The Mick

7:00 AM on a Thursday morning, diligently spinning on a busted-up stationary bike and listening to the dreary local weather report.  The icy New England weather has given my nephews yet another 90-minute delay and roofs all over are collapsing under the weight of the snow.  Roads aren't plowed, businesses are closing and, for the first time in a week of blizzards and snow days, I finally have a shift at work.  For this reason, completely channeling my frustrations into exercise, I woke up unbearably early, trudged down into the dungeons for a morning workout and miserably drifted off into my own little world.  I was grouchy, unshaven, cold and hungry when suddenly, sweet and melodic as a church bell, a child's voice rang out from the darkness.

"What are you doing?"

I jolted back to reality to find Cole, like Cindy-Loo Who sneaking up on the Grinch, standing in the doorway, still sporting pajamas and an I-don't-give-a-fuck hair-do.

"What are you doing?" he repeated, this time more indignantly.

I thought to myself, That's a dumb question.  Cole deliberately sought me out me in the depths of the dark, damp morning and can plainly see several things I am currently doing (spinning, exercising, ignoring him entirely) and Cole is by no means a slow child.  Knowing my nephew and how he has undoubtably taken all of these things into consideration, it appears that he has posed a question to which he already knows the answer.  I am deeply suspicious, but I play along.

"I'm workin' out, bud.  What're you doing?" I replied.


Cole has taken to the dip machine and scaled up the pull-up bar like a shifty little monkey. "Is that as fast as you can go?" he scoffed.

This is a set-up, I'm sure of it, but Cole knows me at least as well as I know him and knowing me he knows I am not a humble man.  So I retort, "Oh, I can go faster."

Cole donned a shit-eating grin like he had just pantsed me on national TV and mumbled under his breath, "...Yeah right."

And there it was.  Hook, line, sinker, the little shit baited me.  Within the three seconds it took for Cole jab to sink in, my brain was overflowing with indignations such as Excuse me? I'm sorry, I must've misheard you from all the way down there, you cocky little oompa loompa.  Did you just challenge me?  Did you just call me out?  Did you just questioned both the size of my cojones and the bed of hair upon which they rest?  DID I HEAR YOU RIGHT, YOU CHEEKY LITTLE BASTARD!?

Before I knew it I was riding that stationary bicycle like it was a Harley on the Highway to Hell and I wasn't a huge vagina for spinning at 7:00 in the morning.

"Oh, you go this fast, shithead?  No, I didn't think so.  Suck it, Cole.  SUCK IT!"

He then called me a pussy for using on his mom's workout equipment... and so I spun even harder.

It seems yesterday's impromptu workout workshop with the boys has spawned something every boxer, body builder, athlete wannabe nightmares about:  A greasy Mick.  Sure he's only 9-years old, he's yet to develop an alcohol dependency and his swear vocabulary leaves something to be desired (though it's still impressive), but Cole has nonetheless taken it upon himself to be my very own pint-sized, Mickey Goldmill pain-in-the-ass.

And so began an hour-long hard-hitting, below-the-belt-kicking, overflowing-with-Irish-pride cock fight.  I yelled, he taunted, I laughed, he miscounted my reps and made me to start over from the beginning.  Cole made me explain my exercises to him in such detail that it ended up reinforcing my own standards of proper breathing and form.  Was I grateful, you ask?  Fuck that.  By the end I wanted to ring his scrawny, little neck like Homer goddamn Simpson.  The hour flew by so quickly it barely registered and we climbed out of the basement around 8:30 (me off to blog, him off to 3rd grade) ready to start our respective days with no hard feelings at all.

I'm sore.  Good sign.  Five days down.

Thanks for reading.  See you tomorrow.