Well, now I feel stupid, because this sounds like I’m bragging about my kid, which really would be stupid at this point. I only wrote the item yesterday saying he was going to run with the bulls at Pamplona because I couldn’t make myself stop worrying about it. Anyway, he did it, and he’s O.K.
The runnings go on all week. Yesterday, the day before he ran, seven people were seriously gored. I sat at my desk and watched the CNN footage again and again. Those bulls tossed young men around on their horns like, well, sides of beef. Strangely fair, I suppose, given what man ultimately has in mind for the bulls. Had to go home. Couldn’t eat.
Couldn’t tell my wife. Last night, every time she brought up the kid, I said, “You know, I think Otto [my 500-pound Weimaraner] is starting to have hip trouble.” All night I kept waking up and picking up my so-called smart phone to look online for a headline I imagined would read, “Texas man, allowed to run with bulls by idiot father, stabbed, stomped, gored and tossed in river by pissed-off bovine.”
“Allowed.” Yeah, right. All I can allow him to do at this point is give me a brain aneurysm.
Bill Holston commented on my item yesterday saying my son, Will, had survived Woodrow Wilson High School, so he wouldn’t have any trouble with Pamplona. Bill, father of a fellow Woodrow scholar, would know.
I actually think Woodrow may have helped. The multiple gorings I saw on CNN happened because the bulls, who are supposed to run through town in one direction only, turned and charged back into the crowd of people they had already passed. Will told me his bulls did the same thing today. They passed him.
People all around him started celebrating. He saw people ahead of him running back toward him, and he said to his buddy, “I think we need to get the hell out of here.” So they escaped harm. I don’t know if anybody was gored.
So that’s Woodrow Wilson 101: You’re not out of the hallway until you’re out of the hallway.
He said, “It’s the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my life.” That’s not good. It just means he has to do something scarier. How about calling your poor father and saying, “Hey, I’m thinking of jumping off a 12-story building without a Bungee Cord or a parachute or anything to see if I can land in a bush and maybe be O.K., like, you know, not head-first or anything.”
Children are sent here to kill their parents. At his age I would have needed a drink. Now I need a nap. A big, tall nap -- straight-up, no chaser. I can take it. --Jim Schutze
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