Just another one of those short, rambling one-shots again. Nothing special...
Disclaimer: I don't own Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends.
"And Jordan Michaels shoots… He SCORES!"
I hate drifting off to sleep while I'm watching TV. The only thing I ever really watch on TV these days are Sports and the occasional news reading. I've never been much of a couch potato, you know? Still, these days, I drift off more and more. Perhaps I'm getting old, I don't know, but when I fall asleep, my head in my hand, stretched out on the sofa, I always end up missing the best bits. So as that familiar shout erupted from the TV, and I jolted from my nap so violently that I almost fell off the sofa, I was disappointed to find that I had missed my kid win the game for his team.
Yep. MY kid.
I can't escape him.
I open a sports magazine BAM! Turn on the TV BOOM! Jordan Michaels is everywhere.
It used to bother me. It wasn't that I wasn't proud of him. Of course I was! I mean, everyone knows his name. Everyone recognizes his face. But, you know, when ever I saw his face or heard his name, I would also think back to the… Accident. The day we lost. The day I lost. You know how I am; if I was present at the end of the universe, I'd be up sitting on some cloud, half-heartedly plucking at the strings of one of those tiny harps with my face dragging the floor, because I felt that it was MY fault that everyone was now pushing up daisies. So, inevitably, up until recently, I would always get a little down trodden about the fact that I ruined one of the most important games of my kid's life.
I missed the ball, and ended up getting my arm crushed as I pushed my kid out from under what might as well have been a bus falling from the sky…
I ran away.
I couldn't bare facing him, sad, broken and… Pathetic. So I dissapeared, hoping maybe he'd forget about me and what I did, and I didn't see him for another thirty years, 'til I returned home to Charleston, to redeem my pride and self respect, and to exorcise the ghost of that awful game that had been haunting me for three decades too long. I risked my life, facing off with Foul Larry. And I lost. Again… But this time, things were different. It was like suicide… Attempted suicide, what I did, but I was saved. By my kid. And everything was fine… I lost the game… But things are different now. Turned out, I wasn't a failure. I wasn't a pathetic loser like Foul Larry had said as he taunted and intimidated me. I was a hero. I didn't feel like one at the time, but, looking back I guess I was… Guess I am.
So now, things don't bother me anymore… Everything's different now… I feel… Happier, I suppose. Before, I used to hide behind this goofy too-big-for-my-face grin, but now, I don't have to. I smile because I want to, not because I feel I should. And one thing that brings a smile to my face is the fact that I was created by Jordan Michaels. My heart fills with pride and I can't help but smile. Because, when I'm watching a game and he shoots and he scores, as always, I can lean over and nudge the person next to me and say, with a smile "That's my kid."
That's my kid…
He should be visiting next year. Not one of those creator day picnics again, just a friendly visit, and he'll probably stay for a few days. He can't visit very often. You know how it is, him being a big time celebrity and all, but I'll be looking forward to seeing him again. I have so much to tell him, since I never did finish catching up with him when he came back to the house for a day or so two years ago, and I'm sure he has a lot to tell me. He called the other day, saying that he and his wife had a kid on the way. She's about three months pregnant I think, and it's BELIEVED to be a boy, but nobody's sure yet... It makes me think... When that kid's born does that make me an uncle, a brother, a cousin or a nephew? I asked my friend the other day; She said it made me a grand daughter... She thinks she's funny, but, hey, that's just the way she is. She normally gets a laugh out of me, that's for sure.
So, that adds onto those pride points. Not only is my kid a famous basketball player, and not only did he save my life, he's also going to be a Dad. I've been making a list of names; If it's a boy I was thinking Benjamin and if it's a girl, Carly. I did orginally think Michael for a boy, but, come on, Michael Michaels? Maybe I'm a bit "Out of it" in comparison to back when I was first created, but I know what not to call a kid if you don't want them to be picked on at school. So, yeah, Micahel got crossed off the list before I even wrote it down.
Still, point is, I'm not just trying to come up with names for just any baby. I'm coming up with names for Jordan Michaels' baby. My kid's baby.
I like the feeling of pride. It's like a balloon swelling in my heart and it makes me feel happy. When I feel proud of myself, of my friends, and especially Jordan Michaels. My kid.
I jumped as I suddenly felt two hands, warm palms, cold fingers, beginning to grip on to my shoulders, finger tips beginning to dig gently into my collar bone. I tilted my head backwards to look up at Zigzag Black, who was looking down at me with that familiar, lazy eyed stare. I've told her too many times to count that maybe she should go to an optician to get that sorted out, but, you know, I doubt that even the big guy upstairs could convince Zigzag to do something. I watched as a small smile appeared on her face.
"C'mon, ya lazy lump. Dinner's ready, and I ae waitin' 'round for you ta get yer arse down ta the dinin' room." she mumbled, tucking her hands under my underarms and pulling me up over the back of the sofa. As I stood up straight, my feet once again on the floor after she released me, she bent back over the sofa and grabbed the remote, switching off the TV, and then carelessly dropping it, so it bounced on the sofa for a moment, and then clattered quietly when it slipped off and hit the floor "C'mon."
I followed as she turned on her heel and headed out of the room and down the corridor, her hands stuffed in her pockets.
She stopped for a moment as I jogged after her, and then immediately started up again, limping along side me.
"So what were ya watchin'?"