ground wrestling. It is not much of a match. At the beginning, I tickle his ribs to keep him giggling and gasping for air and render him defenseless. We grapple awhile until I grow winded, and then I turn limp to allow him to pin me. I am out of breath, and the match is his if he wants it. But he isn't satisfied. He grows cocky and careless: he wishes to savor his victory; and instead of pinning me, he elects to experiment in torturing me with some useless armlocks and toeholds. My breath is back, I decide to teach him a lesson (another lesson. The subject of this lesson, I suppose, is that one should strike while the iron is hot. The truly disgusting thing about all these platitudinous lessons for getting ahead is that sooner or later they all turn out to be true). So, while my boy is fiddling tranquilly with my fingers, my toes, and my foot, not certain really what to do with any of them, I bunch my muscles treacherously, fill my lungs for the effort, and, in one brief and explosive heave, flip him up and over and around down into the sand. He whoops in fearful, thrilled excitement at my new determination, and he kicks and twists and elbows wildly with joy, a lithe, laughing, healthy little animal trying energetically to fight and wiggle free as I swarm down upon him. (Now I cannot let him win; if I do, he'll know it's only because I did let him, and then he'll know that he has lost.) It is no contest at all now that I have my wind back and am going about it in earnest. I employ my greater bulk (much of it solid flab, ha, ha) to force him down into place. It is relatively easy for me to grasp both his wrists in one of my hands, to immobilize his legs beneath the pressing weight of my own and end his kicking. In just a few more seconds it is over; and he gives up. I have him nailed to the ground in a regulation pin. We stare at each other smiling, our faces inches apart.
'I win,' he jokes.
'Then let me up,' I joke back.
'Only if you surrender,' he says.
'I surrender,' I reply.
'Then I'll let you up,' he says.
I let him go and we rise slowly, breathing hard and feeling close to each other.
'You know, Daddy,' he starts right in with pious gravity, trying to divert me, assuming an owlish and censorious expression as austerely as a judge, 'I really did win, because you threw sand in my eyes and tickled me and that's not allowed.'
'I did not,' I retort fliply.
'Did you tickle me? You liar.'
'That's allowed. You can tickle.'
'You don't laugh.'
'You don't know how to tickle.'
'That's why it's not fair.'
'It is fair. And furthermore,' I continue, 'I didn't throw sand.'
'I can say you did.'
'And did you know, by the way, that it's a lovely day today because the sun is shining and the bay is calm and blue, and there are nine or seven planets —»
'Nine.'
'— of which Mercury is the closest to the sun and.»
'Pluto.'
'. Pluto is the farthest?'
'Did you hear about the homosexual astronauts?' he asks.
'Yes. They went to Uranus. And if, as they say, there are seven days in each week and fifty-two weeks in each year, how come there are three hundred and sixty-five days in the year instead of three hundred and sixty- four?'
He pauses to calculate. 'How come?' he queries. 'I never thought about that.'
'I don't know. I never thought about it either.'
'Is that what you want to talk about now?' he asks disconsolately.
'No. But if you want to stall, I'll stall along with you. You're not fooling me.'
'I'm going to tell Mommy,' he threatens again. 'I'm going to tell Mommy you threw sand in my eyes.'
'Are you?' His manner turns solemn.
'What?'
'Going to tell her?'
'What?'
'You know.'
'What?'
'What I did.'
'Did you do something?' I inquire with airy candor.
'You know.'
'I can't remember.'
'What I gave away.'
'Did you give something away?'
'Daddy, you know I gave a nickel away.'
'When? You give a lot of nickels away.'
'Just before. When you were right here.'
'Why?'
'You won't know.'
'Tell me why. How do you know?'
'You'll get angry and start yelling or begin to tease me or make fun of me.'
'I won't. I promise.'
'I wanted to,' he states simply.
'That's no answer.'
'I knew you'd say that.'
'I knew you'd say that.'
'I said you wouldn't understand.'
'He didn't ask you for it,' I argue. 'He couldn't believe his eyes when you gave it to him. I don't think you even knew him that long. I'll bet you don't even like him that much. Do you?'
'You're getting angry,' he sulks. 'I knew you would.'
'I'm not.'
'You're starting to yell, aren't you?'
'I'm just raising my voice.'
'You see?'
'You're faking,' I charge, and give him a tickling poke in the ribs. 'And I know you're faking, so stop faking and trying to pretend you can fool me. Answer.'
He grins sheepishly, exposed and pleased. 'I don't know. I don't know if I like him or not. I only met him yesterday.'
'See? I'm smart. Then why? You know what I mean. Why did you give your money to him?'
'You'll think I'm crazy.'
'Maybe you are.'
'Then I won't tell you.'
'I know you aren't.'
'Do I have to?'
'Yes. No. You want to. I can see you do. So you have to. Come on.'
'I wanted to give him something,' he explains very softly. 'And that was all I had.'
'Why did you want to give him something?'
'I don't know.'
He tells me this so plainly, truthfully, innocently as to make it seem the most plausible and obvious reason imaginable. And I do understand. His frankness is touching, and I feel like reaching out to embrace him right there on the spot and rewarding him with dollar bills. I want to kiss him (but I think he will be embarrassed if I do,
