One summer day, I was with my three brothers in a park, swinging the bat, throwing and catching the ball, when some other youngsters approached. They were insistent about joining in, and on their terms. We conversed for a moment, and things grew more intense. They were a little bigger and larger in number, so we surmised that under the circumstances, we had one best option: Run.
At home, just a few blocks away, was our father. He saw us and our alarm, and asked, “What’s the matter?” We told him, and his response was as certain as it was calm: “Get in the car.”
It wasn’t long before we yelled, “There they are!” Our father, Frederick Jesse Jones—Frederick, by the way, means “peaceful ruler”—drove up next to our foes and and, from the window, asked if he could have a word with them.
