Story 100: Scrum of the Mighty Tots

Based upon an idea suggested by Deborah Pergola

[Disclaimer: About 80-90% of this story is actually almost true]

            Coach had a big day ahead of him: there were six teams that he needed to guide to glory, and not a single player among them could be relied upon to follow instructions.  They would not listen, they wandered, they cried, they ran in the wrong direction – why oh why did he agree to use his near-pro soccer skills to teach 5-year-olds?  Too late to back out of volunteering now: word spread in a small town.

            He spotted the rugrats in their cute matching uniforms milling around the outside of their designated field with their hovering parents in charge of the gear, water bottles, and comfort stuffed animals.  Taking charge of the borderline chaos, he summoned the children onto the field so they could “practice,” as in “learn to not touch the ball with their hands.”  Each child brought their own soccer ball for this portion and one inevitably escaped from its owner, who chased it to the neighboring, more advanced field.  Coach was too far away to interfere when he saw two older kids pick up the child’s ball – he could not abandon the flock to go after one sheep, and Mom was on the move to intercept anyway.

            “Can I have my ball back, please?”  Little tyke tried to politely assert himself.

            “Don’t see your name on it!”  The ringleader responded, and both boys laughed cruelly until the one holding the ball glanced down at it and saw the lettering.  “Oh there it is; here you go,” he said, tossing it back to the younger player and strolling with his buddy to the field where the coaches yell at all the players.  Mom steered her child to the proper field and he was absorbed back into the group.

            Coach continued the drills, losing track of how many times each of the players fell over their own feet and/or needed their shoelaces tied.  With the revolving door of players, he finally realized why he had been asked if he had an eidetic memory when he had been interviewed for the position: by his count, across all six teams there were four Jacks, three Rachels, two D.J.s (although one of those actually may have been a T.J.), and seven Josephs.  Memorizing their names was the best and really only way to get their undivided attention, however brief it lasted.

            After practice, the real game began.  Much as with herding cats, Coach felt that a strong hand was needed in corralling the former toddlers to their rightful places on the field.  There already had been tears when one child panicked at whether he was supposed to stand at right forward or right defense, and another kept moving off-sides before the ball was even placed at center field.  At Coach’s whistle, the blank faces stood there for several moments before his encouraging instructions of “Kick the ball!” finally registered as something they would want to do, and nearly all 12 players from both teams ran forward simultaneously to kick the ball.  Their little legs tangling up in each other, the ball was the only item on the field safe from their feet (even those of the ringers).  Some tumbles later, the ball was on the move and a point was unbelievingly scored (into the team’s own goal, but nevertheless).  The shock of actual coordinated action was enough to make Coach drop the whistle and almost overlook the three other soccer balls and a kid from the next team on the schedule that had appeared randomly on the field.

            Since their stamina was minimal, the game/play date ended in less than 15 minutes, yet managed to score more goals than most soccer games played for real.  Having reached time, Coach forced the players from each team to give each other high fives so that the rivalry bloodlust could be staved off until they at least reached high school.  They then got to enjoy their victory snacks, whereas he had to repeat the cycle of the past half hour again and again until the field ran out of children.

            He supposed there were worse ways to spend a Saturday.

Story 99: Sojourn to the Countryside

            “And here are your rooms,” the woman of the house-turned-bed-and-breakfast said as she led Family of Four up the stairs.  These people reeked of city, she thought, but seemed nice enough.

            “Ooh,” Family of Four said in unison after the owner unlocked the door to what formerly had been her and husband’s bedroom, rest his soul.  He would have expired a second time if he knew that strangers would be tromping regularly through his sanctum sanctorum, she knew – she also knew that money was money.

            “You can have the main bed, Mom and Dad,” the owner continued, leading them past the renovated bathroom and the newly installed entertainment center.  “You, miss,” she said to Daughter, “can have the spare bedroom.”  She pointed to the twin bed in what used to be a walk-in closet.  “And you, young master,” she guided Son to a large alcove with a daybed and a door to the attic stairs, “you can have the haunted bedroom.”  The little girl ghost wearing 1800s farm clothing and sitting on the daybed gave Son a wave.

            “Oh, man,” he groaned.  “I always get the haunted bedroom!”

            *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *         

            “On your right, you can see the miles and miles of cabbage that this area is famous for,” the tour guide said, directing the attention of everyone on the bus over to the fields ripe for harvesting.

            “Almost makes you want to reach out and grab one,” Mom joked to Dad.

            “If you did, I think the dog would kill you,” Dad replied.  The dog that had been barking after the bus for five miles showed no sign of letting up or slowing down.

            “Any questions so far?”  The tour guide asked.  Daughter raised her hand.  “Yes?”

            “Do they have to pick up all those cabbages one at a time?”

            Adult chuckles at kids’ darnedest questions rumbled through the passengers.

            “They had to way back when, but not anymore,” the tour guide answered.  “Today, there are machines that gather all the plants and everything’s sorted out later.  In fact, we may be able to see one – yes, there it is!”  She pointed towards a farm up ahead.  The bus slowed so everyone could see the cabbage plants being sucked in and debris being blown out of a very large harvester.  The farmer operating it looked over at the bus.

            “Wanna lend a hand with this?  I’m just about to pass out!”  He yelled at the group.  As the bus drove off, they could hear him say: “None of the cabbage sold around here is local!”

            “Who wants to go shopping?”  The tour guide asked this very loudly.  All of the adult women and two of the men raised their hands – everyone else, including the bus driver, slumped in their seats.

