This is an excerpt from  an incredible true story.  It is  the first in a series of “The boy with the pacific demeanor” adventures.  It’s been written by beloved leader Brian who is writing this introduction.




The Pitcher of Baseballs took the mound thinking, is it the fastball two- or four-seam that I start him with and then pour on more? Is it the Knuckler, the Slider, the Eeephus, the Headhunter or the Montezuma’s revenge?

“Dad, just pitch.”

A devastatingly devastating fastball left the hand of the Pitcher of Baseballs, reaching maybe 105 miles per hour according to the hundreds of thousands of people who weren’t there screaming and cheering at the battle between The Pitcher of Baseballs and the boy with the pacific demeanor.

“Strike one.”

“Daddy, I didn’t swing.”

He called me Daddy. I liked that but wouldn’t let it sway me. I’d be King another day. “Right over the plate butthead.”

“Fine,” said the boy with the “pacificness” incrementally leaving his demeanor. There was something wrong with him. He had no humor.

As the day was chased away, incrementally, and the night crept in, incrementally, we battled. It was getting incrementally a bit harder so I had to bring out the Daddy secret weapon: teasing and distraction.  “Hey, what’s Mommy bringing home from her bakery tonight? Do you think it will be a hamburger cupcake?”  There is nothing so amazingly great as a cupcake that looks like some other kind of food. “Want to finish fixing your skateboard after this? So, got a girlfriend yet?” And then the topper, “Ever kiss her?” As pitch after pitch whizzed by the red-faced boy who was for the first time not so pacific, the Pitcher of Baseballs cemented his claim to a place at the front of the hall of fame for backyard baseball pitching.

The battle went on and nothing much was hit by the boy with the pacific demeanor and hair the color of the sun and eyes of aqua illuminated by iridescent flecks of green. Here and there one went into the air. The crazy dog and the stupid cat walked by and saw by the lack of baseballs in sky there would be no need to insinuate themselves into the battle. They went off into the night and did whatever cats and dogs do when no one is watching them and they don’t have to be cute.

As the animals went towards the house a terrible and universal cry hit the night and the sound almost knocked the boy with the pacific demeanor and hair the color of the sun and eyes of aqua illuminated by iridescent flecks of green and the Pitcher of Baseballs to the ground.  “Will the two of you come in already? Dinner’s ready. And it’s getting dark.” It was Mommy, playing the trump card of all Mother trump cards, born in the era of the dinosaur and a card that still had no “topper.”



  1. “Topper” – good lord, it’s been a long time (a very long time) since I have heard that word unless I am talking about Cosmo. What’s next, a “leaner”?

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