Rambling Josh

By the time you read this column my son, Jackson, will be a few days into his rookie year of the wild and wooly teenage world. 13 years old…do you remember your thirteenth year on earth? I remember I was going through a black clothing phase and received a black muscle shirt and black pants. The muscle shirt was necessary for the proper displaying of my bulging assortment of arm muscles which bared a striking resemblance to my arm bones.

As was the case most every year my birthday coincided with the North Dakota State Fair and I set out to rock the midway in my new duds. I believe it was around 170 degrees that day at the fair which as you know is the perfect time to wear all black. Nothing has a greater cooling effect than a black 100% cotton muscle shirt and matching pants. Other than the hallucinations it may have been the least productive fair day I had ever been associated with.

When you place your body in such a situation it has a little powwow with the brain and they agree to not allow any thoughts or movements that are not in some way associated with the attainment of a cold beverage, shade, a fan, or air conditioning. If anything other than this short list of demands was sought after it was met with instant physical and mental anguish to help refocus on the necessities.

I was cautioned about my clothing choice of the day prior to being transported to the fairgrounds but my new teenage brain was on break and missed the finer points of the conversation which described in great detail the discomfort I was about to bring upon myself and my assortment of arm muscles.

My faith in evolution is vilified on a regular basis as I observe the growth and development of my children above and beyond the development their father was able to muster. I suppose now that they are both teenagers the evolutionary progress may slow a bit as there is no reason to progress forward when you already know everything about anything.

Those of you that have been scoring at home over the years are also aware that any and all of my son’s birthdays are quickly followed up by one of my birthdays…40 of them now to be exact. I hate numbers. They claim you need one every year so they keep coming year after year after year after year. By the time you read this column I will have reached the summit and had a brief look about. As I looked about some heartless fiend will have swiped my half full glass and replaced it with a leaky half empty one.

Statistically speaking I will most likely spend the next year or so trying to find a way to stop the leak. Throwing in the towel on this battle against aging is signified by the sudden urge to wear black socks with sandals and to hike my pants up to the point where I can reach over my shoulder to retrieve the AARP card from the wallet in my back pocket.

“Hi, my name is Josh and I am 40 years old.” Don’t cry for me…I will do it myself thank you very much.

Summer is typically the time of year when families, classmates, and other such groups decide it to be a good time to get together to celebrate their common bonds. Through the haze of a sunstroke and campfire smoke and all hopped up on smores we peer at those that have shared in our lives and can’t help but think of what used to be, where we’ve all been, and where we’re all going.

My family came from far and near to congregate in Lignite for the Chrest family reunion this past week. As far as I could tell everyone enjoyed the gathering or decided it was in their best interest to fain enjoyment and I even heard some scuttle of it becoming an annual event. Of course you always hear that sort of scuttle during the event when everyone’s caught up in the goings on of the moment with the other part of their lives on hold.

The part that continually vies for their attention, time, and energy. The part that pays the bills and keeps their immediate family life afloat and drifting ahead. The part that those that care about you want to hear about and have a genuine interest in. A few days a year doesn’t seem like much to ask but it does take effort and interest to have a family reunion. Typically an effort by a few and the interest of many is the formula that keeps these things going…keeps a family together.

I enjoy reunions and look forward to these types of gatherings. Gatherings where everyone knows just about everything there is to know about you and you them. There’s comfort in familiarity…comfort in family. We human types are tribal creatures and I enjoy the company of my tribe. They make me laugh…they’ve always made me laugh…and as they say, “laughter is the best medicine.” Whose they? Larry, Curly, or Mo? More like Rosalin, Joann, Mary, Beth, Tim, and Susan.

Laughter is much better medicine than the blackberry brandy Grandpa Ardell prescribed when I had a cough as a child. You ever seen a twelve year old gag on blackberry brandy? Made him laugh so I guess the medicine was more for him than me.

It seems as though every family has someone that without much effort serves as the glue that holds a family together. What amazes me is the effort it takes by many to regain or maintain that closeness when that one individual passes. I’m glad the Chrest family puts forth that effort and I look forward to our future gatherings.

As you partake or prepare for your gatherings, get togethers, reunions, and what have you this summer I wish you safe travels and lots of laughs…even if they’re at your expense. You’ll come away carrying some good memories and most likely few extra pounds. Low carb the Chrest family is not.

