I’m not sure how well known Stoop Ball is across the nation but it was a pretty big summer pastime growing up in Brooklyn. It generally involves tossing a ball, usually one of those pink ones we called Spaldeens, against the steps & catching it. There was something involving points depending on what step it hit & whether or not it was caught before it hit the ground.
This afternoon the dog wanted to go out so I let him out and then sat on the steps outside, enjoying the breeze that had cooled things off a bit. A few minutes later, Stephen walks out and says to the dog, “Hey Nicky, do you want to see a new game? It’s called, Let’s Hit Mommy.” He then slams a handball against the steps next to where I’m sitting. Lucky thing the boy has good aim because if I had gotten hit, there would have been serious consequences.
After a while, he got bored with the fact that I didn’t even flinch as he was tossing the ball so he decided to play with the dog. Nicky likes soccer and has a disgusting looking ball that is always sitting outside someplace.
I am starting to get the hang of the whole ’shutter speed’ stuff. Let me point out that the dog is running and the ball is not touching the ground. 
At one point, instead of just kicking the ball, Steve picked it up and tossed it to the dog, thinking maybe the dog, as big as he is, can catch something in his mouth that’s twice the size of his head. Sadly, he was unable to do that and the ball bounced off him instead.
I then had to scold my son. “That’s way too big for him to catch in his mouth.” Turning to the dog, I then said, “Sic him! Bite him!” At the time there were people outside picking up their kids from school. At least a dozen heads then turned in our direction, wondering who the cruel woman was who wanted the dog to attack her own son. Either that or they thought I was sending the dog after them and they were ready to grab their children and run.
In retaliation for that, Steve then goes in the house, stands by the door and says, “I hope you have your keys on you because you’re about to get locked out of the house.”
“Nope.”
“How about your cell phone?”
“No, I don’t have that, either. You had better not lock me out.” He stood there thinking about whether or not to proceed. I then added, “If that door closes, you will not have a single clean thing to wear or anything you like in this house to eat or drink for the next 2 months.”
The threat worked.
