The man led his son off the field and knelt down in the dry grass to speak to him. Behind them the children continued their game of two-hand-touch in the swirling autumn breeze. He looked at his son and smiled because he was such a good boy. So skinny and pale and often sick. Freckles.
“Ernie,” he said. “I want you to throw it to your brother. Give him a chance.”
Ernie, wheezing and light-headed, shrugged his dainty shoulders. “Aw dad! Burt’s too huge and strong. Nobody likes him!”
“Right,” said the man as a windgust cologned him in the face. He adjusted his thick glasses. “You’re his smaller brother and you have to watch out for him.”
Ernie turned towards the field, where a muscular, broad-shouldered boy was a bulldog beef-stalking about in a field of poodles. “But dad!” He threw open his hands. “He sucks!”
The father took a heavy breath, balanced his crouch against the bullying wind, then said plaintively, “Ernie. That’s just how the world is; little guys get all the opportunities bea—“HEY POST, BILL CARSON GIVES YOU HIS REGARDS! (stab stab stab stab stab)
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