My Memorable Mob

When I was eight years old, I met my brother Marshall for the first time when he nearly killed my best friend one summer. I was playing in my backyard with Spot, my pet beagle, when I heard Lamar screaming the way kids do when they’ve done something worthy of a belt whooping. But that didn’t make sense because his dad was still at work, and Lamar was screaming in the middle of the street.

I sprinted to the front, with Spot yapping and snapping at my heels, thinking I was playing a game. Right in front of our house, Lamar was lying flat on his back in the middle of the road, and a kid on a ten-speed bike was standing over him. Even though he was our size in height, he was a bit chubby with beefy hands, built like a typical bully. I recognized him as the new kid who had recently moved into the neighborhood a block away.

Some of the teenagers on my block, the ones kids like Lamar and I looked up to, heard the commotion as well. They started filing out of houses, which seemed to make the bully nervous because he took off on his bike, pedaling the way everyone does whenever a mean dog jumps a fence that has a “Beware of Dog” sign.

I joined the dozen or so teenagers as they huddled around Lamar.

“Lamar, what happened!” demanded Willie. He was the biggest male of the teenagers, tall like a basketball player but big like a football player.

Lamar wouldn’t stop screaming, probably because some of the girls started cuddling him, so I volunteered what I had seen. “He was hit by that new boy!” I said, pointing toward the bully’s escape route. “He hit Lamar with his bike and ran.”

Willie looked in the direction of my outstretched arm. “Where’s that little punk now?”

“He probably went home,” I offered.

“You know where he lives?”

I nodded, and for the first time in my life, I got the chance to feel the exhilaration of leading an angry lynch mob to someone’s doorstep. Willie did the honors of knocking on the door. It took a few minutes before the bully emerged, and that took some coaxing from his mom, who didn’t seem too concerned about a bunch of angry children on her front lawn. Of course, Lamar sobbing in the center of us didn’t help, but I guess a lynch mob isn’t very menacing without the props of pitchforks and torches.

“We just want you to apologize,” said Willie, which was news to me, but I didn’t say anything because of the presence of the bully’s mom.

Reluctantly, the bully descended his steps, went over to Lamar, and murmured something I couldn’t hear. Whatever he said, it satisfied my lynch mob, so they started heading back toward our block. I followed, a bit disappointed about the lack of bloodshed.

After we walked a few yards down the street, I glanced back, and the bully held me with a hard stare. Then he pointed at me and mouthed something that I couldn’t make out, but I didn’t need to understand his words. His expression made it obvious that the bloodshed was coming later.

The Tennis Titan

The day I decided to take tennis seriously was a day when tennis was the last thing on my mind. Liz and I enjoy taking our children to playgrounds, and we’re always on the hunt for one we haven’t visited.

One steaming summer in Florida, Liz announced that she had found a new playground, and she assured me that even I would love it. “There’s plenty of shade,”  she said.

“Really?” I hate playgrounds built in the middle of what used to be a baseball field, no trees in sight.

“Yes, you’ll love it,” she replied.

When we arrived, I immediately fell in love with the number of trees, and the park even had a gazebo and a cold drinking fountain. Heaven on earth in Florida. I played with the kids on the swings and bars for a while, but I eventually called it quits and relaxed under the gazebo. Liz stayed with the kids, and I thought we were the only people there until I spied an elderly gentleman on one of the two tennis courts just beyond the soccer field. He looked to be in his sixties, based on his full head of gray and the gingerly way he moved when serving tennis balls.

He was alone, and I figured he was practicing his serve until his opponent arrived, but after fifteen minutes and still no arriving opponent, I made my way over to him. I was getting bored, but I didn’t feel up to taking more chances with the monkey bars.

“Hi ya doin’?” I asked, peering through the fence that surrounded both courts.

“Howdy,” he said with a warm smile.

I noticed his bulging tennis bag, and I figured he had more rackets. “Would you like someone to hit with?” I hadn’t played in a long time, and I never took the game seriously. It was safe to say that my game looked like I was playing badminton, but I figured I could hang with the old man, give him a little workout.

