Climate of Fear Nearly Froze Boy Out of a Night at the Ice

For a minute or so, sitting there in my car, I almost talked myself out of it. This could be embarrassing. Who needs the hassle?

It was a couple weeks ago, around 9:30 at night, and I was heading out for a quick errand. My car was parked at the curb inside my townhouse complex, right next to the house where three young boys lived with their mother. I had never seen a father around. That’s when the idea occurred to me.

Why not, I thought. Heck, hadn’t I tossed a football around with them and their friends a few times in recent months after getting home from work? Hadn’t I made sure we played right there in their yard, so nobody would get the wrong idea? We didn’t really know each other, but I could tell they were good kids. Come to think of it, I thought I recalled seeing them roller-blading around the complex and brandishing hockey sticks, so they probably like hockey, I thought.

So, sitting there in my car next to their house, I’m thinking, what’s wrong with asking one of them if he wanted to go see the Kings? I had an extra ticket to the game the next night, and the friend I was planning to go with had backed out a few days earlier. I asked a few other friends, but nothing worked out. All of a sudden the game was 24 hours away, and the extra ticket was burning a hole in my pocket.

So, why not? What’s the big deal?

I knew exactly what the big deal was. I barely knew the kids and didn’t know their mother at all. Near-strangers just can’t go up and ask a parent if they could take their kid up to Los Angeles for the night. Especially strangers who are bachelors in their 40s.

It’s a bad look, I told myself.

We hear in the news every day about molesters on the loose, abductors in our midst, child killers on the prowl. My God, when priests admit to abusing children, who can parents trust? Why shouldn’t they be wary? And who was I? Just a guy who lived near them.

Recently I passed two young girls on the sidewalk inside our gated complex, in broad daylight, and the younger one, probably about 6, said “hi” as we neared. After I had passed, her companion, probably 10, admonished the little girl, “You’re not supposed to talk to strangers!”

And so I sat in the car outside the boys’ house, with the Kings ticket sitting in the glove compartment, wondering whether to ask or not.

How awkward, I thought, to put the boys’ mother in the position of saying no. I knew some part of me would be irritated if she wouldn’t let her son go with me, no matter how valid her reasoning. I hated the thought of being considered suspect.

Then I thought of the Forum. I thought of the lights and the excitement. The sound of the skates on ice. I imagined the kid watching the chaotic poetry of the sport. I pictured the kid telling his buddies at school the next day that he’d seen Gretzky.

Oh, screw it , I told myself. Give it a shot .

I knocked on the door, and the mom came out. I wanted to talk outside, so the boys wouldn’t be disappointed in case she said no. I felt myself rushing my words.

I live toward the back of the complex and I’ve thrown the football with the boys before and maybe you remember seeing me and, well, I had this extra ticket to the Kings game tomorrow night and, well, I thought I’d seen the boys playing hockey and was wondering if one of your sons would want to go with me and it might be a late night and it’s up in L.A. and remember that it takes a long time to get out of the parking lot so factor that in and of course the game might go into overtime and so it might be even later than I originally told you . . . .

“I don’t even know your name,” she said, politely.

We introduced ourselves and she invited me inside while she asked her sons. The boys had been listening through the window, and all three wanted to go. She said it was OK, but because it would be a school night she settled on the eldest, 12-year-old Eric.

I left my daytime phone number, thinking she might change her mind after sleeping on it. She didn’t, and we went. Eric mentioned on the drive up that he’d never been to the Forum or, for that matter, a professional sports event. Hockey is a great spectator game for 12-year-olds, and Eric greeted every check into the boards with an approving grunt. The Kings and Jets scored 14 goals, and Eric said afterward he enjoyed it, and I assumed he meant the game as well as the nachos.

The evening had faded from view until I talked a couple of days ago with the friend with whom I originally hoped to go. He asked who went with me. When I told him, he said, “I can’t believe (Eric’s mother) let you take him.” He knows about these things. He’s the father of two.

So, what am I? Mad that such a simple act carries such heavy implications? Paranoid for worrying about how the boys’ mother would react to my offer?

I don’t think it’s either one. I’m not resentful. I know the kind of world we live in, and it’s the kind where parents must be fearful of neighbor guys who ask to take their kids out for an evening.

I accept that, and I’m not making a plaintive appeal for increased understanding of aging bachelors. I’m not angling to be featured on the next “Oprah” show.

What’s upsetting is that the creeps and genuinely sick people out there almost talked me out of asking in the first place.

What’s upsetting is that the climate of fear they’ve created almost kept a kid from seeing Gretzky score two goals at the first pro sports event he ever attended.

What’s upsetting is that Eric’s mom had to worry (if, in fact, she did) about her decision to let her son have a good time instead of just another night at home.

And what’s most upsetting of all is that I can’t figure out any way of making things any different.