Happy Independence Day my friends. May your sparklers sparkle and your bottle rocket hit your brother square in the back.

The number of subcultures in our society is mind boggling and more than a little interesting. There are groups of people, large and small, that get together for activities, gatherings, and what have you on a regular basis that most of us are completely unaware of for various reasons. The main reason generally being that the particular activity of interest to that group is not of interest to you for various reasons. That main reason being that the activity is strange and the people that immerse themselves in it are even stranger.

I found myself in the middle of one such subculture awhile back when I attended a lecture at the local library on Fairburn agates. The lecturer was a gentleman that has written the most researched and informative book on the subject of Fairburn agates. You would be correct in assuming that the subject of Fairburn agates is not one that scientists and authors clamor to research and write about on a regular basis.

For those that don’t know a rock from a road apple or could care less about stumbling around a barren, treeless South Dakota landscape under a blazing sun in search of the rock in a pile of rocks the Fairburn agate is a banded agate that can only be found in southwestern South Dakota and northwestern Nebraska. I’m sure I’ve explained this before but some of you may have been absent, drowsy, or heavily medicated that day so I thought it best to review a bit.

So I decided to attend this lecture by the guru of the elusive Fairburn to see if the old chap had anything useful to say. I soon realized that everything he was saying I had read in his book so this offered me a brief pardon from having to actually listen and pay attention and allowed me to people watch while people were preoccupied.

My first observation was that there were a lot of strange people in the room, people that looked like they had spent so many hours looking at rocks that they had lost their marbles. Marbles are round and smooth so they roll away and get stuck in small hard to reach places and are generally irretrievable once lost. Many of them were clutching rocks they had brought from their personal collection for the guru to gaze upon. Did they bring their rocks everywhere? Why did everyone there seem to come by themselves…not counting their rock?

When you are observing a lot of strange people in a room and you are in the room it just might be that you are one of those strange people. The thought that I had briefly thought about grabbing my favorite rock to bring as a date to the lecture and introduce to the guru made me cringe a little. The fact that I had left it home somehow made me feel a marble or two heavier than those seated around me gentling cradling their prized rock as the lecturer read exerts from his book that he also conveniently had for sale in case anyone in attendance didn’t have one.

At the conclusion of this lecture we were allowed to take a gander at the many rocks the lecturer had brought with him. The guru had fashioned a brief case into a handy rock hauler/display case that held about 30 Fairburn agates. I looked at the brief case and thought, “This guys nuts” while several others inspected it and made promises to their rocks that they would make one just like it when they got home.

My second thought was, “While these wacko’s are setting up play dates for their rocks I could snag that entire case.” I was confident none of them would throw their rocks at me and even more confident that the rock landscaping in front of the library would provide the perfect distraction if any of them attempted to run me down.

If I ever become the Grand Poobah of the Fairburn Agate subculture my first order of business will be to mandate that all members must bring an actual person with them to gatherings. This mandate will be enforced through a 1:1 ratio law stating that a member must bring an equal number of rocks and people to gatherings. You come in packing a brief case full of rocks you better have arrived with a bus load of people. Section two of the 1:1 ratio law will state that for every conversation you have with a rock you must have a conversation of equal length with a person.

Well I better go. I promised my rock I would take it out for a twist cone and a dilly bar. Your assignment for next month is to locate and infiltrate a subculture…be careful out there.

With Father’s Day approaching I’m sure my children are fretting, arguing, and spending many a sleepless night trying to decide whether to get me the silver or black convertible and to go with leather or cloth seats. Whichever they choose it is my duty as their father to set aside any personal preferences and unquestionably adore the gift they have bestowed upon me.

The gift itself is minor and will soon be forgotten but your reaction will lurk forever in the recesses of your child’s subconscious. One day, many days from that day, your child, now a dysfunctional adult will, with the aid of a State assigned psychiatrist, drudge up that Father’s Day of days gone by and lay the blame of a life gone wrong squarely on your shoulders. The lack of personal hygiene, perpetually bad haircut, left eye stigmatism, inability to hold down a job or attract someone sane of the opposite sex, and the insatiable appetite for truck stop chicken fried steak all blamed on your reaction to a Father’s Day gift.

I honestly can’t recall any gift I have ever given my dear old Dad on Father’s Day and apparently his reaction was sincere and gracious enough as to not plunge me into a life of downtrodden self pity. Maybe I was an ungrateful little urchin that never put crayon to paper to profess my Dad as king of Dad Land?

