Fair Game

“STEP RIGHT UP!!! GIVE IT YOUR BEST SHOT!!! Wanna give it a go, kid?”

His eyes light up — but only for a second before his dad pulls him back into the river of people. The man running the game, dressed like he’s been losing a fight with the sun all day, leans back into the shade of his stall.

“Maybe next time,” he mutters, then snaps right back into his carnival voice, shouting for the next crowd.

“Dad,” the boy tries, “can I play a game?”

But his dad doesn’t hear him. The crowd is too loud. The music is too loud. Even the gravel under his little shoes feels loud.

So he just follows.

They weave between groups of people, his dad’s hand wrapped tight around his. A left. Then a right. Then a circle? He doesn’t know where they’re going. He just goes.

They slow to a stop. His dad crouches down so they’re face‑to‑face.

“Hey, what do you want to eat?”

But the voices around them blur together, muffling everything. And the sight of cheese being poured over a mountain of tortilla chips — the chopped tomatoes, the onions, the green stuff Dad puts in everything — steals whatever words he had left. His mouth hangs open, useless.

“Adrian!” his dad yells.

One of the passerbys looks over and laughs, thinking it’s some kind of impression. Adrian snaps out of his cheese‑trance and blinks up at his father.

“Huh?”

“What do you want to eat?”

“Nachos.” It comes out instantly.

His dad nods, turns, scans the crowd for the shortest line. He grabs Adrian’s hand and off they go again, weaving through bodies and noise and colors.

They reach a food truck almost immediately.

“Could I get two nachos with everything on it, please?”

“Six hundred eighty‑seven dollars and forty‑two cents!” the guy behind the counter yells back. Adrian can’t see his face — just the voice booming from somewhere inside the metal box.

His dad laughs, pays, and pulls him to the side of the truck to wait.

A gap opens in the crowd — just a sliver — and through it Adrian sees a booth with a huge sign. A small brown creature pops out of an… O? Maybe it’s an O. People below the sign are holding mallets. Dad uses those in the garage sometimes. They’re whacking the table, over and over.

I wanna try.

“Dad, can I play a game?”

But his dad doesn’t hear him again.

Two hands pop out above his head — his dad reaching over the crowd to grab both trays of nachos. He hands one down.

“Be careful. Don’t drop it. Use two hands, please.”

His dad places a guiding hand on the back of Adrian’s head, steering him through the bodies and noise. Just a few turns, only one group of people to squeeze past, and then he sees them — benches. A whole row of them, waiting like a quiet island in the middle of the carnival.

His dad takes his tray as he climbs onto the bench, then sets the food in front of him and sits across. Glasses pushed up above the bill of his hat like always, and a cheesy smile glowing through the short facial hair.

Adrian smiles back.

“Are you having fun?” his dad asks.

But Adrian is already knuckle‑deep in cheese and sour cream. He pauses, looks up with a face full of toppings.

“Uh huh.”

He shovels a chip into his mouth, cheese spilling everywhere. His cheeks puff out as he chews like he’s racing the clock. His dad laughs and takes a bite of his own.

Before they know it, Adrian’s tray is empty. Practically licked clean.

His dad’s eyes widen. “Done already?”

His own tray is barely half finished.

Adrian wipes his sour‑cream‑covered face with the back of his hand, smearing it more than cleaning it. His eyes drift away from the table, scanning the carnival, searching for something — anything — that looks like a game.

He adjusts himself on the bench, knees up on the seat, trying to see past the crowd. Past the food trucks. Past the one truck he doesn’t even recognize. But that’s the one in the way.

Why does that have to be there? He can’t see anything. Just the man standing in the center, handing people something after they give him dollar bills.

Why would they put that there? It looks boring. Old wood, painted red and deep grey. Little metal buckets moving behind glass under the man’s hands.

A deep sigh slips out of him as his dad eats the last of his nachos.

With a chip halfway to his mouth, his dad asks, “What’s wrong?”

Adrian looks at him. “I can’t see the games ’cause this thing.” He points at the truck blocking his view.

His dad smiles. “Wanna see what that is?”

“No,” Adrian snaps. “I wanna play a game.”

His father leans in, voice soft. “Baby… that is a game. Come on. Grab your tray so we can throw it away.”

“No.” Adrian’s voice is sharp. “It boring. I don’t wanna see. I wanna play a game.”

“Just come with me and check it out. You don’t have to play it if you don’t want to.”

Adrian stands on the bench, little fists at his sides, face scrunched in frustration. But as the words sink in, his expression softens.

“I wanna play a game,” he repeats as the realization hits him.

He grabs his father’s hand, hops down, scoops up his tray, and together they walk toward the garbage can beside the truck.

It was taller up close. Way taller. Adrian couldn’t even see the bucket‑thing moving behind the glass.

