Friedman. Not Dad. Not Steve. But Mr. Friedman.”
He just nodded.
Sub Day started off quite easily. I walked into the classroom just before 7:50 and got myself organized, looking over the sub plan and breathing in the classroom. The students arrived at 8:05 and worked independently until 8:30. Then they went to PE until 9:20, which was followed by DARE (drug and alcohol education) and led by Deputy Hughes until 10:05. Then they had recess until 10:25, the first ten minutes of which I supervised. After recess, they finished up DARE until 10:45.
So I didn’t start teaching until 10:50, and that lesson was on narrative writing. After I did a five minute intro, they worked on their writing projects until 11:35, followed by group and self-directed math work until lunch at 12:05.
Miguel’s class was the first one I saw after lunch at 12:55. It was a science lesson, the differences between physical and chemical changes. Miguel raised his hand three times to ask thoughtful questions. Each time I waited to hear those magical words, “Mr. Friedman…”
But, alas, he did not address me as Mr. Friedman. Or Dad. Or Steve. Or anything. He merely posed his query, which I guess is better than some of the monikers kids have for their parents and teachers.
Last night at Open House, one of the 5th grade parents corralled me in Miguel’s classroom. “I heard there was some exciting news at Dixie.”
I figured another teacher was pregnant or getting married or there was some other gossip she was going to share. I waited. “Miguel’s dad was the substitute on Tuesday,” she said with a sly grin.
Ms. Naughton reported that the kids thought I was cool. “I only wish I’d asked you to sub in September,” she said.
As Verna and I trailed Maya (Miguel was already far ahead) last night on the way to the multi-purpose room and all the art projects, a fifth grader from Ms. Naughton’s class huddled against her mom greeted me: “Hi, Mr. Friedman,” she said, smiling.
At least one kid got it right!
Right On!
I won't go into the details of Miguel's Little League game tonight; OK, just a little: his team won, 11-4, he lofted a single into center-rightfield and also scored a run. But much more importantly was what happened after the game: the opposing team basically attacked our players with two coolers filled with water balloons. Fortunately, one of our team parents planned ahead so Miguel's squad was suitably armed.
As soon as the game ended, players rushed towards each other and started lobbing, tossing, firing, and pelting each other with water balloons.
It was awesome.
One kid said as soon as the fight ended: "That was the greatest water balloon fight I've ever been in."
Coaches from the opposing dugout lobbed balloons across the field at players, coaches, and the few parents (including me) stupid, er, daring enough to get near the battle arena. I was helping Miguel and his teammates reload balloons when I'd hear another parent yell, "Incoming," and then it was whoosh and water splashed on my pants or shoes.
Whatever enmity or tension that had built up during the game (if at all) quickly dissipated as players from both teams instantly turned into giggling ten, eleven and twelve-year olds having a summer-like fun with water balloons and ice cream.
Sometimes it takes someone trying to peg you with water balloons, as you bolt across the outfield screaming, to remind you the sports are just games to be contested and enjoy. And afterwards, a good old fashioned free-for-all never hurt anyone.
Bay to Breakers
I lined up with more than 50,000 other runners, walkers, drinkers, revelers, and assorted non-conformists last Sunday morning as temperatures soared near 90 at eight in the morning. I was with Verna’s brother, Marty, who’d trained for about three months for the 7.46 mile race, but is quite fit.
The Bay to Breakers is basically San Francisco’s version of Mardi Gras: you have costumed people clad in various stages of dress and un-dress and copious amounts of alcohol. Soul-pulsating music reverberates through speakers at different points along the course. No theme from Rocky, but plenty of foot-thumping music to make you shake your booty and run faster.
My goal was pretty simple: stay with Marty. We last ran together three years ago and he beat me by a few minutes. I have no problem losing, but Marty is a casual runner at best (although he is a better athlete by a long shot), so I hate getting whipped by similar runners when I’ve pounded the pavement for more than 30 years and finished four Boston Marathons.
“Oh, it’s going to be great,” said my father-in-law, Martin, as we walked to his car so he could drive us cross-town to the start. He lives two blocks from the Pacific Ocean, so the breezes there were misleading. “The temperature is going to be fine.”
However, the heat of the day made the initial miles of the race, when the course was clogged and we were chugging along at nothing more than a somnambulant trot, feel easily like the inside of a health club sauna. I was almost dizzy.
Marty and I ran together for about 100 yards. Then I had him in my sights for another mile, maybe, before relenting as an inner voice said, “Let him go. Preserve yourself and run slower. It’s hotter than hell.” Translation: OK, I am a wimp.
