He paused and looked down. There are not many events that can get you to do that, he thought. Not a panicked stop, just a pause. What pauses me these days? Well, that did.

He picked up the ball and tilted his head to the park where it had rolled from. A meek child, wearing an all-too-expensive NY Mets jersey stood timidly among his friends as they lightly tapped and pushed his shoulder and back towards the man. Git it, git it, he heard coming softly from the side of the still creaking swingset.

"I wonder if he'd be like that to his friends if it was their ball", I thought. I paused again. Second time.

The child looked over each shoulder as he began his tired, skulking move towards the park bench where an old man was seated next to a drooping willow tree. Ominous, he though, but not with that word. A word he couldn't think of because he hadn't asked Ms. Pristly what the word for a scary old man underneath a scary old tree would be. She'd say, Ominous, but not until later. Now, he was just scary.

Oh, boy, I thought. Now I've got to act like the adult and either throw this damn thing, or keep this strange scowl on my face. I stopped scowling and smiled a bit.

The man smiled. Wow, now he's even scarier.

Now the child looks even more nervous. Well, I can't stop smiling now. He can't stop smiling now, he though, otherwise it'd look even weirder. Maybe there was someone watching who would think he was a luring pedophile. He wasn't, and there was no one looking.

He saw the child gulp and move towards him. Head on, stern look, he was taking on an enemy. I'm the enemy. I'm the enemy, he thought. I'm the adversity.

This man is my adversity, he thought, but he didn't know that word either. He just didn't want to be called a chicken when he got back. That's a word he knew. I hate chicken.

A few willows leaves started to fall, escaping their wooden captors with the autumn wind. The leaves would've thanked the wind, but neither of them were, at present time, capable of any cognitive or communicative abilities.

"Hey, Mister."

How cliche, thought Mister.

"Could ya roll that ball this way?"

The boy leaned down and held out his hands, waiting for the roll. Staring now only at the ball. The old man saw the boy, staring at his shoes, and paused. Third time. What should I do?

Mister grew panicked. What am I going to do? Should I roll it, and just be a sidenote in this child's life. Someone he'll forget. Should I wait a little longer, maybe ask him a question. I don't want to scare the boy, I just want. What do I want? What does he want?

"What do you want?"

The boy stumbled at this. He said. He wanted his ball. That's all. He looked up at the old man.

"I just want my ball, sir."

Sir smiled. He nodded, and rolled the ball under his foot towards the child. The boy sat, anxiously, and watched the slow roll of the bright red ball.

"You've got some guts and good friends."

He didn't know what gutsand was, but he didn't think his friends were very good. They made him face this old man, and now he knew they'd be hiding. He dared not look away. He caught it.

He caught it. Good. And now he's scurrying off. His friends are hiding, though, didn't even notice. Mine are, too.

Mister turned around to a group, now appearing from behind the willow tree. Three old men and two old women, some crouched, some standing, withdraw from beyond the lowered branches and trunk.

"Man, you did it. You're not a chicken after all."

He hated chicken, too.