Sonny Dearest

My brother Bill and I were playing wiffle ball with our best friends and neighbors Ryan and Robbie.

Robbie spaced his fingers as if making the peace sign, placed them like two fangs across the back of the plastic ball and threw a curve my way.

I swung and missed like I always tended to do.

“Strike one,” shouted my brother.

Robbie stopped the game.

“If you had to screw either your mother or our mother, which would you choose to screw?”

I thought “screw” had something to do with the way one throws a special type of pitch in base ball.

Ryan and Robbie waited for Bill and I to answer with a swarm of little gnats swarming around their Three Springs little league base ball caps.

They squinted as the sun peaked under the visors of their caps and waved their hands above their heads to chase the little flying bugs away.

“Well, to be honest, our mom,” replied my brother.



“Yes. Us too. Your mom is fine!”

I didn’t say a word.