Of all the games we played when I was a child, the one I liked best was Kick The Baby. What a fun game. All you needed were a bunch of players and a baby and they were sure easy enough to get. One of us would sneak into a nearby house and grab one of the little nippers and off we went. Of course, not all babies are created equal, but eventually we found that the chubby ones worked best. Sure, they were a little heavier, but they weren’t as hard on your feet and they didn’t fall apart so fast.
(A handy tip for your next game of Kick the Baby - keep a roll of duct tape on hand. You don’t want those arms and legs flailing around when you’re trying to move it down field and the damn things scream like banshees if you don’t tape the mouths shut.)
So there we’d be, kicking away at the little whippersnapper and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth we’d go until one of the teams began to gain on the other and closed in on the goal – the old oak tree at the end of the yard. They’d make their shot, whack went the baby into the tree and that was all she wrote.
When it was over, we’d roam around the field, picking up baby bits and putting them in a bag. They were usually a little worse for the wear - sometimes a lot worse. Sometimes we couldn’t make it through an entire game without having to call a timeout and go find another one.
You know, to this day I can’t help but feel all warm and fuzzy inside whenever I see a baby. Cute little things.
M. Patel is a gentleman and a scholar, though never at the same time and not while chewing gum.
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