WHAT SUMMER MEANS TO ME - flash fiction

What Summer Means To Me
by Bill Fullerton


Summer means no school.

Summer means having to mow your yard instead of going fishing or swimming. And to make matters worse, my tightwad father don't hardly pay me a thing for all that work. He claims riding around on a John Deere for a couple of hours isn't some kind of cruel and unusual punishment. And he also says he won't pay me time-and-a-half for hazardous duty. Someday I’m going to turn him in to the Federal Wage and Hour people like that ad I saw on TV said to do.

Summer means fishing with the other guys, whenever I can sneak off that danged John Deere. Most of the time I go fishing with just Freddie and Mike, but sometimes Mike's kid brother Jerry tags along. He's a real pest, if you know what I mean.

Jerry is an okay kid I guess, but like I said, he can be a real pest. Like when he scares all the fish by kicking the bait bucket or when he falls into the pond, accidentally on purpose. To tell you the truth, his falling in the pond is not that bad a deal. You see then we all have a good excuse to jump in, clothes and all, to save him.

Then when we get home and our Mom's start yelling about getting our clothes wet, we can tell them the gospel truth, that we were just trying to save poor little Jerry from drowning to death in the pond. Boy if they ever find out Jerry swims like a fish, they'll kill us all.

Summer means swimming. Sometimes we swim in the pool in Bob's backyard. That's okay except Bob's folks never want you to play King of the Hill on top of the diving board, or Bull-a-Gator tag in the pool. It also mean's having to be careful whenever you go into Bob's house so his Mom won't get mad at you for tracking in water or making some other mess.

Swimming in the pond is more fun. There's a rope swing and the bottom's not really that muddy. The only problem is nobody's parents wants them swimming in the pond on account of how they're afraid we'll all drown or something. So we always have to stop at the filling station and rinse all the mud off before we go home.

Summer means playing baseball, and playing baseball, and then playing some more baseball. Most of us don't really care for it that much, what with all the rules and coaches and umpires and all. But for some reason, our parents seem to get a kick out of the whole thing.

All summer long they keep coming to game after game after game. And about all they do is sit in lawn chairs and talk to one another while swatting at mosquitoes and sweating like a bunch of rushing racehorses. Maybe they keep coming because they enjoy yelling at the coaches and umpires. They also do a lot of that.

Summer means there's nothing to watch on TV except for reruns. There's also the Atlanta Braves and the Chicago Cubs, or even worse (if that's possible), golf. But personally, I'd rather watch the reruns.

My father took me with him one time when he went to play golf. There's only one word for that game, BORING! I mean, all that happens is a bunch of grown-ups hit a ball, ride after it a long ways, and then hit it again. It was fun getting to drive the golf cart, but when it comes to the game, who cares?

As for the Braves and the Cubs, well as the girls say, gag me with a spoon. The Cubs are all losers, except for Sammy Sosa, and the Braves are even worse.

Sometimes my father gets me to watch a real baseball game with him, like say the Dodgers against the Giants. That's not too bad. Dad's no pro, but he seems to know a thing or two about baseball. And it's kinda fun sitting with him, drinking Cokes and talking baseball, even if he does keep kidding around and calling the teams the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Giants.

But usually before the game is over, Mike or Freddie have come over, maybe with Bob and Jerry, and I tell Dad I want to go with them. Dad always says it's okay to leave, but sometimes it seems like he gets this funny, kinda sad look on his face.

Summer means no school.

The End

PARENTS PARTICIPATION TRAINING - short story

Two parents discussing sportsmanship

I wrote this many long years ago for my sports column in the Ruston Morning Paper as a satire on the often overzealous attitude displayed by the parents of some young athletes and the overemphasis on winning by certain religious organizations. Since then, the situation appears to have gotten even worse. So much for the power of the press.

Bayou Bill

==

PARENTS PARTICIPATION TRAINING
by Bill Fullerton

"Welcome to parents participation training.” The debonair young man holding the microphone had a big, toothy grin.

"Many of you will be first-time parent participants in this area's various summer youth league competitions. Your appearance here demonstrates how, as concerned parents, you have realized the importance of displaying appropriate conduct while your child is participating as an athlete.

