"I Want to Cut Off Yoo-wuh Head"

Tee ball, Saturday morning. We had to arrive 45 minutes early for pictures, so the kids' attention spans were already waning by the time the game started.

We were in the field in the third inning, and I was doing my part to try to keep the five-and six-year-olds interested with our practiced call and response.

"Who's gonna get the ball?" I yelled.

"Me!" one or two hollered back.

"WHO'S GONNA GET THE BALL??!!!"

"ME-E-E-E-E-E-E-E!!!"

Wap! Something hit the back of my arm. I turned around, and there was Hannibal*, grinning wildly at me with his hat clutched in his hand.

"Get ready, Hannibal. Ball's coming your way."

"I'm gonna cut off you-wuh arms," Hannibal said with his baby-talk speech impediment.

"That's great, Hannibal. Get your glove ready, or I'm gonna get the ball."

"My dad has a saw, so I'm gonna take you behind the shed and cut off you-wuh arms and legs, and the blood's gonna spoo-wit all over." He whacked me with his hat to punctuate his point.

"Dude, you wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

"Yes I will. And I'm gonna cut off you-wuh head, and then hot glue it back on." Two whacks with the hat this time, for added emphasis.

I lunged at the hat and missed, and then looked around to see where this precious angel's parents might be sitting. No one was looking at us, no one was rising to scold Hannibal for hitting the coach. Apparently when you're busy raising a budding serial killer, anything that happens between the foul lines is the coach's problem.

"Hannibal, hot glue?"

"My dad has a glue gun."

"That would hurt."

Big grin. "I know."

Later, I was coaching first base while our team was at bat. Every kid hits every inning, and the kids run station to station, one base at a time. So Hannibal dribbled his hit into the infield and trotted down to first base, grinning at me. I was hoping he and his deranged imagination had moved on, but he wasn't done with me just yet.

"I can make my arm bleed." He started picking at a scab on his forearm and walking toward me.

"Dude, don't do that. And you gotta stay on the base."

"I can make it bleed all oh-vewr." Hannibal narrowed his eyes and pulled his arm closer to his face to get a better look.

"C'mon Charlie," I yelled at the batter. I glanced back at Hannibal, and he was still working at that forearm. "You can do it, Charlie, you can do it!"

Thud! Charlie dribbled a grounder to the infield. Relief! I turned to tell Hannibal to run to second and was surprised to see him walking toward me with his arm raised, grinning triumphantly. He must have succeeded in making one of the scabs bleed, but I didn't want to find out.

I jumped back. "Dude, run! Run! Run!" Hannibal spun around and started loping to second.

A few pitches later, I glanced down toward second, and there was Hannibal, seated on the base, still squeezing his arm. Usually, I holler at the kids to stand up and get ready to run, but I let it slide. I like the way my head is currently attached to my neck.

* Name has been changed, but believe me, you'll be reading about this one soon enough.