Family always comes first, and that’s what Jim strongly believed. So when his beloved grandson Oliver came home looking like he’d been dragged through a mud puddle by bullies twice his age, Jim knew exactly what he had to do. Those punks wouldn’t get away with messing with his family. Not today.
My name’s Jim. Folks around here call me “Ole Jim.” 72 and counting, I got a gruff voice and a beard so white and thick, it could scare the devil himself. Now, let me ask you, what would you do if someone bullied your grandkid? Not just any kid, but the one you raised like your own, the one you love more than life itself?
Just the other day, I had to go all Papa Bear on some teenage punks when my grandson, Oliver, came home a mess. Muddy clothes, tear-streaked face, he looked like a drowned kitten.
“What happened, Ollie?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. He just shook his head, more tears spilling over.
My wife, Matilda, who teaches embroidery at the local women’s association, came rushing over. She’s the calm in our storm, but even she was rattled seeing our boy like that. “Ollie, sweetheart, tell us what happened.”
He just kept shaking his head. I’d never seen my boy looking like this. My heart was, guys… in pieces.
“I don’t want to go to school anymore, Grandpa. Please don’t make me go,” Ollie cried.
I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my anger and worry in check. Someone messed with my grandson, and there wouldn’t be any sugar-coating this.
“Spill it, son,” I growled, my voice low and gravelly. “We ain’t going anywhere until you tell us what these tears are all about.”
It took a while, but we finally got it out of him. Turns out, some boys started picking on him at the parking lot on his way home.
Our house is just a quarter mile from the school, so Ollie walks. These boys, led by some kid named Simon, shoved him into a muddy pothole, called him names like “sissy” and “crybaby.”
My hands started to shake and my insides clenched as Ollie spoke about being scared to step out of the house again.
“They pushed me, Grandpa,” Ollie choked out, his voice cracking like a twig.
Tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over like rain down a window pane. Tiny fists clenched at his sides, white-knuckled with a fear that mirrored the tremor in my own hands.
“They laughed at me,” he continued, a sob catching in his throat, “said I couldn’t even stand up straight. I tried to get up, but they kept pushing me down.”
His words hit me like a gut punch. “What else did they say, champ?” I asked.
Ollie sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “They said my mom and dad ran away because they couldn’t stand me. Called me an ugly weasel too.”