Go Ninja Go

I was 4 years old when I got grounded for the first time. I used to play Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with my Dad, and he would always be the Shredder. I would take turns with myself being one of the four different turtles; Leonardo, Michelangelo, Donatello, and Raphael. My Dad would come home from work and the games would begin. He’d get on his knees and scream in mock pain when I would kick him screaming “Cowabunga!” The problem was that one day, I didn’t stop playing. Somehow my Dad had actually become the dread Shredder in my head. Instead of seeing his happy smirk placed just under his blonde mustache with whiskers on his cheeks, my 4 year old mind registered only the metal plating with spikes situated just under the blades of a samurai helmet.
To say the least my Dad was hurt by this. The next time we went to my Grandma Fuzzy’s house in Mississippi, we brought all of my Ninja Turtle stuff, and ‘forgot’ it there. I didn’t see anything Ninja Turtle for months.
I say all of this to prove a point. I was obsessed with Ninja Turtles.
Eventually, when I had served my time without my Mean Green Fighting Machines, I would carry around a, you guessed it, Ninja Turtle Lunchbox filled with my toys. It was a well worn box. It was red with the turtles all over it on the front, jumping over the Shredder, who I now knew was not my Dad. I had so many toys in there that it would barely close, and since I had so many, I wasn’t really too bothered about sharing them with other kids my age. Both of my parents played on a co-ed softball team, and I would sit in front of the bleachers by the dugout and play in the red dirt with my turtles. Leonardo was my favorite. I didn’t let anyone else play with that one. He had seen many battles with the powerful Shredder. Whenever Shredder hit him he would fly through the air and smash into any obstacle in his way. I would display this by taking Leonardo and throwing him against the chain-length fence of the softball field and then I’d pick him up dramatically while making him utter words of vengeance on the Shredder.
One night while watching my parents play softball, a little pudgy boy came up and asked to play with me. I kindly obliged, but clung tight to Leo. He played very much like I did; first Raphael went flying into the bleachers, then Michelangelo made it into the trashcan, and finally Donatello hit the cinder blocks of the dugout and he lost his arm. He looked at me next.
The world seemed to slow down around me. The crowd in the bleachers drained away into the background, the smell of sunflower seeds and red dirt mingled near my nostrils, and my eyes narrowed onto his hand in front of me. I was no longer a 6 year old boy, I was Leonardo, and the pudgy boy was not a boy anymore, he had become the Shredder. His outstretched hand looked more like claws.
“Give him to me.” Said the Shredder.
“Never! I’ll protect him to the death Shredder!” I replied. I then stood up and put the toy in my pocket to free up both hands so that I could deal lethal ninja blows, when suddenly the world was stopped once more. The Shredder was much quicker than I had thought, and this game was no longer fun.
I dropped to my knees and began to cry and the little boy grabbed my Leonardo toy and started playing with it. He had an evil grin plastered to his face as if he really were the Shredder, and then suddenly a look of surprise wiped that away. My Mom had been on deck just on the other side of the fence when the pudgy boy punched me in the forehead and she’d witnessed the whole thing. She now stood behind fat boy and she was holding him by the shirt-neck in one hand, and holding her bat in the other.
“Who’s kid is this!?” My Mom growled. She’s quite scary when she’s angry. No one from the bleachers answered. “I said, ‘WHO’S KID IS THIS?!’” Still no answer. “Whoever is responsible for this kid, better get over here now and take care of the situation. I’m up to bat.” She then dragged the little boy and sat him down on the bleachers, tears now running down his face.
That night I grew up a little bit. I discovered that though Ninja Turtles are quite powerful and they love pizza, that they aren’t anything compared to my Mom. Shortly after my Mom went back to the field to bat, a man who had been standing just beside the bleachers got up and grabbed the pudgy boy and shuffled away in a hurry.
I’m 22 years old now and I must admit that I still have a love for all things Ninja Turtle, and while working at a camp this past summer I dressed up as a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, but ever since that day at the ball-fields my appreciation and respect has grown for my Mom. She is the long lost Ninja Turtle. She is my Mom.