Note: Some stories get better in the telling. This one doesn’t need to. It arrives fully formed—one line, perfectly placed—and has stayed that way ever since. I’ve told it for years and it still lands exactly the same. No embellishment required.
It’s September, 1989.
Two new teachers had just arrived at St. George’s School in Spokane, WA. These are Paul Hogan and Pete Aiken. Paul would go on to have a long and distinguished career, eventually becoming Principal of Jesuit High School in Portland—a major job, the kind that makes a life. I have no idea where Pete is today.
That night, my dad Ross invited them over to the house for dinner. It was one of those late-summer evenings that still carried a little warmth but hinted at the coming turn. Ross was out back at the grill, working over the barbecue with a beer in hand. The adults clustered nearby, talking, drinking, getting to know the new arrivals. There was that particular tone of adult conversation—half-professional, half-social, everyone just slightly aware of roles and impressions.
Out in the yard, it was just the three of us: Pat, Mike, and me. We were playing catch with a tennis ball. Nothing serious. Just throwing it around, loose, casual, the way kids do when the game isn’t really the point. At some point, either Mike or I made a bad throw. It sailed wide of Pat—too far, too high—and rolled past him.
A completely ordinary moment. The kind of thing that happens a hundred times in a backyard, in a summer, in a childhood.
Pat was six. He didn’t chase the ball. He didn’t complain. He didn’t turn to us. Instead, he turned—calmly, deliberately—and looked over at Pete Aiken, one of the brand-new teachers, a guest in our home, a man he had just met. And in a tone of quiet assurance, as if assigning responsibility in a meeting, he just said:
“On it, Pete.”
That was it. No smile. No wink. No awareness of what had just happened. The ball was recovered. The game went on. The adults kept talking. The evening continued. But something had shifted, just slightly, just enough.
Because in that moment, a six-year-old child had somehow crossed the boundary between worlds—between kids and adults, between play and work—and issued a line that did not belong to him, but fit him perfectly.
I don’t remember what happened next. I only remember that line. And I remember that we have been laughing about it ever since.
The On It Pete Blues (Pete’s POV)
I was new to the city, new shirt, new street,
Standing in a backyard trying hard to be discreet,
Ross on the grill and the talk running deep,
Just another first night—then I heard, “On it, Pete.”
I hadn’t been briefed, hadn’t learned the terrain,
Didn’t know the house or the shape of the game,
Just a beer in my hand, trying not to overreach,
Then a six-year-old turned and delegated to Pete.
Now I’ve worked in schools, I’ve handled my share,
Rooms full of noise, moments needing repair,
But nothing quite like that clean little feat—
Being calmly assigned by a kid in bare feet.
No panic, no pause, no doubt in his beat,
Just a glance and a nod—“On it, Pete.”
And the ball got found, and the night rolled on,
But I knew right then something strange had gone on—
In a yard full of voices, one line cut through the heat:
I wasn’t just visiting.
I was on it.
Pete.
Dedication:
For my brother Pat. And for Pete. Just get on it already baby.
Note: If you liked this story you may also like the stories below, which also cover my time at St. George’s High School.
The Kyoto Kibbitzer 