Tony Hawk First Base

When I was a kid, there were some terrible jokes we called “Bob” jokes. One in particular that stands out goes something like: a group of kids goes to the house of a neighbor kid. They ring the doorbell and say to the Mom when she answers, “Mrs. Smith, can Bob come out and play baseball?” to which Mrs. Smith replied, “Now boys, you know Bob doesn’t have any arms and legs.” The boys said, “Oh we know! We just needed a first base!”

Flash forward. We end up at some horrible fast food joint for lunch during this trip and the toy in the kid’s meal was a little plastic Tony Hawk on a skateboard. Son #1 promptly detaches him and leaves his feet planted on the skateboard; Tony is now footless. As we made our travels, Tony slowly lost his hands, making him nubby. Soon another Tony from another kid’s meal met with the same fate. The boys have been actively sawing away at his limbs, making them shorter and shorter. Upon seeing this, I remarked to Son#1 something like, “Oh! First Base!” There was some question about it, and I explained it briefly and now the stubby plastic figurines are known as “Tony Hawk First Base”. (I did not name them.)

My closest, dearest and consistent friend of 24 years lives here in Atlanta. She is more like a sister. We’ve been through some serious stuff together and she loves to tell this over embellished story of how we met and I defended her honor against the neighborhood bully. Way over embellished, but very very funny. At this point, when in the presence of each other, we probably don’t even have to talk. We probably have telepathy. Today, she met us with her beautiful baby at the Museum of Natural History. Any place that might smack of dinosaurs receives a mandatory visit from my three boys. Once inside I decide I need to use the restroom. I look at her with her sweet baby boy and I look at my three and decide that my three are well behaved enough for me to leave her with all four, for all of 90 seconds. My boys love her little man, so her biggest problem was going to be fending them off from smooching all over her blonde haired, blue eyed, white skinned bundle of recessive genes. Off I go. I’m serious; I took all of 90 seconds. Mothers of boys do not dawdle and primp. We get in, get out, wash our hands, and move on. Quickly. We’re all about speed and efficiency. I walk out to find that during these 90 seconds my sons have used their innate ability to embarrass my sister/friend to the point she is pink, eyes are wide, and she’s stifling a horrified laugh.

As I rejoin them, I notice that with them is an elderly man; a man who works the museum. I am guessing he was about 85. Evidently, he comes to talk to her about her beautiful Celtic baby and Son#1 pulls out Tony Hawk First Base. The man looks at it and says, “Oh! What do you have there?” to which Son#1 says, “Tony Hawk, First Base. See? He doesn’t have any hands or feet.” According to my sister/friend, the man then says, “I see. You know, my grandson was born without hands.” Well, that is about all it took for my sister/friend to just wish the world would swallow her up, right then and there.

Now, what is the probability that this would happen? What is the damn probability that some stupid little toy, that my sons have turned into a quadruple amputee and named Tony Hawk First Base, a toy that only comes out with the family, would finally make its debut to someone outside the family, only to find out this person has a close member of the family without hands? Well, you may be saying the probability is remote, but considering I am involved and I have some funky wild ass indescribable karma, I’m going to say that probability was pretty damn high and I should have made sure they never left the house with Tony Hawk First Base. I’m considering myself lucky that the elderly gentleman’s grandson was only missing hands and not all his limbs!