I seem to recall a cordless drill or beard and mustache trimmer but the details are fuzzy. Or it could have been a carton of Vantage Menthol cigarettes as those were a sociably acceptable gift at the time. Cigarettes…a gift from the heart to your lungs. It also used to be common practice and acceptable for me to hop on my blue Coast King bicycle with the yellow mag wheels to fetch my Dad a pack of smokes from Berg’s Red Owl.

Dad hasn’t smoked for over 20 years now so the gift choices for him have dwindled a little. I guess I could buy him a carton and see if he’s still got the Father’s Day gift opening poker face down. “Wow…cigarettes…I absolutely love it…What? Smoke them? Oh I couldn’t…there a gift I want to keep them forever.”

I did a little Father’s Day research just as I did for Mother’s Day and uncovered some very interesting facts, figures, and what not. It seems that although there are a smaller number of phone calls made on Father’s Day than Mother’s Day the percentage of collect calls is much higher on Father’s Day. Father’s Day, the busiest day of the year for collect calls, somehow this doesn’t surprise me.

I found the traditional Father’s Day celebratory activities of Germany to be of particular interest. On Herrentag (gentlemen’s day) groups of men go hiking while pulling little wagons filled with wine, beer, and food. “Get out of the wagon sonny Papa needs room for ice and booze. Quit whining…the further we hike the lighter the wagon will get.” Sadly the domestication of the male homosapien has managed to infiltrate Deutschland as well and many fathers now forgo the traditional booze wagon hike and spend the day with their families opening gifts that they gave the kids the money to buy.

Maybe I’ll buy my Dad a Radio Flyer this year and we’ll swing by the 109 Club for supplies for a walk about and a proper celebration of our German heritage. Great Grandpa Kraft would be proud.

Happy Mother’s Day to all you mothers. We had a wonderful Mother’s Day gathering at our house in Rapid City this year. Several mothers were present and accounted for, my wife, my mom, and my two sister-in-laws spent the day being showered with praise and adornment from children and husbands. It was an especially special Mother’s Day for my sister-in-law, Marki, as it was her first.

Mother’s Day is celebrated in most countries in some form or another on various days of the year but got its start in the United States. Here in the United States the second Sunday in May was designated as Mother’s Day in 1914 after a five or six year effort led by a Ms. Anna Jarvis. It seems that Anna’s delight in her successful effort to get this special day in the books was short lived.

Nine years after Mother’s Day became officially recognized Anna became fed up with its commercialization and proceeded to spend a lot of time (the rest of her life to be exact) and money (all of it to be exact) fighting what she saw as the “abuse” of the celebration. You would not have bumped into her in the greeting card isle of the supermarket as she criticized those that rely on the sappy prose of Hallmark as being lazy oafs lacking the fortitude to write a personal note of adoring gratitude to their mothers.

The fortitude and determination Anna Jarvis utilized to push for and gain the acceptance and recognition of Mother’s Day was redirected into stopping what she had started. She was arrested for disturbing the peace during a Mother’s Day celebration in 1948 and said she regretted ever starting Mother’s Day. If the flowers and cards of that era were upsetting to her can you imagine the disdain and angst she would harbor nowadays when the Sunday paper landed on her step chocked full of sale ads advertising everything a mother never knew she wanted or needed.

Poor Anna had no idea she was laying the tracks for yet another opportunity for the train of commercialization to roll in and tell people that their mothers would like nothing more than a weed whacker, all-season radial tires, a salad shooter, a dozen tulips, and new golf cleats? She got that train rolling and it’s not going to stop as long as there are people making money off of it.

Not so surprising is the fact that Anna never married and never had any children. It would have been a tough gig being the child of the women who made it her life’s mission to completely obliterate Mother’s Day and having to endure heated speeches regarding the evils of macaroni necklaces, boxes of chocolate, and the greeting card industry.

I’m generally not a slave to the material world revolving around all of these special days and feel that simple and sincere always trumps extravagance and excess. So although Anna may have been a bit overzealous in her attempts to put an end to the monster she created I have to say that I’m not in disagreement with her disdain for the commercialization carnival that roles in with each Mother’s Day.

There is no one right way to celebrate and honor your wife and mother on Mother’s day. How you do it isn’t as important as that you do it. We all had a great time and I think our Mother’s Day celebration was a success. Either that or the lady’s were just too polite to tell us otherwise. Anyhow…Happy Mother’s Day.

