I saw him bike up the path toward the playground crawling with kids - kids much younger than he.
No matter.
Off the bike he flew - a slight stumble - into the fray and away he went. Darting here and there, in and out, over and under - amongst the littles he played, firm in his authority as their self-appointed leader but gentle in his manner, nevertheless.
"Are you OK? Are you hurt?" he asks one tiny pumpkin. A bend of the waist, a concerned look of the eye from the big boy, and the small boy boldly declares himself "fine."
"Good! You're it!" And then, soon after, "How'd you get me?" for his (not-so-hurried) retreat - for the show that it is - is slow and intentional, meant to fail.
The littles love it! They are the victors! The big boy is the hero, nonetheless.
I watch it all, marveling at the play, and particularly of the one who came late to the game, corralled them all, and carried the fun to dizzying heights of delight, heights only experienced by small ones enthralled by the big boy who made them his.
No, I'm wrong. It's not their delight alone - it's mine as well.
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