"To start today's session, we'll have an overview of the entire training program. Our first block of instruction will involve the basics of yelling at the umpire. Next will come a quick look at the principle tactics involved in baiting managers. The final segment is devoted to disorderly conduct, with both other parents and officials, during games."

The young man’s smile somehow managed to broaden as he continued. "I know that's a lot to cover, but this is a very important subject. And if you pay attention, we just might have a surprise lecturer come by before the evening is over.

"Now when first beginning to yell at umpires, it's best to limit your attacks, we prefer to call them, interactions, to total strangers. However, as your expertise grows, you'll discover being rude and abusive becoming easier and easier, even when the ump happens to be some life-long acquaintances."

At this point a look of seriousness passed over the man's face. "Remember, it's your duty as parents to serve as role models for your children. You must show them the importance of authority and how to give it proper respect. If you must question a friend’s honesty or intelligence to accomplish this goal, well, that's just the breaks.

"Let's move on to the subject of manager harassment. Of course anyone can verbally degrade and vilify the opposing team's manager. What takes special talent is intimidating your child's manager."

With a tolerant look, the dapper young man let the buzz in the audience die down before continuing. "If this were a perfect world, perhaps there would be no need to straighten out managers. But, sad to say, we do not live in a perfect world. Almost inevitably, your child's manager will either fail to give your young star enough playing time, or else play him in the wrong position."

Waving his hand in response to several parents who had raised their hands, he continued. "Now I know what you're thinking. What if my child's the team's pitcher?”

The speaker nodded his understanding. “It is not impossible for a manager to recognize your child's greatness and play him in the proper position and for an appropriate amount of time, like every minute of the game. However, even these managers are prone to call for the wrong pitch or signal some totally inane play. In that case, it becomes your job as responsible parents to loudly remind the manager of his shortcomings. As with the abuse of umpires, this public humiliation of managers will demonstrate to your child the importance of authority and the proper respect it should be shown."

The young man picked up an empty bottle and held it high. "This object is one of the primary working tools of the disorderly parent and, as we all know, being an effective disorderly parent is often an essential element in your young player's chances for victory. After all, there are likely to be other parents in the stands who will also be threatening the ump and vilifying the managers.

"It will be up to you to see that your child's team, and its followers, presents a truly hostile and aggressive demeanor. If the other team ever seems to be gaining the upper hand, it will become your duty to negate, if not terminate, the effectiveness of their parents. Several tactics can be used to accomplish this objective. One is physical threats and intimidation. By the way, this is most effective at your home field."

Just then the crowd stirred as a distinguished looking older gentleman walked on stage. There was a note of excitement in the younger man's voice. "Ladies and gentleman, this is the special surprise I mentioned earlier. The Right Rev. Doctor Dorite from Mighty Big Church has stopped by to make a few choice remarks.”

Beaming, the Right Rev. Doctor took the microphone. "Thank you Eddie, you're doing a fine job." He turned to the crowd and beamed. "And you're a fine group. I just know you'll make excellent parent participants.

"I'd like to say a few words to those of you with children playing in church leagues. Don't think for a second that Eddie's advice doesn't apply to church league play. Like many other churches, we at Mighty Big Church see it as part of our mission to field winning teams.

"To accomplish this goal, we can always use the help of you parent's. That doesn't mean we're not doing everything possible to win. For instance, like other churches, we occasionally recruit ringers who have seldom, if ever, attended worship services in our tabernacle."

With a confidential smile, the Right Rev. Doctor proceeded. "We've even formed our own league, the Behemoth Churches Alliance, designed to exclude those little churches which might happen to have winning teams. Of course we always load up our best players on one or two teams. This does tend to keep the less gifted children from getting much playing time, but sitting on the bench teaches them patience.

"All this is dedicated to one objective, beating the stuffing out of those lost souls at all the lesser houses of worship, thereby demonstrating our physical, and spiritual, superiority."

Spreading his arms wide, he concluded, "So remember everything Eddie has taught you, and go out there determined to win, win, win, at any cost! Amen and Halleluiah.”