(May 10, 2006) — While there are many important social issues currently at the forefront of national consciousness, I honestly don’t feel like writing about them. Instead, this column, I opt to relay to you—my faithful readers—a story I was told the other day. In actuality, it wasn’t that comical or funny; rather it does tell us something quite sad about the ruthlessness of children under twelve. So, without further ado, sit back, grab a bag of popcorn and prepare to delve into a boatload of excitement. Our tale starts off as any other would: on a soccer field at Holy Redeemer Elementary. An exuberant young squadron of giddy students races up and down the field, their standard issue P.E. clothes slowly—yet surely—growing stiffer with the accumulated sweat of countless a-warm-up lap. Prepubescent voices split the crisp autumn air with dagger-like curses and harsh-sounding foreign languages. One team, made up of burly, mustachioed barbarians, has been subjugating their challengers for hours on end. The score, you ask? No one knows for sure, though the tally of broken teeth is certainly an honest purveyor of just how horribly one side was being smashed into a fine chunky pulp. Downtrodden, the losing team takes the field once again with scant hope of victory or even a cessation of the string of brutal injuries. What hope? What is this vision of hope and impending triumph? Do the winds speak the truth, or have their heat stroke-laden minds given way under the searing sequence of senseless schemes and strokes of sinful slayings? Nay! Stay thy quaking hearts! It is not some sort of deception, but ‘tis hope incarnate! A lone champion strides gleamingly onto the field of battle. Suddenly, the underdogs all raise their visages towards this most unlikely of heroes. Battle cries commence, cries of the conquerors moniker. “Hilario,” they chant, “Hilario.” The current victors halt, mid-stride, for they know. They know. Hilario steps up to mid-field. The ball lies in wait, anxious to be given flight by his thunderous appendage—the embodiment of righteous fury. His leg curls, viper-like, behind the static black and white sphere as if ready to launch it into the fearful heavens to touch the very face of God. The bunched muscles uncoil in a blur of raw, unchecked, man-rage. The leg falls, the foot makes contact… But not with the ball. Toes meet blunt gravel. For a moment it looks as if the Earth may lose the battle, but then the foot succumbs. Snapping in eight places, the be-cleated limb folds against the ground as our proud defender crumples with it, yelling shrilly. The field laughs, as do the questionable athletes. What does this anecdote say about little kids who are thrown into the competitive world too early? It says that they usually end up in very pressurized situations that result in broken body parts.