Last week a very small snowstorm washed out two days of school, but by Sunday it was sunny and seventy again. That afternoon, Jay, Wally, and I drove to a nearby skatepark. It’s located next to the soccer fields where Jay played this fall and often after games we’d stop for a minute to watch the skaters and BMX riders trick their way through the concrete canyon.
On Sunday the multitude of skaters, in their short sleeves and wool caps, suggested a premature spring. Jay and Wally sat close by the side of the main course, as they like to do. One skater after another whizzed by and did a trick—various kinds of board flips and rail grinds, almost all of which ended with the clatter of the board, a swear, a trek back up to the starting block.
The skate park is a scene, especially when you add Jay and Wally to it. After a few minutes of watching, one skater, in his mid-teens, came over by us to take a drink from a liter bottle of Pepsi. He wore a black t-shirt that said, “The Motherfucking Life.” As he drank his soda, Wally twirled the wheels of his upturned skateboard.
I always worry that the boys are going to get hurt while we’re there. Boards fly after missed tricks, and some of the riders take fast lines through the course that bring them much closer to Jay and Wally than I’d like. But I realized we were really the ones who were sitting somewhere we didn’t belong. And there’s an ethos to skatepark culture, obvious at a glance, of following unwritten rules and not asking for special accommodation.
We’d been there ten minutes when an accident took place. One guy was coming down the ramp on his bike and the other was coming up it on his skateboard. Later they’d say that each thought the other was going to turn a different way, but instead they turned into each other. The skateboarder fell the ground. The bicycle fell on top of him. For a few seconds it was unclear who, if anyone was hurt. It turned out to be the kid on the bike, a boy maybe in his mid-teens. He grimaced when he tried to stand up, grabbed his shin, and limped over to the side, right by Wally.
Wally, who can strike up a conversation with anyone, walked over to the injured kid He put his hands on his hips and leaned in slightly. “Why’d you trip?” he asked.
The kid had lowered his heard into his hands. He looked up at Wally. “I didn’t trip, he crashed into me,” he said.
I pulled Wally away, gently, but after a minute he went back over.
“Can I see your boo-boo,” he asked. The skater lifted his pant leg as though he’d just been asked to by a doctor. He had a long scrape up his shin. Wally crouched down, and bent his head within inches of the boy’s scrape.
“A song will make you feel better,” Wally said. Then he started to sing, the lyrics from a song we’ve listened to a thousand times in the car:
Victor Vito and Freddie Vasco
Ate a burrito with Tabasco
The skater, still holding his shin, eye-level with Wally, laughed and shook his head.
I laughed, too. However big the gulf between a two-year-old and an injured teenage skater, Wally had gotten it right: The song did make the kid feel better.