The giveaway rules clearly state that one bobblehead will be given for every two paid admissions. With a family of five, three of those being kids, it doesn’t take a genius to do the math. Someone’s going to end up crying.
Oh, to be the youngest.
A. howls when his brothers return to our seats each with a Bengals bobblehead in his hand. It makes no, zero, zilch difference that A. doesn’t know who the player is or that he prefers baseball to football.
The point is his brothers have something HE DOESN”T and life is UNFAIR. Oh, the injustice.
Chaz and I usually go for the “life’s unfair, get used to it” line of parenting. Except when we’re in a crowd and our child is creating a scene that threatens to bring in the police. In this case, we can’t help. We don’t have another ticket.
A’s face melts into a heartbreaking frown. We brace ourselves for what comes next.
Just then, a grandfather from two rows back taps Chaz on the shoulder and hands him his and his wife’s bobblehead. I’m sure they claimed it to give to a grandchild at home.
A. face immediately lights up.
“What do you say?”
He sniffles out a “thank you” and all is forgotten. The sun shines again.
“I think that was their random act of kindness,” I whisper.
He nods and wipes away a tear. I don’t add “to me.”