Then suddenly he was floating — lifted slowly until he could see over the metal edge. A silver building truck. A backhoe toy painted shiny silver. He stares, wide‑eyed.

Below the bucket, a whole treasure pile waits: tiny toys, bits of candy, plastic rings, bright colors scattered everywhere.

His eyes light up like someone flipped a switch.

He twists around to look at his dad, who’s holding him up so he can see.

“Can I play this game?”

His dad sets him back down, pulls out a quarter, and lifts him again. Adrian slides the coin into the slot. The toy backhoe starts crawling out of its little hole.

His eyes have never been brighter.

That’s the part that moves. The bucket.

He grabs the joystick and nudges it left. The machine jerks and he jumps, startled. His dad chuckles softly behind him.

Moving it again, he watches the bucket swing back and forth as he pushes the stick.

“ALL GOOD OVER HERE?” The booming voice crashes over him like thunder.

He flinches and hits the button too fast. The bucket drops. Scoops. Knocks… nothing. Absolutely nothing into the prize slot.

His cheeks burn hot. A tiny growl rumbles out of him.

His dad lowers him gently to the ground.

“I’m thirsty, bud. Let’s go get something to drink.”

Adrian doesn’t move at first. He just stares at the glass, furious at the empty space where his prize should’ve been.

His dad takes his hand and leads him toward the lemonade stand. They join the line, the crowd buzzing around them.

He stares as the truck fades behind the crowd. The disappointment sits heavy in his chest, but then—another game. A ball‑rolling one. Bright lights. Bells. Rolling balls. I like rolling balls. I bet I’d be good at that.

“Dad, can I play this one?” But his dad doesn’t hear him. He’s already ordering the lemonades.

Adrian watches the game instead. People roll the balls, lights flash everywhere. It can’t be as hard as the bucket. It can’t.

His dad pulls him to the side with the receipt. A loud ring explodes from the booth. A group of teenagers scream and jump, celebrating their win. They raise their hands, laughing, clutching a giant stuffed animal like it’s treasure.

I want one.

“Dad, can I play this game?” he asks again, pointing.

His dad turns, finally making eye contact as he takes the two cups from the lady behind the counter. He hands Adrian the lemon‑shaped cup.

“Two hands, please.”

Adrian grabs it with both hands. But his feet are already moving toward the game.

His father turns fast, grabbing napkins “just in case,” and hurries after him, never letting him out of sight.

Adrian watches the teenagers walk away with their huge stuffed prize. I want one.

His father just follows as he walks right up to the booth.

The game attendant turns toward him. “How are you today, bud?”

Adrian just looks up at him. “I wanna play this game.”

The man chuckles. “Eighty‑seven dollar bucks.”

His father pulls out some money, and pays the man.

The attendant drags out a small stool — perfect height for Adrian. His dad steadies him with a hand on his back as he climbs up.

The ball was heavy. Huge compared to his hands. Adrian wrapped his fingers around it as best he could and stared down the metal track with the bump in the center.

Pfft. This is easy, he thinks.

He lowers his head, lining up his push. The wall in front of the ball drops, and he shoves with his little hands.

The ball rolls down the ramp, climbs the bump… almost reaches the peak… then rolls right back toward him.

He turns to his father like he just won something.

His dad smiles, leans in. “That was a good try. Next time, make it over the hill and maybe you could win this thing.”

The words hit him like fuel. He straightens. Determined.

The attendant rolls the ball back into his hands. Lights flash in a row down the sides of the track. Adrian watches them, trying to match the rhythm, the speed.

He pushes again.

The ball climbs the bump. Reaches the top. Stops for a heartbeat. Then rolls back down.

He looks at his dad again, hope shining in his eyes.

“Oh, so close,” his father says gently. “One more try. You got this.”

Adrian takes the ball from the attendant. He closes his eyes. Focuses. Hoping he can summon more power — the kind heroes get in the last five minutes of a show.

He opens his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Pushes with everything he has.

The ball shoots forward, clears the bump easily, climbs the far ramp, and rolls right back over the bump toward him.

He turns to his father, face glowing. “I did it. I win.”

He jumps on the stool, and his father grabs him quickly, steadying him.

“Better luck next time, bud,” his dad says as he lowers him to the ground.

Adrian freezes. Disbelief hits him like a slap.

But… I did it, he thinks. I did it.

His cheeks burn red. His fists clench. And he stomps away from the game, his father just inches behind him.

His little feet stomp heavily until he stops in front of another booth. Bright red lights shine from everywhere, lighting the walkway as the sky deepens into early night.

“Whack‑a‑Mole, huh?” his father says, sounding unsure if Adrian will be able to handle this one. “Are you sure about this? It’s a little hard, bud.”

Adrian doesn’t answer. He just walks straight up to the counter and tells the attendant, “I wanna play this game.”

His father shrugs and gladly pays the man.

