Have you ever watched two people play a game of catch? It's kind of amusing if you look closely. It's all fun and games, sure, but if you look into the two peoples' eyes, you can see nothing but competitive spite in their irises. The two folks could be great friends, but both of them are secretly hoping that the other will drop the object being tossed back and forth. It's foolish, fighting for your pride and a stupid title with a game like catch. I mean, what does it prove if your opponent drops the object? That the anatomy of your fingers and wrist is more compatible to grab an item out of the air? Good friggin' grief.

Now, before you go off and start blabbing some bullshit about how I'm biased, let me talk. It's not that catch isn't entertaining or anything. It passes the time when it's difficult to arouse a conversation, so naturally, it's decent. And I do like playing the game. Or, I used to. Not anymore.

It's funny, that an infuriating little game of catch could cause a climatic moment in a guy's life. Wait, scratch out climatic. More like traumatic. Yeah, that's the word. And the reason I use traumatic to describe a damn game is because it ruined my life. I bet you're thinking that I tripped over something and sprained my ankle while playing it or something special of mine was broken while being tossed. Well, I'll tell you what, if you guessed option number two, you're right. My most prized possession was broken during a simple game of catch. Actually, broken isn't the right word. How about we replace it with killed?

That's right; the thing that I loved the most was killed. My son. Because of a fucking competition between two of my friends. They were drunk, practically drowning in all the alcohol they'd consumed. Literally. There were puddles of beer and shards of broken bottle glass scattered on the floor of the lodging house. Well, anyways, the two morons were staggering around, mumbling threats at each other and trying to decide who would get the last beer. They could have just played rock, paper, scissors, or flipped a coin, but no. They decided to play a game of "skill". A game of catch.

Tucker was upstairs, asleep in the crib that Kloppman made for him. The crib was beautiful: hand carved and rich with the smell of pinewood. Sarah loved the crib, so she made sure that whenever Tucker was drowsy, he was left in my hands. I don't think she actually trusted me with our son, but she never showed it. I wish she hadn't trusted me to watch Tucker that night while she stayed late at the factory. She could have just left him with David or her folks, but chose his father instead. Me.

I was watching him while he snored, his back rising slowly with each breath. I know I might sound like a sissy, but he was adorable, lying there like there. Hell, I was so distracted by him that I hadn't even noticed the pressure in my bladder. I knew that Spot and Racetrack were downstairs fooling around, but I trusted them. I wish I hadn't.

I didn't hear them when they stumbled upstairs. I mean, my sense of hearing had sharpened since Tucker had been born, but it's hard to hear over the sound of urine splashing into a toilet. While I was peeing, Spot reached into the crib and grabbed Tucker. I know it sounds crazy, that the king of Brooklyn was so drunk that he couldn't tell the difference between a baby and a ball, but it's true. I guess Race couldn't decipher it either, because he obviously didn't object. If he did, Tucker would be alive right now.

I was washing my hands when I heard Tucker whimper in fright. I rushed out of the bathroom and almost passed out when I saw Tucker squirming in Spot's arms. I ran over to him in an attempt to grab my son, Spot had already drawn back his arm. I shouted and swore, but he released his grip and sent my son flying into the air. It might sound humorous, an infant just being thrown to someone, but it's the most sickening thing I've ever experienced.

For a splint second, I believed that Race was going to catch him. His arms were thrust in front of him, his fingers eager to grasp the "ball" so he could win the last beer. But then I saw the look in his eyes. Not the competitive glare that most people have during catch. No, his eyes weren't there. Race wasn't there; he was lost in his mind. So lost that he couldn't find the direction that Tucker was head in. Which was the floor.

Have you ever heard the sound of a cracking skull? If you haven't, then you're extremely lucky, because it is the most devastating noise that can ever be heard. I remember hearing that sound as Tucker fell on the creaky wooden planks. There happened to be a nail on the floor, raised just slightly higher than all the others on the floor. Raised just slightly enough to go into Tucker's head. Race just smiled goofily, and I swear he thought the "ball" must have just "popped" or "deflated". I still remember what he said as he eyed Tucker's body.

"Oops. Didn't catch it."