You’re a Little-Leaguer. You’re riding in the bed of Mister Jimmy’s pickup with 13 of your closest teammates. Mister Jimmy is your coach. He’s driving.
Mister Larry is riding shotgun. He’s your assistant coach, the one who tells inappropriate jokes in the dugout. He’s been married thrice. He’s working on his fourth. He’s good people.
Both coach’s windows are rolled down. Their arms are hanging out the open windows. Cigarettes dangling between their fingers.
It’s a nice evening. Warm. The sun is setting. You’re on your way to Dairy Queen.
Mister Jimmy’s truck pulls up to a stoplight. A sheriff’s car pulls behind you. The county cruiser is a Crown Vic. Early ‘80s model. Chrome bumpers.
The cop waves at all 14 of you. You all wave back. A few beg the officer to sound his siren (sy-REEN). The officer smiles. He obliges by flipping on the lightbar. The siren yelps once. Your teammates are in heaven.
The light turns green. Mister Jimmy hits the gas, and the momentum nearly propels all 14 of you out of the truck bed.
Fine times.
You’re riding down the highway now. Your teammates consist of 13 boys and Lisa, Zachary’s little sister. She hits better than anyone on the team. Fields better. And keeps the dugout clean. Mister Larry says Lisa is the team’s conscience.
You’re all waving at passing motorists in traffic now. A Cadillac Eldorado. A Mercury. A few Ford F-100s.
One of your teammates dares you to moon the Lincoln Town Car behind Mister Jimmy’s truck. Everyone on your team gets in on the action. They all chip in 50 cents if you’ll moon the lady in the Lincoln. So you do it.
You drop your drawers. Your teammates howl. Lisa covers her eyes.
Mister Jimmy notices you back there, with your little pants pulled down, displaying your perpetual whiteness to an innocent motorist.
Mister Jimmy smacks the side of…