The front door slammed shut.

"Anthony! Gimme a beer, boy!" his father yelled as he fumbled with the switch on the old TV and stumbled backwards to collapse into the ripped, vinyl La-Z-Boy.

'Beer Boy!'� his father laughed at the alliteration. 'Beer Boy! Beer Boy!'�

Before Tony could respond to his command, his father snapped his head around toward him and locked onto Tony's blue eyes with his own red ones. He issued a low warning, "Do it now, godammit boy!"

At first Tony just stared, then he began moving slowly. He was pretty sure there was no beer, either in the fridge or down under the basement stairs.

"Whata hell is 'iss, boy? Shit, a man coulda die a' thirst by th'time you get yer lazy bony ass in gear. Yer worse'n 'at fat-ass bitch hidin' in th'garage. Move IT!" His speech was terribly slurred but clear enough to Tony. He understood well both the meaning of the words and their implication. And they were certainly loud enough for his mommy to hear, sitting on her old step-stool just inside the garage door with her hands on her ears.

A couple minutes later, Tony finally came down the two steps into the family room and walked carefully toward his father. His father's eyes drooped half-closed and his gap-toothed mouth hung wide open, drooling spit and the remnants of his morning vomit from the corner. His belt was unbuckled, his pants unbuttoned, his flannel shirt hanging out. His flabby arms and belly were still as he faded into oblivion. Bob Barker called enticingly from the television in front of Tony's father.

Tony stopped about ten feet away from his father. Although his feet carried his body to that spot on the mangy, mottled family room carpet, his mind was far, far away. His eyes were wide but didn't register his current surroundings. He was seeing himself rounding third and heading for home in T-ball last summer. He thought of all those people he didn't even know cheering for him to score.

'TONY! TONY! TONY!'� they shouted.

He remembered the warm, gleaming sunshine and the hugs and high-fives he received as he crossed the plate. The cheering lasted several minutes as the whole team celebrated their one win of the season. Everyone was his friend then.

He remembered sledding down deserted, white Coggin's Hill two months ago after the first real snow of the season. The quietness and solitude of that day came back to him sometimes. He remembered standing up top and looking at the white trees all around him. He turned slowly looking for every detail. He knelt on his right knee on the sled with his hands on the handles. He rocked back and forth, once, twice. On the third time he pushed off with all the strength of an under-nourished, over-beaten six-year-old boy. He felt the wind and ice splattering his eyes as he jetted down Coggin's. All was quiet except for his runners cutting through the powder and the wind in his ears. No one could see his big, toothy grin behind his brown ski mask, but he sure knew it was there. He was safe. He was free.

He remembered his mommy the way she looked five minutes ago before she cut and run leaving him again to fend for himself.

"Charlie, who's our next lucky contestant?"

'Well, Bob, it's Nyalatin Time!'�

He brought his hand up to give his father just exactly what he had been asking for.

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