My youngest brother, with a lot of help from his wife, became a father on April 17th with the birth of their son Otto. What pearls of wisdom does a seasoned battle scarred vet in the fatherhood vocation have to share with his little brother? What have I learned in the 16 years since I first slipped on the fatherhood galoshes and started slogging my way through the muddled path of parenthood? Good question…maybe in another 16 years I’ll have a good answer.

The only unsolicited advice I’ve offered up to these two fine young people is that at all costs they are to avoid any and all books about parenting. There is no book on raising your child, there are books written by others about how they raised their children. Their children are not your children and you are not them so save your money and by something useful like a bottle of bourbon or a chimp that’s trained to change diapers.

Real parents don’t have time to write a book on parenting let alone read one. I made the mistake of seeking out the advice of a parenting book when I first became a father and my wife has never forgiven me. The parents that authored that particular book recommended that during the first six months it was perfectly fine to allow your child to sleep in your bed at night when they “occasionally” became fussy.

Guess how “occasionally” a baby becomes fussy once they figure out that they get to sleep in your bed when they become fussy? Also, the word “fussy” does not begin to convey the volume and effort a baby is capable of when they are miffed. The little tyrants will bawl their fool heads off at 3 o’clock in the morning for no apparent reason and with no regard for the fact that mommy and daddy have to get up early and go to work to pay for Juniors swimming lessons, his shiny new Johnny Jump Up, and a plethora of other such necessities.

Advice? Kids don’t need everything they claim they need and they will not suffer any permanent damage from not getting everything they claim they need. Also, your kids don’t need everything other parents claim they need and will not suffer any permanent damage from not getting everything other parents claim they need.

As parents you are the captain of the ship, the seas may be rough from time to time but never relinquish the wheel to the kids. You’ll never get it back and when the ship sinks you’ll still get the blame even if you were innocently and obliviously milling about the poop deck in your Birkenstocks and socks when the iceberg was struck.

When it comes to this parenting gig I have faith in my brother and my sister-in-law. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and they both come from pretty stable strong trees that have produced a lot of good apples. A fair share of nuts as well but good apples just the same.

The only advice I have that I am certain of is that no matter how much of tangled mess things seem these first few years of parenthood every once in awhile take a moment to soak it all in because it goes by fast. As our children grow and their worlds get bigger our part as parents gets smaller so enjoy this time when they need you for most everything. Let the needing begin.

As a self-imposed penance or a feeble attempt at righting a cosmic wrong for the sake of my karmic righteousness I took up the hobby of substitute teaching in the Rapid City school district this year. For the handsome sum of $65 I am called upon to show up at a moment’s notice to academically woo and dazzle the eager teenagers of Rapid City’s fine public schools.

If you are the type of individual that doesn’t enjoy flying by the seat of your pants (never really understood that phrase) and you experience acute bouts of nausea, nervousness, and nystagmus when faced with the unknown then substitute teaching may not be the optimal way for you to spend your free time. I’ll admit I was as nervous as long tail cat in room full of rocking chairs my first sub gig but came away from the experience ready and willing for another go round.

Momma always said substitute teaching was like a box of chocolates…you never know what you’re gonna get. When the students roll in and take their seats they could be likened to a box of chocolates only some of them are turds masquerading as sweet chocolates. As a former classroom turd the ruse of the unruly is shroud I am quite adept at seeing through.

I would like to think I was better than these amateurs when it came to pulling the wool over the teachers eye’s but I now know that sometimes it’s more productive for a teacher to ignore a knucklehead than to stall the groups forward academic progress by stopping to acknowledge and address the behavior. As long as the wool is pulled over my eye’s quietly and non-disruptedly I’ll let it slide for awhile. Since I may only have the student for an hour, like a grandparent, I can let them fill their pants and hand them back to the teacher for changing.

The first tipoff to trouble is an overly enthusiastic smile followed by, “Oooh we have a sub today!” That kid just made the list. It also makes it easier to accept the bad behavior knowing that on some level I deserve to be on the other end of it. I know it may be hard to believe but I wasn’t the most attentive student so when a kid is irritating me I think of the teachers I probably irritated and I hope the years have diminished their urge to choke me.

