How to Go From Hero to Jerk in 5 Minutes or Less

We were at Six Flags a couple of weeks ago. My park-visiting cohorts included my 7 year old daughter (CC) and a long-time close friend, accompanied by her two children, ages 11 and 14.

It was hot. The water rides offered only a brief respite from the heat.

As we approached the end of our day we were wet, exhausted, and still had Atlanta's infamous late afternoon traffic ahead of us. All that remained was for the two older kids to score a frozen lemonade. That, and I had promised my daughter at least one roller coaster ride.

Unfortunately, the roller coasters were not cooperating. It seemed that all of the coasters for which she met the height requirement were out of order.

So, while my friend and her kids found a snack stand with the requisite frozen confection, I laid out 3 bucks for my daughter to play Whack-A-Mole.

Several other kids, all of them older and presumably more coordinated, stood ready to play. When the game ended someone else's child had the highest score. He walked away with a big stuffed animal. My daughter looked up at me and asked "did I win anything?" I explained that each game only had one winner, and the winner was the person who had the most points.

When all of the other kids left the game, I asked the attendant about the minimum number of players before he'd start another one.

"Two," he said.

I immediately laid out another 6 dollars, figuring that I could play a quick round with CC and let her win, thus earning a cheap stuffed animal assembled in a fourth-world country by a factory full of other kids her age. I guess there's an odd form of symmetry in that. But I digress.

We stood there waiting for the game to begin.

And we waited.

And waited.

Clearly, the nice man who ran the Whack-a-Mole booth had no intention of surrendering one of his prizes for 6 dollars.

A contingent of older kids descended on the booth a few minutes later and laid out money to play while their soccer moms looked on.

The addition of other players called for a change in strategy. I could no longer count on my daughter to win by beating only me; she now had to beat 8 other people as well.

I decided to go for it.

To be honest, when it comes to Pinball, Air Hockey, and Whack-A-Mole, I will kick your ass. I'm not proud of it, but it's a fact. My strategy is simple: leave no mole un-whacked.

The game began.

I must have been a vision of athletic grace: my shirt stuck to my back from sweat, my face a portrait of sheer ruthless determination, and my hair at 47 different right angles from repeated cycles of wetting and drying induced by the water rides.

I pounded madly, and my aim was true.

When the game ended I had the high score. There was no high-fiving my daughter, there was no trash talking, there was no end-zone dance. But there was a chill in the air. The soccer moms were looking at me like I had just stolen candy from a baby. I told my daughter to pick out a prize and we quickly moved away, stuffed dog (pictured above) in tow. The glares followed me as we left.

In retrospect, I think the nasty looks from the soccer moms were part of a show they put on for their kids.

The truth of the matter? The sight of me in a sweaty shirt and errant hair, flailing away in rabid mole-whacking glory stirred something deeper inside of them. They wanted me.