Went down to Ocean City, Maryland this July with the family unit and the in-laws. The little things are what irritate me, and my wife’s family subscribes to the theory that when you go down to the beach you sit under an umbrella by the hotel pool, and sip boat drinks. I subscribe to the get down on the beach and commune with the the waves while sand gets up your buttcrack theory. Since there was a bunch of them, and one of me, I sat under the umbrella.
One night though we went out to dinner. Afterwards, they all went back to the hotel room, as did Mrs. Scylla and the baby. I had promised my adventurous 4 year old that we would go down to the rides, and so we did. We rode the rides, and fun was had. My daughter even won a tiny Spongebob plush toy from the shoot water in the clown’s mouth game.
We got the $10 bucket of French fries, and ate till we felt sick, and started walking back to the hotel with that peculiar lubricated walk that you get after eating 5 pounds of potatos fried in lard and you start sweating grease.
On the way back, my daughter saw the Holy Grail of the Boardwalk. There are all kinds of games of skill and luck from which you can win a plush toy, ranging from Skeeball, to the Baketball throw, to the aforementioned Squirt the Clown. The more difficult the game, the bigger the prize.
At the Apex… Nay, the Acme of skill, lie the impossible two. These are the two games so diabolically difficult, that they don’t have to be crooked or gimmicky. The first of course is the rarely seen but greatly feared Shoot-the-star-out-of-the-paper-with-the-machine-BBgun- game. This game is almost extinct, as I think the last time somebody one was 1978.
Lagging only slightly behind that is the Pool Shoot. It works like this: Four balls are spotted where the rack goes, in a loose diamond shape. The break is free. You must call every shot thereafter and sink all four balls in a row without missing or scratching.
Hanging above the pool table was the Holy Grail, a Giant (and I mean with like 6 foot tentacles) stuffed blue Octopus.
“Ooh, I love that!” says my daughter. “Do you think you can win that?”
Now some of you who’ve read my stuff, may note that I’m something of a braggart. I’m that way in real life, too. It’s possible that my daughter has a slightly inflated belief in my abilities. It may even be possible that things I’ve told my duaghter might have something to do with this.
“Can you beat up Superman, Daddy?” She once asked me.
“Batman can beat up Superman, Honey. He’s cake.”
“Oh.”
(The astute reader will note that I have told what is known as a “not-lie” here, not having explicitly said that I could kick Superman’s blue ass)
Where was I?
Oh yeah, the Octopus…
So I give my daughter my How-dare-you-doubt-Daddy look and we walk over to the game. When I lose, I will borrow a page from organized religion and say it was because she didn’t have enough faith or I planned it that way as part of a larger plan that she cannot as yet comprehend. Being four years old, she will accept this. I have at least a couple of more years before this wears thin in which to come up with a better strategy to explain that my failures are, in fact, victories.
The game is five dollars!
I play, I lose. Quickly, I muff a pretty easy shot.
“Do it again, Daddy. You can do it! I know you can.”
The Carny who just pocketed my fivespot clearly thinks otherwise, but is trying not to show it.
“I think you’ve been watching too many Disney movies, Honey.” I’m trying to figure out how to explain to her that a sincere show of faith does not ameliorate total incompetance and Daddy’s propensity to choke under pressure, but decide to bargain, instead. “One more time, and then we go back to the hotel, Ok?”
“Ok.”
I hit a sledgehammer break scattering the balls. Several are near pockets. I call my shots and sink two balls, and am left with two difficult shots. I snap the cue ball down the length of the table and make a hard cut, pocketing one. The remaining ball is on the far side of the table, about six inches off the rail, an impossible cut. I will have to travel the full length of the table with the cue ball, banking the remaining ball and bringing it all the way back. I am not capable of making such a shot except be sheer luck.
My daughter looks at me. She knows I am about to win her the giant octupus. Absolute faith in her father is in those big brown eyes. She is staying perfectly still and silent so she doesn’t distract me (that was my excuse the first time.) I line up my shot and start thinking about excuses.
And then I transcend. Without volition, the world goes away and the secrets of Geometry, the science of inertia reveal themselves to me in a splendor of simplicity. It is a zen moment. I suddenly just know how to hit this shot. No question. It’s mine.
I tap the cue ball. It rolls down the table. Easy. It taps the object ball, transferring inertia. The object ball hits the bumper, absorbs a portion of energy, and reflexes back. The object ball comes back toward me on it’s predetermined vector, shedding energy to the friction of the felt. The final erg of inertia carries it to the lip of the pocket, and in it drops. Perfection.
“You did it!” My daughter cries.
“Of course I did,” I reply.
We collect the giant blue octopus.
From here, it gets really good.
Picture this:
We are walking down the boardwalk. On my left shoulder and trailing down my back, damn near dragging on the boardwalk, is this giant blue stuffed Octopus. On my right shoulder is my daughter. She has a huge grin on her face, and is telling me the story about how great I am and how I won the giant octopus, over and over again, what a great daddy I am, that it was really hard, and that I did it, and that she knew I could, and look at the giant octopus! It’s huge.
The boardwalk is very crowded.
Have you ever been on the boardwalk when somebody walks by with the huge, giant stuffed toy. Everybody looks at that person with admiration and envy. They are looking at me that way! They point! I hear the comments!
“Look at that!”
“Look what that guy won!”
“That game’s impossible. I didn’t think anybody could win!”
“What a huge octopus!”
“Wow! I bet that guy has a giant penis!”
and so forth.
It’s two miles back to the hotel, and my shoulders never tire, and my daughter never stops singing my praises, the whole way. People never stop staring or commenting.
All this time I have this carefully cultivated look of blase indifference on my face. Inside, I’m ebullient.
Back at the hotel everybody is still up. My daughter tells the story to all the in-laws and to Mommy. Everybody is sincerely impressed with my skill.
Such moments are all too rare in life. I don’t want it to end. Long after everybody has gone too sleep, I sip a beer reliving the triumph of the Giant Blue Octopus.
Now I do it again.
