He was a dead ringer for the kid from A Christmas
Story. A short, chubby boy with an
overgrown buzz cut and thick, dark rimmed glasses. Dressed in navy sweats from head to toe, he ran back and forth along the edge of the playground, arms pumping,
breath huffing in out-of-shape bursts.
On his third time past he stopped about twenty feet away
from my husband and I, equidistant
between us and the black plastic swings hanging on long metal chains. Inspired, he turned toward us, the nearest
“I’m gonna do something EPIC,” he said.
Then he turned and ran, huffing and
chuffing, arms swinging and threw himself belly first onto a swing. To our watching eyes, it was decidedly un-epic. The
extended take-off added nothing to the quotidian talent of swinging on your
stomach – something any little kid can do.
But something in his confident declaration, his putting it
all on the line approach was truly legendary. And I loved him for believing it, for announcing it and following through.
What he did wasn’t epic.
But the way he did it?