The Italian Stallion.
Eye of the Tiger.
Over the past few weeks, my boys haven’t been able to get enough of Rocky III. They have been inspired by — and enthralled with — the boxing action. White gauze? Wristbands. Underwear? Boxing shorts. The bell sounds “ding, ding” and they start another round with dad as announcer. And while the standard moves, like an uppercut or jab, are probably part of the match (to be honest, I don’t watch too closely. I sort of sit on the couch observing, not understanding the boy fun whatsoever), they have also invented a few of their own. Big brother has perfected the “cast block,” throwing up the pink cast on his left arm to block any incoming attacks. Or there’s the “stealth move” — a backwards somersault that results in kicking each other.
Last night, as they did a combination of boxing/wrestling, we wondered what it would be like after today, when the cast was removed. They quickly came to the realization: “No more cast blocks.”
The morning brought tears of anxiety as we prepared for the appointment. But soon after the cast was cut off and the x-ray read, the mood turned joyful.
A healed thumb.
A summer of swimming and long, relaxing showers awaits.
During the ride home, after the doctor backed up what mom said—that there would be no wrestling or boxing for a time—the conversation turned to new strategies.
“Maybe I can do an elbow block,” said big brother.
“Maybe I can just punch you in the stomach,” offered little.
One thing is certain: for now, in our household, there will be no more cast blocks.
And we are jumping—and somersaulting—for joy.