This is a story, as told to me by Redneck Neighbor, about a five year-old boy at football camp who said, “No cuts.” And then said it again.

Picture with me a strand of boys in a crooked line inching forward every few seconds.  One by one they crouch and wait for a whistle.  When it comes the coach braces himself against a foam rectangle and a small boy fires off an imaginary scrimmage line, sprints toward the coach and unleashes five years of angst on the foam opponent.

One boy tackles the dummy and likes it.  Likes it so much he doesn’t want to wait to do it again.  He shoves his way into the line in front of a boy named Gresham.  Gresham uses a small amount of force, his forearm, and his nice words to remind the boy of the universal line standing rule: No cuts.

The impatient boy backs down.  But before heading for the back of the line where he belongs he gives Gresham a shove.  A parting shot is what it was, followed by a quick turn and slow walk to the end of the line.

There were voices in Gresham’s wee mind at that moment.  One demanded justice, hated to see a bad guy get away, craved a fair punishment for this cowardly push and run.  Another was his father’s voice, words spoken time after time when temper’s flare and fists are cocked.  “We don’t hurt people who hurt us,” it said.

And there was a third voice too, this one belonging to a coach blowing a whistle and dishing out congratulatory slaps all morning for every dummy given what for.

Gresham listened to these voices and then stepped out of line, and tailed his enemy toward its end.  Just before reaching it, Gresham wrapped his arms around the pusher’s waist, hoisted him off the ground, slammed him to the earth below like so much foam and said again, without words this time, and a little harder: No.  Cuts.

And got back in line.

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