Treehouse: He Got the Movie Wrong, So I Threw a Football P2
Look, I'm not saying I'm proud of it, but there's a certain... ecosystem to these things, you know?
I brought him to Santa Barbara—my family's banquet, which is not exactly an open-door policy kind of event—because I thought, after a couple of decent conversations, that he had potential. That's the word I used with my boys: potential. And they trusted my judgment. So when we're standing there, drinks in hand, doing the whole favorite movies thing—which is, let's be honest, entry-level bonding—he brings up Limitless. Fine. Great movie. But then he starts explaining the ending, and it's just... wrong. Factually incorrect. Not a matter of interpretation, not some deep-cut analysis I'm missing—he just didn't understand what happened. And I'm thinking, okay, maybe he saw it once, maybe he's misremembering. But he's so confident about it. And then I make this offhand comment—something about how maybe he took the blue pill when it comes to movie comprehension—and my friends just lose it. Quiet snickers, but enough. He laughs it off, tries to play it cool, maybe thinks he's in on the joke. But that's the thing—he wasn't in on it. He was it.
Thirty minutes later, I’m holding a football. Just picked it up, wasn’t even thinking about it, and I catch my friends looking at me, then looking at him over by the drink table, and there's this moment—this unspoken understanding—and they're smirking. Not maliciously, just... knowingly. I don’t know what came over me, but I wound up and threw that thing as hard as I could. Time slowed as the football spiraled through the air, a perfect arc aimed directly at his head. I can still see it: his eyes widening in disbelief, the way his drink paused mid-sip, juice glistening on his lips, and then—bam! The ball connected with a loud thwack, knocking the drink right out of his mouth, splattering juice everywhere. He tried to dodge it, but instead, he tripped over his own feet, crashing down hard and knocking over a chair. Everyone saw. And here’s the thing: nobody helped him up right away. He got up on his own, brushed himself off, and I could see him trying to read the room, trying to figure out if it was playful or something else. I didn’t say anything. My friends didn’t say anything. We just sort of... moved on. Talked around him for the rest of the afternoon. He lingered for a bit, then left early. Didn’t even say goodbye to most people.
Now he’s blowing up my phone. Chain calling. Texts asking if everything’s cool, if he did something wrong, suggesting we grab drinks. And I haven’t responded. Not because I’m cruel, but because I need him to understand something without me having to explain it: there’s a rhythm to how these things work, and he was off-beat. I’ll reach out in a few weeks, maybe. Let things settle. Give him some time to reflect, recalibrate. Who knows? This could be the start of something new—a version of him that gets it, that understands the unspoken rules, that doesn’t confidently misremember the ending to Limitless at a family banquet in Santa Barbara. Or maybe it’s just the end. Either way, the ball’s in his court now. Well, technically it hit him in the head, but you know what I mean.
After throwing the football, I had to dip; my church group was waiting for me. The boy from the church group I mentor was waiting for me. He doesn’t go to my school and isn’t the smartest kid out there, but he’s a good kid with a big heart. As we settled down to review the scriptures I had him memorizing, I could see a mix of determination and nervousness in his eyes.
“Hey, don’t worry if you stumble over the words,” I reassured him, giving him a gentle pat on the back. “What matters is that you’re trying and learning. Remember, it’s not about being perfect; it’s about growing.” He nodded, a small smile breaking through his initial anxiety.
As he recited the verses, I could see him starting to grasp their deeper meanings. “You know,” I said, “these teachings are about more than just words. They’re about how we treat each other and ourselves.” He looked up at me, his eyes brightening. “I get that,” he replied, “it’s like when you help me with this stuff, it makes me want to be better.”
It’s moments like these that remind me of the impact we can have on each other’s lives. After our session, we joined the rest of the group, and I felt a renewed sense of purpose, knowing that I was helping to guide him on his journey.
-Sometimes a throw can change everything.