Knowing that a teacher quietly sat at their desk fantasizing about several shelves of heavy textbooks collapsing on my smirking teenage face really makes me feel bad about my behavior back then. I wasn’t doing myself or my fellow classmates any good by being a constant unabashed wisenheimer and for that I am truly sorry. Sorry for having so much fun at another’s expense is an odd sort of sorry.

So until I feel I have evened out the balance of the cosmic karma scale that tilts so unevenly from my turdly teenage behavior I will continue righting my wrongs and answering the call to substitute teach.

April has come around once again and our world here on the top side of the lower 48 has begun its transformation from the white and gray of winter to the vast color collage of spring. The dark angular figures that have looked like cracks in the winter horizon are beginning to bud and will soon fill out and provide the shade we’ll soon be seeking. Although we optimistically look forward to spring we will continue to warily look over our shoulder for another shot of winter until sometime around Independence Day.

What we need now are some April showers to come in and clean up the remnants of winter. Gently obliterate those last few dirty piles of snow, wash the grit of the road, and perk the grass up a bit.

In the sports world it’s time to kick open the gym doors and head outside to spectate or participate in your sport or sports of choice. Baseball and track top the list for my preferred warm weather endeavors. Nothing better than a baseball game or track meet on a nice warm spring day and nothing worse on a miserably cold, windy, rainy, snowy spring day.

While high school and college teams have been playing for a few weeks now this week brings us opening day for major league baseball. I think I was 5 years old when I fell in love with the game of baseball and it has been a constant in my life ever since. I played football, ran track, and attempted basketball but baseball was the only game that I enjoyed practice as much as the games and still do. It’s just a great game and I feel fortunate to have had the privilege of playing it for so long.

It’s also a very frustrating game. A player batting over .300 is considered to be a very good hitter. A player batting .300 has managed to be successful 30% of their at bats and met with failure the other 70% of their trips to the plate. I think this demonstrates the difficulty of the game and also why optimism is a necessary trait amongst baseball players. A juvenile sense of humor is also helpful.

The founders of the game had great foresight when they settled on using dugouts for the players to hang out in when they weren’t trying to avoid failure on the baseball field. In other sports the players are in full view of the spectators and have to appear intent and interested in the game at all times whereas in baseball the dugout is a home away from home. Horsing around is expected and encouraged in the friendly confines of the dugout.

Allow me to provide an example of the intellectual goings on in a dugout. In college, before they really began enforcing the ban on chewing tobacco, it was perfectly admissible for a teammate to spit a mouthful of tobacco juice on your cleats. If they were able to do so without hitting your shoe laces you could not retaliate until a later date but if after inspection it was agreed upon by the spitee and the spitter that your laces had indeed been soiled with tobacco juice you (the spitee) were entitled to freely soil the spitters cleat with your own mouthful of tobacco juice.

In the dugout conversations of all sort are ongoing, unrecognizable chatter is occurring, some are wearing rally caps, some are sneaking off to the concessions stand for a hotdog, most are participating in some form of screwing around, spit and seeds are flowing at a constant rate, there’s no clock, and you just might stroll out of that environment up to the plate swing your bat and make solid contact and all will be right with the world for a brief moment as you circle the bases and return to where everyone has stopped all the above to congratulate you and welcome you back to the dugout.

There’s a phrase we use in baseball when someone is having a particularly good day. When they’re hitting everything the pitcher throws and fielding everything that comes their way you might hear someone yell out, “hey havin’ a day!” We all know the peaks and valleys of the game and yelling out “hey havin’ a day” to someone is just recognition of one of those peak days that are so elusive on the baseball field. You know when you’re “havin’ a day” and that’s what keeps you coming back, that’s what keeps you from dwelling on the failures that inevitably outweigh the successes in the game.

As spring tentatively settles in go on and have yourself a day.

As fate, demons, or sadistic leprechauns would have it, in the past few weeks two events have intertwined that could prove to put a damper on my life expectancy. I will be pleasantly surprised if at the conclusion of the year 2012 I am upright with full use of both arms and nothing more than the usual yearly mental decline. Unscathed, uninjured, and undead have recently become my post dated belated New Years resolutions.

No I haven’t decided to pursue a career as a tour bus driver in Iraq; my sixteen year old daughter got her learners permit and my twelve year old son completed hunter’s safety. The volatile combination of automobiles and firearms, two American institutions, thrust into one father’s life at the same time. Play times over.

