Free Donuthead by Sue Stauffacher

long talk the evening before.
    “Look, Franklin,” she said. “I just want to do something normal for once. Just a normal mother and son kind of thing. No crash dummies, no fatality statistics, just … I don't know … typical.”
    In my mind, I searched crazily for a sport or activity that was completely safe, that we could both enjoy without fear. And to my horror, I discovered there wasn't one. Everythingthat flashed through my mind—street fairs, bowling, nature center hikes—sent up red flags of danger.
    There must be something, I reasoned. Finally, it came.
    “As long as it is combined with a sensible exercise program and done in the comfort of your home, I would say that reading is a perfectly safe hobby for us to share.”
    My mother looked disgusted. “You're wrong,” she said finally. “Reading can be very dangerous. Authors can get people very worked up with their writing. Reading has caused revolutions, Franklin.
    “Even FDR didn't trust reading. Don't you remember his annual address of 1944? He had the flu, so he insisted that the radio program be broadcast from his bed in the White House rather than have people read about the speech in the newspaper?”
    “I'm not sure he was actually in bed …”
    “Don't try to distract me with details, young man. The fact is, reading is one of the most dangerous things around.”
    “I wasn't talking about
that
kind of dangerous,” I argued. “I was talking about the getting-hit-by-a-line-drive kind of dangerous. Physical dangerous.”
    “What difference does it make? A guy could die of a broken heart after reading a Dear John letter. A story in the newspaper could cause a riot.”
    She was just being stubborn, and she was old enough to know it.
    “Fine. I give. Uncle. Reading is more dangerous than stock car driving.”
    “I'm just trying to make a point, Franklin. Anything isdangerous if you look at it a certain way. Just getting up in the morning is dangerous.”
    “Exactly!” I said. “We're in total agreement.”
    But I knew we weren't. And my mother knew we weren't, so I had to keep returning to the subject and mulling it over.
    Was it possible that I, Franklin Delano Donuthead, could be overreacting to the dangers of childhood, as my mother was suggesting? Why wasn't my mother overjoyed to have a son who took such diligent care of himself? Was there something I was missing here? Was something greater expected of me? Was the maternal pleasure of watching a son field a hard grounder down the third base line more important than taking precautions to ensure that same son survive to adulthood?
    When I agreed to her plan, I have to admit that my mother looked happier with me than she had in a long time. And happiness, according to Gloria Nelots, is a major boost to longevity.
    “Okay, kids,” my mother said now, leaning on two bats, one wooden, one aluminum. “Here are the ground rules. We've got three weeks before baseball season officially starts. Our goal is to get Franklin enough skills so that he feels comfortable signing up. We'll practice every day after school for one hour, except Thursday, when I work late.”
    Sarah's hand shot up. “Me and Donuthead, I mean, Franklin, can practice on our own on Thursday. You okay with that?” she said to me in her own agree-or-I'll-rearrange-your-body-parts kind of way.
    I attempted to give my mother a see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with look, but she would not make eye contact.
    “Great,” she said. “That's great. And, Sarah, I'm going to have to talk to your parents about this.”
    Before Sarah could disguise her reaction as anger, a troubled look crossed her face. Then she sat right down on the cold ground and hugged her knees.
    “I can't be keeping you after school and sending you home with clothes without their permission, dear,” my mother said, kneeling beside Sarah and resting one hand on her bony knee.
    “Him, it's just him. My dad,” Sarah said quietly. She was shaking her head and dragging