Saving Big Man From Freshman Friday

Oh, shit. I’m late and Big Man’s waiting for me to pick him up at middle school. I always do when it’s raining. My cell phone rings. Trying to keep my eyes on the road I fumble for it.

“Mom, where are you?” Even though he’s 13, he’s always had this very adult, radio-announcer voice that usually makes him seem in control. But I can hear the panic.

“I’m almost there,” I say as I slam the brakes of my Ford Explorer. There’s a million parents doing pick-up in the pelting rain. It’ll be a good five minutes before I reach the front of the school.

“What’s up, honey?!!!”

“It’s Freshman Friday!”

Okay. THAT explains the terror in his tone. Freshman Friday happens near the end of the school year. It’s that one day when the 11th grade boys get to paddle an 8th grader. Or at least, that’s the suburban legend. It’s never happened – as far as I know. But the myth outweighs the reality. Especially when that older neighbor boy that Big Man usually shoots hoops with suddenly repeats his annual, empty claim to paddle his butt.

As I get in line behind a bunch of cars, Big Man spots me and runs over.

“I made it,” he says as he collapses into the front passenger seat. He locks the door. He’s NEVER done that before. I’m relieved he feels safe though clearly, his hind quarters aren’t the worse for wear.

“Honey, what exactly do they hit you with?” He’s so serious about this. But really, I can’t imagine how he could be pummled at school – especially since the principal who rules with an iron attitude has put the kibosh on this hazing ritual.

“I don’t know. Paddles, I guess.”

Now the line of cars snakes past the school’s front doors, where a larger-than-usual crowd of eighth graders are nervously clustering and chattering. Obviously, Big Man isn’t the only one looking for protection. Suddenly, some girls let out high-pitched screams that make me jump. I follow their gaze behind me, expecting to see a posse of heavily-muscled, hairy-calved 11th graders approaching the middle school entrance brandishing two-by-fours studded with nails.

I don’t see a thing. They’ve whipped themselves into a frenzy.

Big Man and I leave them screaming in the rear view mirror. But we’re not safe yet.


“Look Mom! There’s an undercover cop car!” He points to a black sedan with tinted windows parked across the street.

“How do you know?” I try not to sound skeptical.

“Because it’s a Crown Victoria. All undercover cops drive Crown Victorias.”

Listening to him, I just melt. We are partners making a great escape. The dangers of the day have warranted police protection. And, the comfort of mom. God, it’s great to be needed.

We finally hit the open road at 20 miles an hour (it is, after all, a school zone). And it dawns on me that something’s going on here that hasn’t happened in a while. A long while. Big Man is happy to be with me. Instead of the usual indifference I get at pick-up, today he’s grateful that I’ve shown up. For one brief shining moment in his teenage life, I can do no wrong. I have saved him from Freshman Friday.


Disclaimer: Big Man read this and wants everyone to know that this is my version of Freshman Friday, not his. But he's all right with me publishing it. Thanks, honey!