Tag of tags
Last night I played a game of frenetic tag with my 11 year old son, Conor, in the kitchen. Frenetic tag is like the basic version of the game, except that both players are never more than an arm's length away and the "tag, you're it" exchanges happen, oh, say, every two seconds. He tags you with his right hand, you swing around and tag him with your left. He comes at you low, you respond by going high. He pretends the game is over and swats you like a fly while walking away. You slip a leg out and tag him on the butt with your foot just before he is out of reach. This re-energizes him and he comes back for more. It goes on and on. Last night, though, in the midst of our frenetic tag match (while I was it), I stopped and closed my eyes. Slowly, I turned my head skyward. My muscles tightened. I started to quiver. I was in a trance-like state. Almost religiously, I threw my hands up to the heavens and roared like some mythical beast. Finally, after an extended spell, I came back to reality. I opened my eyes. Conor, was looking at me, baffled. I reached over slowly and tagged him gently by poking my finger into his chest. "What was that all about?" he asked. I looked at him and told him that I had retreated deep within myself and, miraculously, I had come away with “the tag of all tags.” This tag had lain dormant inside of me since I was born and had been passed on to me – on this night – from my father who had gotten it from his father before him. "This tag," I told my son, "was good for 100 years…game over.” Conor thought about this story and declined to believe it. He swatted me in the shoulder and waited. I shook my head. “One hundred years,” I repeated. “Oh, come on,” he replied. I refused to relent. “O.K.,” he said, smiling, a bit too deviously. Conor walked around me. And around me again. Then, without warning, he reached into the back of my pants, grabbed the elastic waistband of my boxer briefs and yanked them. Hard! “Atomic wedgie!” he yelled, pulling higher and higher. While he had me in, well, a tight spot, my son explained that the “atomic wedgie” was much stronger than my lame “tag of tags” and that nobody knew how long its effects lasted – “certainly longer than 100 years.” I have to say, twenty-four hours later, sitting tenderly on this soft chair, he might be right.
9:11:20 PM 
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