Sunday, June 27, 2010

Goin' home





First of all, let me say as a disclaimer that the following is not a joke that I made into a cute little blog piece, nor is it something that I ripped off from a Readers' Digest article. This is a genuine anecdote that I felt obligated to share with the world. Or, if not the world, just the 3 people who occasionally check out my blog.


Here it is...


Last weekend (Father's Day) our family was partaking in a raucous game of wiffle ball in my parents'-in-law backyard. It was a great evening weather wise, and I couldn't think of a better way to celebrate being a dad than to engage in an American classic pass time such as that. Truthfully the adults playing enjoyed it as much as the kids. I particularly enjoyed the part where we were permitted to throw the wiffle ball at the children in order to get them out. Very satisfying.


At one point during the game, the 5 year old grandson of the neighbors next door popped around the corner and we immediately asked him to join us. He seemed to enjoy himself, although I don't think he understood the rules entirely. We helped him along and explained the order in which he was to run the bases after hitting the ball.


Then his curious behavior started.


We noticed that after he hit the ball and ran to the appropriate base, he would announce that he was leaving and then proceeded to exit the yard and disappeared to the other side of the privacy fence. Moments later, he'd return, ready to take his turn at the plate. Again, he'd hit the ball, run to the base(s), stand there for a few seconds, and then announce he was leaving again and then solemnly walk off the field, out the gate, and back over to his grandparents' house. We were confused to say the least.


Was he not having fun? Was he getting a drink of water from playing so hard? Was he sick? Had we done something wrong? Was he intimated by how I gleefully pelted my daughters with the plastic ball at any opportunity that I got? Very odd.


He repeated this behavior probably 4 times. Finally, he came back over to our side of the fence, and again, hit the ball and ran to first base. We awaited to see if he'd stick around this time.


He did.


But as he stood there, instead of announcing that he was leaving again. He said the following:


"Do I really need to 'go home' again?"


In the words of the prison warden in the 1967 classic film Cool Hand Luke, "What we got here is...failure to communicate."