The Smallest of Bastards

My ex-boyfriend has an older brother. And this older brother has a son. He is the worst behaved, troll-like child I have ever encountered, and so I will refer to him only as the bastard. I have never seen him eat anything but candy, chips, and soda, and every event includes at least one crying and screaming episode. Usually accompanied with empty threats by the parentals. One particular Saturday, I was nearly shot by a hunting arrow, because his Dad let him play out in the yard (crowded with guests for a party) with a hunting bow and arrow. The kind used to bring down deer. Another time, he ran up to me and kicked me in the shins because I wouldn’t play baseball with him. But these are other stories. This story is about a victory. My victory.

It all started with a visit to the ex-boyfriend’s parent’s house. It was summer, so an outdoor party was in full swing when we arrived. The bastard child (I think he was about 10 or 11 at the time) was in front and center, guzzling soda all day and any sweets he could get his grubby little hands on. A kickball game was being organized, and I ended up being outfield first, with the bastard child up to kick. He kicked the ball far outfield, just past me. I ran, grabbed the ball, and like a shot from a movie as if in slow motion, I spun around and heaved the ball to his round, blonde, bulbous head. And it connected. I must have been a good 30 feet away, as he was rounding all the bases.

It was like all the power in the universe came together in that moment. It must have launched the little fucker at least 10 feet. It was glorious. As everyone ran and coddled the miserable little goblin, I enjoyed my victory. The moment was followed by an “I don’t wanna play no more”, fake tears, and he ran away to sulk on a patch of grass. To this day, I can still hear the twang of the ball, and the smell of the sweet summer air on that beautiful day.


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