I Am Not The Nice Guy Hulk

It's a scene that has been portrayed so many times it's a cliche: A bunch of uncaring brutish young men are rough-housing around the pool and ruining the fun of all the families nearby. Perhaps one chap confronts them, but he is mercilessly knocked down and scurries away with his proverbial tail between his legs. The result is a continuing miserable time for all.

But suddenly, Mr. Nice Guy Hulk comes by and "politely" tells the miscreants to cut it out. They, then, become the ones scurrying away, proverbial tails and all.

This scene happened to me earlier today, and, with no Nice Guy Hulks in sight, I had to play his part.

It started with a group of twenty-something guys drinking beer and tossing a football across the pool. They were particularly bad, and the ball kept flying off and almost hitting people. No one really paid them any mind because "almost hitting someone" isn't really the same as "hitting someone."

Well, it didn't take too long before the ball veered wildly from its intended target and hit the young boy my eight year old daughter was playing with. It hit him along his cheek, and I could tell that it hurt. The intended target of the errant pass realized that they had crossed over the line from "we're being reckless enough that we might hurt someone" to "shit, we actually hurt someone" and immediately told the boy he was sorry. He then yelled to the passer to come down and apologize, but by then the boy had moved on to commiserate with my daughter. The passer laughed it off and just asked for the ball.

This pissed me off, but I foolishly felt that the group would be more careful. Well, they continued to throw the football, and the passes continued to fly to the left, right, and over the head of the intended target.

Then one of the passes happened to veer off target and smack my daughter square on the side of the head.

She was crying, and I immediately went to her. I absent-mindedly picked up the football as I comforted her. As she settled down, I turned to the guy who passed the ball. He was about ten yards away, so I raised my voice, and, loud enough for the whole pool to hear, said, "Can't you guys find a better place to play football." It wasn't voiced as a question.

The passer just shrugged and stood there. It was then that I realized I had the football, and he was actually waiting for me to pass it back to him. It was at this point that I lost my temper a bit. I don't lose my temper very often, and I'm told that I have a rather scary and intense look when I do. Whatever the case, I then said, rather forcefully, "Can't you find a better fucking place to play football?" I then turned and rather disgustedly tossed the ball to his buddy the intended pass recipient.

The group didn't throw another pass the rest of the afternoon.

I'd like to say that it was my temper-driven intensity that drove them to stop. Or the on-the-verge-of-boiling-over anger in my voice. I'd also like to say that I look like the kind of guy that bullies don't want to mess with. In short, I'd like to say that I fit the Nice Guy Hulk profile, but, to be honest, none of that is true.

I was standing there in loose fitting polyester workout pants masquarading as a swim suit, my belly hanging over the elastic, wearing glasses patched together with white medical tape, and patchy sunscreen smeared on my bald spot. It sure as hell wasn't my intimidating presence that brought peace to the pool. I realize now in hindsight why the men cowered and humbled themselves into stopping. It wasn't me at all; it was the crying 8 year old at my side.

Nobody wants to be known as the guy that hurts little girls. And all I did was make the fact very public to the entire pool. I may be intense, but they weren't intimidated by me or scared of me. I was simply a conduit between my daughter's pain and their consciousness. The poor boy who was hit in the head earlier didn't have a parent at the pool. He was, sadly enough, easy to shrug off.

So I did play the role of the Nice Guy Hulk, although I sure as hell didn't look the part. All I did was speak up.

Sometimes that's enough.