Dear Fellow Playground Daddy:
How extraordinary to learn that your 15-month-old son, teetering at your knee in those brand-new Nike Shox, is such a die-hard Knicks fan. You say you took him to every home game this year? Impressive. But surely, he fell asleep before the games ended, right? He didn’t? Ah, yes, the atmosphere can get pretty boisterous, what with all those screaming drunks and everything, and the games usually don’t end until around 10:30pm. No wonder the kid looks so dazed.
I understand the desire to bond with your son, since you see him so seldom during your onerous work week, and it’s great that you’re here—in your flawlessly pressed casual wear—to mess around with him. And of course you’re welcome to borrow our little basketball. But you’ve thrown it at your boy about a dozen times now, and despite your relentless jawboning, I don’t think he’s quite got the hang of catching just yet. In fact, you’ve hit him in the face just about every goddamn time, and he’s crying and begging to be picked up. No, I don’t think he’s reached the age where he can “walk it off.”
Hey, could we get that ball back now? Thanks.
