“I made a startling discovery,” said Magnus.
“Self-realization is an important part of personal growth,” replied Serge. He took a sip of coffee.
Magnus looked around the Java Expressions Café. Saturday afternoons always seemed to be busy. “Leave your psychobabble for your patients,” he said.
“Sorry. Occupational hazard. What happened?”
“My son hasn’t inherited my athleticism,” sighed Magnus.
Serge looked over his glasses at Magnus. “You played baseball in university,” said Serge, flatly.
“I was on a partial scholarship until I blew out my knee,” said Magnus, sharply.
“Granted, but what does that have to do with my nephew?”
“I was hoping at least he’d have some interest in sports.”
“Perhaps Little Frank is a late bloomer,” said Serge.
“Not likely. Yesterday he was playing Little League Baseball, right? The baseball hit him in the face five times. He looks like an MMA fighter.”
Serge cringed. “Is he okay? A ball moves awfully fast off a bat.”
“It wasn’t that. They were tosses back to the mound from the catcher.”
“Frank’s a pitcher?”
“Its a rule in his league that every player gets to take turns pitching. The inning he pitched, he gave up six runs,” said Magnus, grimly.
“It could’ve been worse.”
“Oh yeah? He walked every player on the other team. The only reason it wasn’t worse was another rule in the league that says a team can bat through the line-up only once in an inning. He only threw one strike, and that was because the ball slipped out of his hand.”
“I know,” said Magnus. “You wanna know the truth of it?”
“Tell me,” said Serge.
“The kid hates sports. Can you believe it? My son hates sports.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“What can I do?” Magnus shook his head slowly. His eyes drifted off into space. “It’s impossible to live vicariously through your children when they won’t cooperate.”
Serge nodded in agreement. “That’s the problem of a thousand generations.”