My daughter was having a problem with test anxiety when it came to the learners permit test but the third time was a charm, for her not for me, and she came out smiling holding her shiny new permit in one hand and my life in the other. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy for her, but teaching my teenage daughter the rules of the road from the passenger seat of a moving car with other moving cars in close proximity seemed more than little dangerous for all involved.

As we were getting set to leave the parking lot of the DMV my concern was amplified another notch when I told my daughter to press the brake and shift into reverse. I heard the engine roar as she tugged on the shifter and pressed the peddle to the right of the one I had hoped. Briefly, a vision of the simpler and safer days of Ellis family automobile transportation flittered by with her safely secured in her car seat and me at the helm.

Thankfully, some genius, most likely a father that had to teach a daughter how to drive, incorporated the “must press brake to shift out of park” safety feature. This also is most likely the same fellow who decided the emergency brake should be in the middle within arm’s reach of the passenger (a.k.a. Dad). In the eight miles between our house and the DMV my hand never left the emergency brake and my buns never unclenched. Drivers ed teachers must have buns of steel.

During those eight miles my wife called to inquire about Sierra’s test results. I said, “She passed.” In those few words my wife sensed a “clenched” tone in my voice and asked, “Is she driving now?” I said, “Yes.” My wife said, “You sound nervous.” I said, “Yes.” She said, “I will wait and talk to you when you get home.” I said, “Yes.”

I won’t be nodding off in the passenger seat anytime soon but Sierra is doing a fine job of driving and the only damage to the car has been a noticeable warping in the passenger side floor boards and slight finger indentations around the emergency brake handle.

Sierra’s driving and Jackson can now legally get in touch with his inner Elmer Fudd. I’ve got a few months until hunting season then the clenching can commence in full force again. I’ll keep you posted on the death defying goings on and the promising underwear modeling career all the clenching created.

As Mark Twain once said, and many have said since, “Truth is stranger than fiction.” Those words crossed my mind when I first read about the “Piggy Back Bandit” in a newspaper article a few weeks ago. I have a disorder that makes me laugh at inappropriate times or at least what is deemed inappropriate by a statistical majority of the adult population.

When I first read the story about the Piggy Back Bandit I thought, after a less than mild chuckle, that this may be one of those inappropriate times and that there may be something more to the story. Something darker and more sinister that would make me regret chortling over the issue, but so far nothing dastardly has turned up so for now I feel vindicated of all counts of inappropriate laughter.

Oh I’m sure there are still those that feel this is a very serious matter; the same that feel most every matter is serious. I know who you are. I’ve seen you frown in my direction while I’m struggling to overcome my above mentioned disorder. Have you no compassion for the disordered?

For those who may have missed this little nugget of news allow me to fill you in on the exploits of the Piggy Back Bandit. First of all, I must inform you that Piggy Back Bandit is not the Christian name his parents picked out of their “10,007 Baby Names” book. If it were his given name it would be a simple case of a young man trying to live up to his name. But it’s not so this isn’t a simple case, it’s a strange case, stranger than fiction.

It seems Sherwin “Piggy Back Bandit” Shayegan has spent the last few years making impromptu visits to high school sporting events to solicit piggy back rides from high school athletes. The 28-year-old entrepreneur founded his “business” in Washington and then expanded east collecting piggy back rides and the ire of high school sports officials in Oregon, Montana, North Dakota, and Minnesota.

A Montana high school sports official was quoted as saying, “What’s disturbing to me is that he is jumping on our young athletes, he is 240 pounds, and he can hurt someone.” What’s disturbing to me is that that’s all he finds disturbing. So if Sherwin coupled a reduced calorie diet with a strenuous regime of daily calisthenics and lost 70 pounds his actions wouldn’t be disturbing? In the event I have the urge to pick up a new hobby I would like to know the optimum non-disturbing weight for a piggy back bandit.

Before you pass judgment on misunderstood and mildly misguided Sherwin know that he is not a free loading piggy back rider. His general mode of operation is to gain close access to the team, he prefers basketball, by taking on the role of water boy. Once the game is over and his water boy duties have been completed he asks for his hard earned wages in his favorite form of currency, the piggy back ride.

Have your free loading kids ever offered you anything in exchange for all the piggy back rides you’ve dished out to them over the years? I need to go get an oil change tomorrow so when the guy finishes up and hands me the bill I’m just going to tell him to hop on. We’ll settle up piggy back bandit style…if he’s under 240 pounds…otherwise it would be disturbing.