Song of sixpence

Tuesday night I was at a local dive bar, the Socrates Newtown Grille, with my new friend Niko. The ubiquitous Red Sox game was on T.V., but something wasn't quite right. See, an injured little blackbird had wandered onto the field and was captivating everyone's attention. The camera would not leave it alone, exploring every gimpy little step the bird made around second base. Manny Ramirez was at the bat but no one seemed to care. The Little Bird That Couldn't was now America's sweetheart.

It was also in severe danger of being hurt. The bird had to avoid being stepped on, as well as avoid the natural meanness that helpless creatures inspire in boys. Indians player Casey Blake later said, "I was thinking about smashing him with my glove." At one point, shortstop Jhonny Peralta threw a dirt clump at the bird. (He was loudly booed by the pro-bird audience.) The announcer said, "For the love of God, won't someone step in and take care of that bird!?!?"

But no one did. It's a pretty common human phenomenon to see a crisis and hope the guy next to you will intervene. (yes, I know a bird on a baseball field is hardly a crisis, I'm just making a clumsy segue.)

When I was a wee lad, my parents took me to Boston for Chinese New Year. Near the subway, there was a destitute man on the sidewalk who was obviously in a medical emergency. He was writhing around, gasping for air, saliva streaming from his mouth. To me, the most horrifying thing was watching people step over the dude as they went off to buy Glo-sticks and piping hot peanuts. Nobody wanted to get involved.

My dad got serious hero points for being the one person who leaned down, checked the guy out and gave him medical attention while my mom called for help. That was a valuable day of learning for Little Man Jesse.

Late Tuesday night, when Niko and I were out smoking a cigarette, I had the chance to follow in my dad's footsteps. I couldn't save a blackbird or a bum, but maybe I could stop a crime...

part 2 to follow