Not So Cool McCool

There was yard game we had as a kid - one that only the parents were allowed to play, that everyone seemed to love to play for hours at every cookout and pool party, even long after they were taken off the market for being too dangerous and causing too many irreversible injuries.

The game was called Jarts. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lawn_darts)It was not unlike Horseshoes in that you tossed an object toward a target some distance away and got points for accuracy. But there was something considerably more exciting about tossing the heavily weighted darts with their brightly colored fins spinning as they flew. They stuck in the ground with a satisfying "thunk" and defiantly held their position. There was no chance they'd get knocked out of the ring or bounced by another jart landing on top. The kids had to stand clear while the grownups played. Since I can tell from the family 8mm films that the game often included cans of Schlitz and my ancient bucket-hat-wearing grandfather, there were still plenty of errant throws and Jarts piercing nearby lawn chairs and charcoal briquette bags. Perhaps the mystique contributed to my love for them. You always covet the forbidden. And at the age of 10, Jarts was about as forbidden a thing I could think of.

That morning I'd gotten the new version of the game for us to play as a distraction. It is called Lawn Darts, but there are no darts. Where there had been heavy steel tipped darts before, now were heavy, bulbous, rubberized balls that bounced around once they hit the ground and were subject to being knocked out of the ring by other rolling and skittering "ball darts."

But the kids never knew the banned-by-the-Consumer-Product-Safety-Commission version, so they were happy to play. I was closing in on 21 in a game against my son when I saw Endora's car casing the neighborhood through my wildly untamed hedges.

And my heart was off to the races. But being points away from victory in a hard fought game with my son allowed me to delay "noticing" for a few minutes and give J. a chance to realize his mother had arrived.

She came a foot or two down the walk and I greeted her from across the yard. I got no response. She went immediately to J. They took a seat on my patio (on benches among the dandelions) and became engrossed in conversation.

My son having edged me in the last toss of the game ran victoriously into the house. And I had my first real pang of awkwardness.

There I was on the lawn, lawn "dart" in hand, J. and his mom oblivious to me, and I had to walk past them to get into the house. I was overcome by the strangest most unfamiliar sensation.

I had no idea what to do.