The attendant hands Adrian the mallet. His dad steps back, giving him space but staying close.

The man presses the start button. Adrian focuses on the table. Not blinking. Not breathing. Just waiting.

A mole pops up in the far corner — and with perfect precision, Adrian whacks it back down.

His dad freezes. Watches. His shock grows with every hit Adrian lands. He glances at the attendant. The attendant glances back. Both wearing the same “what is happening” expression.

Adrian keeps going, whacking his little heart out, the score climbing higher and higher. Lights flash. Bells ring. The whole booth erupts in noise.

Adrian throws the mallet to the ground and screams in pure, explosive excitement.

His father scoops him up instantly, hugging him tight and spinning him around.

“New high score, buddy! That was nuts!”

Adrian beams, turning to the attendant, waiting for the prize, the celebration, the moment.

But the attendant just stares. Then looks away, uncomfortable.

“Isn’t there a prize?” his dad asks.

The man looks confused. “Uh… no. This is just a game for fun. No prizes.”

Adrian turns his head slowly, disbelief creeping in.

“Come on, man,” his dad says, still cheerful but trying. “You don’t have anything to give my little man? He just got a high score on his third carnival game ever.”

The attendant shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry.”

His dad leans in, lowering his voice. “Look, dude… I’ll pay you for something. Anything. That’s all he wants…”

The silence hits harder than the mallet ever did.

The guy looks behind his counter. He jumps like he’s found something.

“Oh!” he says, grabbing something from under the counter.

He pulls up a portrait of Micah Jorgenson — the famous Foosball player.

“I have this.”

Adrian’s father takes it. “Who the fff—” He cuts himself off. “Thank you,” he says quickly, walking away and handing the picture to Adrian.

Adrian tucks it under his arm. He’s not happy about it… but a prize is a prize.

They walk farther down the midway when a man spots them and calls out.

“HEY!! THE ONES WITH THE JORGENSON PICTURE!!!”

Adrian’s father turns. Another game attendant is waving them over.

He picks Adrian up and carries him to the booth.

The guy behind the counter leans in. “Where’d the picture come from?”

He looks down at Adrian’s arm, where the portrait is tucked.

“The Whack‑a‑Mole booth,” Adrian’s father says. “He said it’s all he had for my son.”

The man bursts out laughing.

“That picture has been running through this carnival for years. Every year someone gives it to another booth. He’s just the one guy who doesn’t like to play the game with us.”

He taps the name on the portrait. “They call him Misfire Micha.”

Adrian’s father looks at the picture again, eyebrows raised.

The portrait looked weirdly like the Whack‑A‑Mole guy, but Adrian didn’t notice.

“He’s that desperate to get rid of it?” the attendant says, still laughing.

He leans down toward Adrian. “Look, kid… I’ll trade you one of these pictures for yours.”

He gestures to a row of glossy photos — athletes, celebrities, cartoon characters — all way cooler than a foosball legend.

Adrian’s father smiles down at him.

“I want a big amamal,” Adrian says.

The attendant laughs again. “I’ll tell you what, kid. If you can pop one of these balloons with these three darts… we can do a trade.”

Adrian thinks for a moment.

The attendant extends his hand. “Deal?”

Adrian grabs it. “Deal.”

The attendant lays the darts along the counter. Adrian grabs all three in one little hand. He winds back, steadying himself, preparing for the throw.

He releases.

The darts fly in three completely different directions.

One shoots straight at the attendant, who has to duck. The second drops directly to the floor. But the third…

The third dart soars toward the board — spinning perfectly, flying straight, like it was thrown by someone who actually knows what they’re doing.

The tip slices through the air and sticks the landing.

Right in between two balloons.

Adrian’s father hangs his head. “Dang. Maybe we try again next year, buddy.”

The attendant slowly pokes his head back up, checking if the coast is clear. He turns around — and sees the dart lodged exactly where a balloon should have been.

He shouts:

“WINNER WINNER!!! WE HAVE A WINNER HERE, FOLKS!!!”

He winks at Adrian’s father.

Adrian’s dad scoops him up, tossing him into the air as Adrian explodes into pure bliss. He’s so excited he can barely breathe.

The attendant approaches with a stuffed hot dog — long, floppy, ridiculous. Adrian’s father isn’t sure he’ll like it, but hands it over anyway.

Adrian takes it. Stares at it. Then celebrates his victory.

“WoooHooo!!!” he yells.

His father picks him up again as the attendant claps for him. Adrian feels himself rise higher — his dad lifting him onto his shoulders.

He is so happy. So ecstatic.

He tosses the hot dog into the air, watching it spin upward, higher and higher—

—and swoop.

A bat streaks past, snatching the stuffed hot dog mid‑air.

The cheering stops instantly, as they all watch the hot dog fade into the night sky.

His dad didn’t say anything. He just held him a little tighter.