Dad, Is He Out?

Dad once became involved in the Big Brothers/Big Sisters organization, and so became a mentor of a kid that came from a broken home or somesuch. His job was to make sure the kid got out once in a while to enjoy life. I don't know the details, but I'm fairly sure that was in short commodity for him.

So one afternoon we went to the park to play pickup baseball with a tennis ball. Dad pitched and we took turns batting. Pretty soon, it was the kid's turn, and he starts raking. I have to admit, he was kind of a semi-talented athlete even though he didn't look like it. Now I'm getting pissed off because I'm chasing the flies he's hitting to no end. Being the supercompetitive nine-year old I was, I'm trying desperately to make a play. So the kid hits a towering fly ball and I chase it...again. Like I said, I'm trying to make a play. I end up smashing into a tree trunk and being knocked silly just as I grasp the ball with my Reggie Jackson mitt. A lump instantly rises on my noggin and I'm knocked silly with the accompanying hurt moans that can only come from a kid. Dazed, lying in the grass, there's a situation of a little bit of importance:

"Dad, is he out?"