Little Happy Clouds

Little Mikey liked to play with the big kids. Ever since he could remember, he wanted to prove he belonged. He swung harder than they did. He ran faster than they did. Held down the hot corner better than those mouth breathing 8th graders could, that's for sure.

One early autumn day in Stan Richey's backyard the neighborhood kids were playing a friendly game of whiffle ball. In the third inning of a tight game, Little Mikey found himself rounding third hard and charging for home. Stan, three years his elder, gathered in the throw from left and prepped himself for the incoming blow.

…

“Stan...you alright?” Little Mikey asked, standing over the dazed catcher.

Stan spit out some blood. “Gatdamnit Mikey, you are one tough little Schmidt.”