Spring 2014

The baby’s legs were twin engines of newborn anger, powerful enough, if properly harnessed, to reverse the rotation of the earth.  Morning, noon, night, even times that did not exist, the baby pumped his legs like expensive, precise machinery.  Yes, okay, the baby could kick like hell.

While changing the baby’s diaper, the father leaned in too close and walked away with two broken ribs.  The mother lightly ran her fingers across the already growing bruise on his body and wondered what they had done to deserve such a mean-ass, non-stop baby.

They called the father’s college racquetball coach, who had raised four sons with some distinction.  One of them was now a professional baseball player; one was a professional bodybuilder; one was a professional kick boxer; finally, one died before he could do much of anything.  The point was, the racquetball coach must have done something right and might, if asked, impart that wisdom to the couple, whose baby was currently kicking the air so hard that they swore the house was vibrating.

“You’re probably doing everything wrong,” he told them.

He recommended they purchase and study a dog-training manual from 1957 called Basic and Advanced Dog Training for the Hunting Enthusiast.

“An unappreciated masterpiece,” he said, “criminally out of print.”

“But we don’t have a dog,” the father said.  “We have a baby.”

The racquetball coach sighed so deeply that they thought he might have died.  Then he said, “That you make that distinction proves that you don’t have a clue what you are doing.”

He told them that if they would pay for his plane ticket, he would come down there and straighten out this baby.  “He tries that kick-kick stuff with me,” the coach said, “I will flip it around on him so fast, he’ll never know what hit him.”

After a long pause on both ends of the phone, the coach said, “I won’t really hit him, of course.  Jesus, just tell me where you live and send me that plane ticket.”

When he arrived at their house in the woods, the middle of nowhere, the racquetball coach pushed passed the couple, tossed his bags on the dining room table, and walked straight into the baby’s room.  The baby was on his back, bicycling to just past nowhere.  The coach lifted the baby out of his crib and held it aloft, his legs dangling and fitful.  He pressed his ear against the baby’s chest and listened for what felt like a long time.  The couple resisted the urge to snatch the baby out of his hands and call the police.  “He’s got crazy internals,” the racquetball coach said.  “He’s a no-joke nuclear battery of a baby.”  Their baby was a nuclear battery; this struck them as an exact, accurate description.

The coach lowered the baby back into its crib, got a little careless, and caught a heavy foot to his kidney for his troubles, sending him to the floor.  He grimaced and then tried to stand three different times without success.  He was convinced, he told the couple, that there would be blood when he next urinated.  Finally, he got to his feet and drew up a rough outline of what was necessary.

“The baby’s got an overabundance of energy, right?” he asked the parents, who nodded in agreement.  “That’s obvious,” he continued.  “I bet you thought to put him on an exercise bike or some kind of stair master.”  They shook their heads; they had not considered this but the coach smiled like he knew they were lying.  “That kind of machinery is too complicated for a damn baby,” he said.  “Think simple.”  He motioned out the window to the one-acre pond by the house.  “You got a boat?” he asked.  The couple nodded.  He pointed to the father.  “You get the boat in the water,” he said.  Then he pointed to the mother.  “You get some rope or a belt or something of that nature,” he said, “and I’ll handle the baby.”

They met at the edge of the pond with the johnboat, some straps used to secure furniture to the bed of a truck, and the baby, kicking as if to get far, far away from these people.  It was a delicate, unscientific procedure, but the coach got the baby strapped to the outside rear of the boat while the parents waited on the deck, the boat listing slightly from side to side.  “The baby is going to do his thing now,” the coach said, and the baby began to kick, stirring up the water, foam and bubbles, as the boat slipped away from the shore and the racquetball coach.

The father sat in the back of the boat and angled the baby from side to side in order to steer.  The baby seemed incredibly pleased to feel resistance to his movements and powered the boat through the water with so much force that a wake was created.  The mother sat cross-legged in the front of the boat and let her hand graze the surface of the pond.  The coach was shouting something but they chose not to listen.  They allowed the baby to push them to the places that they wanted to go.

Were they good parents?  No, they would not go so far as to say that.  But they were trying their best and they hoped that the sincerity of their efforts, as ill advised as they might be, would not go unrewarded.  When they finally docked the boat and returned to the house, the racquetball coach prepared an incredible dinner of chicken thighs and pork necks, while the baby, motionless and sated, slept in the mother’s arms without complaint.  “This is what you do,” the coach said, jabbing his fork into the air, “you take hold of your baby and you keep it from kicking the shit out of you.”

That night, the racquetball coach slept between the couple, holding each of them firmly against his body, and they listened to the untroubled, steady beat of his heart until morning.