Easter Kickball with the Thunderfoot

Easter Sunday I was challenged to a game of kickball. Perhaps the gauntlet was thrown because my ball kicking talents are legendary. In New York, for instance, they call me London since that’s how far I kick a ball. In London, it gets more confusing and nicknames range from Bombay, Marco Polo, and Nova Scotia to East London, if I’m on the West End. Then again, sometimes the Brits just call me Davey the Thunderfoot, which caused quite a scene one day when I was accosted by a hyper curious podiatrist with a lisp. But I digress. Perhaps, just perhaps, the challenge was more pedestrian. It’s possible the girls smelled easy prey or were asserting some sort of preteen power. Little did they know the talents of Thunderfoot.

Now, I’m not saying the dads beat the daughters. What I will say, however, is that the score wasn’t even close, and it seemed as if we ran around those bases again, and again. Then again, and again. And then some more. And then it seemed like that continued. For a long, long time. I wasn’t keeping score, but we must have won, right? I mean the girls, who for the record were downright intimidating for ten and twelve year olds, claimed victory, but we must have won. Oh, we let them feel good about themselves. We even pretended to be out of breath and have to sit down, several times. We “accidentally” tripped and made some “bad” throws. Wink, wink. A couple of times, however, I couldn’t hold back the prowess of old London, Thunderfoot, Downtown Julie Brown, and I beamed the little one in the leg. Oh, she glared, but I held my ground and stared her down. That’s just how I roll.