Every time I got back up, they pushed me right back down into the snow again.  They never hit me or kicked me but mocked and laughed at me for crying.  One boy pulled off my mittens and threw them in opposite directions while another repeatedly used a stick to smash my little folded bundle of papers and coloring pages that I was bringing home from school. There’s no way I stood a chance against one fifth grader, let alone three and just as quickly as they’d pounced on me, they were gone. I picked myself up, blew on my stinging hands and after I found my things in the snow, I ran home with tears streaming down my cheeks. Dad had been recently laid off and was home when I burst through the door and he started to scold me for fighting but quickly realized that wasn’t the case. Mom, of course, was going to call the school and raise hell with the principal the next day but Dad talked her out of it, explaining that since the boys had jumped me in the park and not the school playground there wasn’t much the school could really do. A hot bath, full belly and some cartoons on the TV put things right in the world and I went to bed early that night, exhausted.

  For the whole next day at school, I struggled to think about anything other than how I was going to evade my tormentors if they picked me for their entertainment again. When the last bell rang, I grabbed my coat, flew down the hallway and bolted out the front doors.  I had picked speed as my strategy for survival. As soon as I made it to the end of the school sidewalk I stopped suddenly, amazed at what I saw.  It was my Dad!

  “Which ones?”, he asked as he pulled me off to the side and slightly out of sight.  One by one, I identified the culprits as they came out of the school laughing and kicking the snow chunks along the sidewalk.  When the three of them grouped up and started their way home, the chase began. Dad didn’t say much to me other than the occasional “keep up” as he kept his focus locked on the trio of boys.  I walked excitedly by his side, looking back and forth from the boys to my Dads stern face, as I was confused and anxious about what was about to happen.  We kept our distance but about a block from the school, the middle sized boy happened to glance back and I’ll never forget the double take and look of fear in his eyes when he saw us. Two quick words to his buddies and all three were staring at us with gaping mouths and panicked eyes.  That alone would have left me feeling satisfied and vindicated.   When the boys turned and began to jog away on the icy and snowy sidewalk, Dad grabbed my hand and we gave chase as fast as my shorter legs could manage.  Fortunately, we didn’t have to go far as the boys all lived on the same block, just around the corner from the park. One by one, they each dove into their houses, slamming their doors behind them and one by one my Dad and I stopped in front of each house where my Dad locked eyes with each frightened kid peeking out the window.  There were no knocks on doors.  There were no talks with parents. No shouting. No threatening gestures. That’s when I realized that was Dad’s simple plan all along. They were now keenly aware that he knew where they lived and that was all it took to release me from torment for the rest of that school year. I don’t remember much about the rest of the walk home other than my big stupid grin that made my face ache for the rest of the evening.

  He was my hero. He was my advocate. He was my protector. He was my Dad and I miss him dearly.