He didn’t hesitate as he stepped over to his bag. “Sure. I’d really appreciate that.”

I stepped inside, and we exchanged names and shook hands before he offered me a racket.

Now, I could get the ball back most of the time, but this guy never missed, and what made it worse was that he never hit the ball to me. His shots always angled away, making me scramble like crazy. He wasn’t particularly fast, but he didn’t have to be because just getting my shots over the net was the best I could do when chasing his shots left and right.

This went on for a good thirty minutes before I felt what I thought at the time was a mild heart attack, but I didn’t let on. Still, I said, “Hold on a sec. I have to speak to my wife.”

I yelled for Liz, and I met her at the fence, a good distance from the old man so he couldn’t hear.

“What’s up?” she asked.

I took a second to catch my breath before whispering, “Listen, in about five minutes, come back over here and say that you’re ready to go. This guy is killing me, and I need some Gatorade and a nap.”

It’s great to have a wife who cares about your ego almost as much as you do. She agreed to do it, and five minutes later, she rescued her man from the tennis titan. I shook the old guy’s hand, and he thanked me for hitting with him. He also explained that he didn’t hit much since his kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids moved up north.

“Wait,” I said. “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’ll be eighty-two in September.”

Needless to say, my jaw dropped to the court.

I’ve been playing tennis ever since, including USTA tournaments and the like. I vowed that an eighty-something-year-old would never pummel me again. So far, I’ve kept my word, but there have been a few narrow escapes. Hopefully, one day, I'll be able to do to my grandchildren what that titan did to me. It's good to have goals as a tennis player.

Wendy's vs. The Baldwins

My family doesn’t tend to worship food as much as the average American, but we do eat, and there are times when we can get “serious” about the subject of food. One of those memorable moments was at a Wendy’s drive-thru.

We were coming from the courts one afternoon, and one of our “things” after tennis is to indulge in a Wendy’s frosty. I’m driving, so I have to take the orders, which I’ve mastered. My wife Elizabeth has mastered checking the order before we drive off. (They make mistakes once in a blue moon.)

I looked over my shoulder at my thirteen-year-old daughter Jasmine. “Jazz, what do you want?”

“Frosty and fries.”

Before I could ask my two sons, they chime in as if Jazz reminded them of the existence of fries.

“Oh, me too!” seven-year-old Lawson said.

“Me too, Dad!” added nine-year-old Logan. “Fries, too!”

I’m thinking it was the alliteration because Liz and I made it a complete set of five and five.

Welcome to Wendy’s, would you like to try—

“NO THANK YOU! FOUR MEDIUM VANILLA FROSTIES! ONE MEDIUM CHOCOLATE FROSTY! FIVE LARGE FRIES! THAT’S ALL!” You have to yell if you don’t want to repeat yourself. You know the drill.

After paying at the first window, I eased to the second window, and our order came out in a flash via a typical smiling girl who looked about sixteen. The smile never fools Liz, and she didn’t miss a beat when she said in a deadpan voice, “All fries are here but no ketchup.”

I had to tap on the window because smiling girl was gone.

“Yes?” she said, smiling again.

I smiled, too. “We need ketchup. Lots of ketchup.”

Her smile disappeared. “Oh. We’re out of ketchup.”

My smile disappeared, too. “Then take these fries back and give us our refund.”

Without hesitation, she bent down and miraculously found some ketchup somewhere around her knees. Therefore, without hesitation, I parked, entered the restaurant, gave the manager the run-down of the situation, all the while doing a great impression of Eddie Murphy’s Axel Foley from Beverly Hills Cop.

The manager apologized profusely, “comped” the entire meal, and offered me a bunch of coupons, which I accepted. He even ordered the girl to apologize, but I was already walking out the door, smiling my butt off.

Needless to say, I returned to the car as a hero to my family. We may not worship food, but that doesn’t make us pushovers.