            *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *           *        

            Having circled the local artisans’ shops for the second time, Family of Four wanted to call it quits but it was not time yet for the bus to depart with all souls aboard.  Daughter and Son’s attention soon was captured by a little barnyard off the main path while Mom and Dad followed them close behind: there were a few sheep and some chickens wandering aimlessly around the enclosed area.  While the children stood at the fence gazing at the animals, a parrot perched on a nearby tree spoke.

            “It’s rude to stare,” it said.

            “Ooh, it spoke!”  Son said, pointing to the bird.

            “It’s rude to point,” the parrot said; Son lowered his hand.  “They don’t like you,” the parrot added.

            “What?”  Daughter asked.

            “They don’t like you,” the parrot repeated.  “They only want you to feed them.  If you keep standing there, they will charge at you.”

            The children turned back to the barnyard; all the sheep and chickens had stopped whatever they had been doing and now were staring at the two children.

            “All right, kids, let’s go back to the bus,” Dad said as he herded the family over to the shopping center.  Looking over his shoulder, he saw a sheep lick its lips.

            *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *        

            In the bed-and-breakfast that night, Family of Four tried to sleep with the howling wind and the driving rain bombarding the house.  For a moment, Mom saw a tornado funnel form in the distance before dissipating; during its brief life, it had begun to head their way.

            Son huddled in his daybed when he heard a “Thump!” above him.  Freezing in place, he then turned to the little girl ghost, who shrugged with an “I dunno” look on her face.

            “Mom!  Dad!  Someone in the attic’s trying to kill us!”  Son suggested.

            “Let me see now,” Dad said; he was obligated to walk into danger while Mom stayed behind to guard the offspring.  Dad took out a flashlight and broke the lock to the attic door, figuring that the damage was a small price to pay in case there really was a prowler up there.  After climbing the stairs, he glanced around a bit and mainly could only find some old quilts, discarded cable lines, and an Elvis Presley impersonation kit.  He started to descend when another “Thump!” made him turn around sharply.  His flashlight revealed the owner of the bed-and-breakfast, sitting in a rocking chair facing the attic window; he earlier had mistaken her silhouetted form for a lumpy scarecrow.  As he watched, she dribbled a basketball, making the “Thump!” sound again.  Dad slowly backed down the stairs, never taking his eyes off of her, and secured the door as best he could.

            “What was it?”  Mom asked; Son, Daughter, and the little girl ghost were huddled around her on the bed.

            “The owner was just dribbling a basketball in the attic,” Dad answered.

            “Oh good,” Mom said.  “OK, kids, back to bed!”  The little girl ghost complained the loudest of the three.

            *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          

            Family of Four checked out of the bed-and-breakfast that morning, finding it hard to look the owner in the eye so that Dad forgot to give her extra money for the broken lock.  She watched them leave, relieved that she was alone once more and glad to continue assuming that no one could get into the attic – her one method of soothing herself during thunderstorms had the potential to freak some people out, she knew.

            As Family of Four drove out of town to return to their mundane lives, they passed a sign on the road reading:

            “Thank you for visiting our town – you really have never experienced anything quite like it.”

Reader Participation - Repeat

I'll be coming up on my 100th story on this blog in a few weeks; my 100th posting already passed, but some of the stories were multi-parts so the 100th story was delayed.  For a bit of fun to celebrate, post a story suggestion in Story 98's Comments section (my most-recent post), or addressed to me on Facebook or on Twitter (@JenPergola), and if I use it as the basis of the 100th story, I'll name you in the post as the one who inspired it!  Ideally, the suggestion should be based on a real event that I then will warp, but it can be anything you'd like to read as a funny story.  Thanks!

Story 98: Friend Request From a Stranger

            “Hmmm….”

            “What’s up?”

            “I have a Friend Request sitting here, and I have absolutely no idea who this person is.”

            “Maybe you have a stalker.”

           “That’s not funny.  Let’s see, we have some of the same friends, we’re originally from the same town, and we went to the same high school.  Ooh, look, his birthday’s around mine.”

            “And yet you have no idea who he is.”

            “None whatsoever.  Maybe he only thinks that he knows me?”

           “But you have all those things in common, so you had to have known each other at some point.  You probably just forgot him.”

            “I remember everything!”

            “All right – what unfunny joke did I just make a minute ago?”

            “…That’s not the point!  The point is, I need to know who is this stalker!”

            “Uh-huh.  Try finding him elsewhere online, then.”

            “Good idea.”  Does a few name checks.  “Nothing!  I don’t like it that someone out there knows more about me than I know about him!”

            “Fine, then just ask him who he is.”

            “I have to accept the Request in order to do that!”

            “Then do so – it’s not a marriage, you can undo it much more cheaply.”

            “Oh all right.  Here goes: Accept, Message, ‘Hi, who are you?’.  Now what?”

            “Wait and see what he writes back.”

            “I hope he writes back soon: this is going to bother me until he does.”

SIX MONTHS LATER

            “I have a message!”

            “Ooh, how exciting!  Who from?”

            “Let’s see.  Huh, I don’t recognize the name, but apparently we’re friends.  Internet Friends, that is; not the real kind.”

            “What’s he say?”

            “He says, ‘Hi, sorry to take so long to respond to your message – I don’t check this thing much and I must’ve sent out the Friend Request about a year ago.’  Sounds about right.  ‘This is George ----- from 10th grade English class, P.S. 679.  Go Gorillas!’  What an odd thing to say.”

            “So, mystery solved: you were in the same class together.  Now you two can reminisce about how everything was so much better back then.”

            “Yeah, but going on six decades after the fact, what’s the point?”