For Want Of A Chili Dog

My two youngest boys had a basketball tournament this weekend, different brackets at the same location. Between Saturday and Sunday I spent 20 1/2 hours creating this particular childhood memory for my beloved offspring. That's 1,230 minutes or 73,800 seconds, in case you're wondering.

As one might guess, I'm not a particularly fussy eater and I can usually cram just about anything down my gullet with a fair amount of satisfaction. The choices were pretty slim here, though. The best of the bad lot were the chili dogs and they weren't much to write home about. God knows I love a chili dog as much as anyone, but these weren't much more than a tube of snout covered with ground cow in ketchup sauce. Still, better than the alternative offered here, the "walking taco." Notwithstanding my youngest's enthusiasm for them, a bag of Doritos doused in the aforementioned dual purpose sauce tastes even worse than it sounds.

So chili dogs it was. At least until Sunday, when, about to place my order, my phone rang. "Oh," I said to the person behind the counter, "it's my oldest son. He's spending the day at a friend's house. Excuse me for a second." Reception being what it is in an old brick school building, I went outside to take the call.

Surprisingly, he had not called to express his affection for me. By the time he'd worked through my shortcomings and allowed me to return to the concession stand, there were at least thirty people ahead of me. The volunteers who run these stands are lovely people, bless their souls, but speed is not their hallmark. Twenty minutes later I was back to the front of the line.

"I'd like a chili dog," I said.

"Sorry, we just ran out," was the reply. "We have walking tacos though."

Thank you Lord for once again smiling upon me.

By midafternoon I was starving. There was some time between games so the boys and I went to a nearby IHOP with my youngest's teammates and his teammate's father, who happens to be a friend of mine. The waitress brought each of the boys a children's menu with crayons and then left to take another table's order.

My middle child was outraged. "I'm not a freaking baby. I want a real menu."

"Technically you're still young enough to order off the children's menu. And stop saying 'freaking' all the time or I'll freaking kill you."

"I'm ordering from the adult menu."

"Why, what do you want?"

"Chicken strips."

"Chicken strips are four dollars less on the children's menu. Get those."

"No. I want the adult ones."

"They're the same thing for God's sake. I'm not paying an extra four dollars for the same thing just so you can use a different menu."

"I'll pay for it myself," he said.

"No you won't," I said. "I'm not letting you waste your money for the benefit of IHOP shareholders."

"You waste money all the time," he said. "Like that wine you bought yesterday."

"That's not a waste," I replied. "You'll understand if you're ever unlucky enough to have kids. Besides, the kid's menu includes a soda."

The offer of a completely nutrition free food group quieted him a little. Meanwhile, my youngest and his friend were drawing violent battle scenes on their menus. "Watch out with those crayons," I said to my kid. "You almost put your eye out the last time you tried to color."

He pretended to ignore me. Suddenly he clutched my arm, burying his head in it.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow," he whimpered.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"My eye. Ow, ow, ow."

"Sit up and stop screwing around," I said.

"No, really, I poked myself."

"Knock it off. I'm not in the mood for this kind of idiocy," I said.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow," he said, his face still in my shoulder.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked.

"I picked up the menu and it cut my eye."

Maybe he wasn't kidding after all.

"Are you okay?"

"No, it hurts, ow, ow, ow, ow."

I led him to the men's room where I gradually coaxed his hand away from his eye. After applying some wet towels to it, pretty much the extent of my medical expertise, I asked him how it felt.

"It's still blurry," he said, but I didn't see any dangling nerves and he could count the fingers I held up. I led him back to the table.

Sitting down, I noticed my friend snickering and my middle son glowering at the soda he'd been brought while I'd been gone. It had been served in a four ounce foam cup decorated with Petie the Plucky Pancake or some damn thing.

The boy shot daggers across the room at the waitress. "I think she's trying to piss me off," he said.

"Probably," said my friend. "Want me to see if I can get you a sippy cup instead?"

I could see my son weighing how much trouble he'd get into if he told my friend to shut up. Making a wise decision, he instead turned to me and said, "I hate this place."

"I'm none too fond of it myself," I said, stirring the cup of brackish chicken soup I'd been served. Four hours to go, I thought. Two hundred forty minutes. Fourteen thousand four hundred and forty seconds.