Anyway, there we were, the rest of us, at Last’s first game. It was a far cry, the Pee Wee diamond, from the stadium where I’d cheered for the Kansas City Royals as a girl. There, they had a Jumbotron that flashed stars and lightning when someone hit a home run. Here, we had fingers and toes and a notepad to keep track.
There, they had George Brett. Here, we had — hey, wait. Apparently, we had him, too, judging by the way Last was batting. Exactly how he was getting on base every time and driving in runs with that batting stance was unclear. But he was and they scored, and we shouted like banshees.
Winning the first game of the season, in our experience, was about as common as a week without a vice presidential gaffe. Which is to say, not very, and may have been a first right there.
Meanwhile, as if we needed more headlines, Little Last larked past and threw in one more first — a tooth. Yup. In the middle of hats and pictures and gowns and caps, it fell right out of his mouth. As he put it (’cause certain blends are still hard to say), “I lost my toof.”
Sure as shootin’ he lost that thing, and the panic that ensued when it dropped into the carpet was something to see. The Justice Department never looked for the missing Whitewater records as hard as he looked for his tooth.
When he found it, what joy! What delight! Angels sang, and a child beamed. Minus, of course, a tooth.
Then Daddy took him and his incisor to bed, tucking them in, him beneath his Blanket Beloved and the tooth beneath his pillow.
After prayers, kisses and an exhaustive interrogation about the “toof” fairy that covered her route, her rates and her ability to find it, he wriggled some more, then finally fell asleep.