A Young Boy

A young boy, age seven, played outside the Harvard brand, size 32 ft. x 60 ft. trailer house in the yard that was enclosed by a rusty chain link fence.
Looking out the mobile home window, his Mom could see the small stature of a brown-haired boy with broad shoulders enjoying a robust game of football.  Bart always plays with a wide smile on his face, she thought.  The kind that tilts slightly upward, causing his cheeks and dimples to rise making his eyes twinkle in glee.
The youngster held a football to the ground as he made his goal line stance.  He would then yell, “Hike!” and run to the far end of the yard heaving the ball down hard into the soft Bermuda.  After he spiked the ball, he did a victory dance, moving wildly and waving his arms.
His fabricated play would cause him to laugh hysterically and roll in the green grass, clutching the ball tightly.  Bart enjoyed the game, all by himself.  The hours he spent watching his heroes and their actions, gave him ideas for a fun time.
Wearing his favorite shirt, a tee cut up about eight inches from the bottom, he exposed his tanned belly to the world with great pride, just like an official ball player.
After the shock of what he had done to that brand new shirt with the household scissors wore off his Mom, Bart would put that half-shirt on every chance he could.
One day the boy visited the elderly neighbor lady and came into the house with a picked bunch of sweet smelling flowers for his Mom.
“Those are beautiful, but where did you get them?” She asked the young man smirking at her.  A look that said he was taking a great deal of pleasure from his unselfish act.
“From next door.” He answered innocently.  “Well, son.  They really are nice, but did you ask the lady first?” His mother inquired, careful not to alarm him unnecessarily.
“No, but they were so pretty and I knew you would like them.” He answered assuredly.
“I do.  Thank you for thinking of me, but please don’t pick anymore.  Mrs. Lovelace works hard in her garden to have pretty flowers.  Next time, be sure and ask.  O.K.?” She told her son.
“O.K. Mom.  Can I watch football now?” He asked.
“Go ahead,” she answered. 
“Good,” he responded practically running to the T.V.  “Dallas is playing against the Oilers.  I want to watch Dallas cream the other team!” Bart exclaimed.
With five games going on at once, one Saturday he couldn’t decide which to watch.
Sometimes the boy would go into great detail about who played what position, how long they played with Dallas and who was the best tackler on the team.
Occasionally, his eagerness would take over, and anyone, within listening distance of his home, could hear him yell excitedly, “ All right!  Touchdown!”
The boy would make his Mom sigh in awe of his enthusiastic creativity.