[Speaking of really hotter than hell: our neighbor Tony, 31 and nationally ranked at the club level in doubles tennis, ran a 50-mile race the day before Bay to Breakers in Bishop, CA, outside Sacramento, where the temps neared 100. He finished in under 12 hours. As his wife said, "The man's a freak."]
City officials and race organizers supposedly cracked down this year on alcohol and public nudity in an effort to curb highly inebriated people trashing the city and urinating in public. But I passed several people who were naked and several more who shouldn’t ever be sans clothing in public or private.
“There goes one who is uncircumcised,” I said at the end of the race as Marty and I watched finishers with Martin, my niece and nephew, and my other brother-in-law, Jim.
Marty pulled a calf muscle a half-mile from the finish but still managed to best me by ten minutes. He was limping badly, so I rationalized my performance by saying, inwardly, “I may be slower, but at least I’ll be able to run tomorrow.”
I wonder if I will ever push myself to the brink and embrace more than minor discomfort in order to succeed in a physical effort. I knew running under an hour, as I did seven years ago, was probably out of the question for me, but keeping pace with Marty should not have seemed impossible.
Oh well. But as someone once said, “The race does not always go to the swift, but to the ones who keep running.”
Teacher-Teacher
I subbed at Miguel’s school last Tuesday. And while I didn’t sub for his home room, I was the teacher for Ms. Naughton, who teaches Miguel’s class science on Tuesday afternoons.
“Miguel, you have to call me Mr. Friedman. Not Dad. Not Steve. But Mr. Friedman.”
He just nodded.
Sub Day started off quite easily. I walked into the classroom just before 7:50 and got myself organized, looking over the sub plan and breathing in the classroom. The students arrived at 8:05 and worked independently until 8:30. Then they went to PE until 9:20, which was followed by DARE (drug and alcohol education) and led by Deputy Hughes until 10:05. Then they had recess until 10:25, the first ten minutes of which I supervised. After recess, they finished up DARE until 10:45.
So I didn’t start teaching until 10:50, and that lesson was on narrative writing. After I did a five minute intro, they worked on their writing projects until 11:35, followed by group and self-directed math work until lunch at 12:05.
Miguel’s class was the first one I saw after lunch at 12:55. It was a science lesson, the differences between physical and chemical changes. Miguel raised his hand three times to ask thoughtful questions. Each time I waited to hear those magical words, “Mr. Friedman…”
But, alas, he did not address me as Mr. Friedman. Or Dad. Or Steve. Or anything. He merely posed his query, which I guess is better than some of the monikers kids have for their parents and teachers.
Last night at Open House, one of the 5th grade parents corralled me in Miguel’s classroom. “I heard there was some exciting news at Dixie.”
I figured another teacher was pregnant or getting married or there was some other gossip she was going to share. I waited. “Miguel’s dad was the substitute on Tuesday,” she said with a sly grin.
Ms. Naughton reported that the kids thought I was cool. “I only wish I’d asked you to sub in September,” she said.
As Verna and I trailed Maya (Miguel was already far ahead) last night on the way to the multi-purpose room and all the art projects, a fifth grader from Ms. Naughton’s class huddled against her mom greeted me: “Hi, Mr. Friedman,” she said, smiling.
At least one kid got it right!
Right On!
I won't go into the details of Miguel's Little League game tonight; OK, just a little: his team won, 11-4, he lofted a single into center-rightfield and also scored a run. But much more importantly was what happened after the game: the opposing team basically attacked our players with two coolers filled with water balloons. Fortunately, one of our team parents planned ahead so Miguel's squad was suitably armed.
As soon as the game ended, players rushed towards each other and started lobbing, tossing, firing, and pelting each other with water balloons.
It was awesome.
One kid said as soon as the fight ended: "That was the greatest water balloon fight I've ever been in."
Coaches from the opposing dugout lobbed balloons across the field at players, coaches, and the few parents (including me) stupid, er, daring enough to get near the battle arena. I was helping Miguel and his teammates reload balloons when I'd hear another parent yell, "Incoming," and then it was whoosh and water splashed on my pants or shoes.
Whatever enmity or tension that had built up during the game (if at all) quickly dissipated as players from both teams instantly turned into giggling ten, eleven and twelve-year olds having a summer-like fun with water balloons and ice cream.
Sometimes it takes someone trying to peg you with water balloons, as you bolt across the outfield screaming, to remind you the sports are just games to be contested and enjoy. And afterwards, a good old fashioned free-for-all never hurt anyone.
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