Knee-deep in children — trudging through a virtual tsunami of half-pints — is when it occurred to me: Group Easter egg hunts are an awful lot like the running of the bulls. Sure, there are some obvious differences. Bulls don’t wear Crocs. They sport horns and are all-too-eager to tickle your kidneys with them. They snort, stomp and charge down narrow streets while guys dressed in white scream, “Why didn’t I give up drinking like my wife asked!?!” Yet, as I stood with my daughter among the hordes of little ones, all waiting to rush the baseball fields at Palencia, I couldn’t help but think of all the similarities. The kids around me had the steely eyes of angry steers — intense, focused and a bit … well … there’s no nice way to put it … slightly deranged. They scuffed the ground with their shoes. A few snorted smoke out of their nostrils. And they gave adults like me the kind of look that said, “Look here, mister, if you’re fond of your knee caps, you’ll be scootin’ out of the way.” Parents walked their kids onto the field, positioned them, then quickly ran out of the dugout. “Be brave out there,” some said before crossing themselves and muttering under their breath to a friend, “His nose still hasn’t straightened out from last year.” A few children cried, but most stood there with eyes locked on the hundreds of candy-colored eggs strewn about the field. Every once in a while a … Continue reading The Running of the Eggs