The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

I was talking to my neighbor Kimberly in the front yard. As our boys quietly played together on the front steps, I anxiously cupped my crotch with both of my hands.

"Why are you doing that?" Kimberly asked in horror.

"Oh, just wait," I replied.

Then right on cue, my son sprang off the steps and sprinted around the yard to build up some speed. Murphy turned the corner and ran straight at me like a kamikaze, dive bombing his two tiny fists directly into my crotch. The jarring blow reverberated throughout my whole body. A small burp of vomit bubbled in my mouth. Then Murphy did a celebratory touchdown dance, yelling to the whole neighborhood, "I got my daddy in the tenders!"

My son's Testicle Offensive started a few months ago. Ever since the blockbuster summer film Kung Fu Panda hit the theaters, I've been repeatedly hit in the nuts. The funniest scene in the movie is when cuddly Po the Panda (voiced by Jack Black) gets hit in his crotch and moans with great cartoon silliness, "Oh! My tenders!" The scene was the highlight of Dreamworks' blitzkrieg marketing campaign and my son was quickly hooked. Every kid who has seen the film or the commercials absolutely loves that part. Hell, I even laughed out loud when I saw it.

But my son took the colorful cartoon humor as a real life declaration of war on my genitals. All day everyday, he hits me in my balls. (And I know how this all sounds. It is really sophomoric humor for a writer to be chronicling about his balls. But I'm being dead serious. Before you judge me, how about you walk around town with a bulls eye on your groin. Then we'll talk.) Now days, I walk around my own house all flinchy and paranoid like a post traumatic war vet. His tiny fists hunt me. The worst part is that Murphy always strikes when I'm least expecting it. I will be chit chatting on the phone and Bam! I get tagged and go down like a sack of bricks. Every time he clocks me, I crumble to the ground with theatrical flair, moaning and writhing in pain. To a preschooler who's all hopped up on Apple Jacks and Hi-C, that is like the Greatest. Game. Ever.


My wife is no help either. I've caught her on several occasions holding a hand to her mouth trying to contain her erupting laughter. Sarah's favorite (guilty pleasure) show is "America's Funniest Home Videos," a video clip program that shows hilarious real life scenes of brides with their gowns on fire and dogs with their heads stuck in buckets. But the clips Sarah finds the funniest are the ones that show men getting hit by flying objects. I secretly believe she is the puppet master behind Murphy's Ball Assault Regime, sort of like "Dick" Cheney.

After a few painful weeks, I finally declared "Operation Testy Freedom." I laid down the serious threat of no more TV/DVD time if Daddy gets hit. The attacks finally ceased. But just the other day, Kung Fu Panda arrived at the Hopkins dollar movie theater and my son was juiced for another "Testicle Insurrection." Shortly after Murphy saw the movie for the third time, he violently broke our peace accord. I was walking into the house with a heavy bag of groceries in each hand. He saw me standing in the back door like a big dummy and couldn't resist. My utter defenselessness was the opportunity of a lifetime.

"Oh, don't you even think about it," I ordered. Then I saw his little blue eyes start to swirl in a hypnotic trance. Before I could set my bags down, he flicked his tiny foot right into my groin. The groceries hit the floor first. Then I dropped. After I dried the tears from my eyes, an epiphany blossomed out of the pain.

I bolted down to the basement and dug through my hockey equipment bag. I found my jock strap nut cup and wiggled that thing on over my shorts. I walked upstairs with my balls completely protected. I was finally ready for battle.

I casually talked on the phone to my friend Gumbo, loitering in the open area of my living room like a wildebeest standing near a water hole. Murphy patiently circled the room, comically pretending to look for something. When he was within striking distance, he pounced. This time he hit nothing but plastic and metal. He ran away completely flustered. For the first time in years, I felt smart.

Then I heard a great rummaging sound coming from the back of the house. I walked into the kitchen and caught him digging through the kitchen utensil drawer. He pulled out a soup ladle.

Oops. I didn't see that one coming.