Hansen: Boy’s death is a reminder of our tenuous grip

We were running late to a Little League game.

My 8-year-old son and I parked across the street from the field. He grabbed his bag from the trunk, and I remember saying, “OK, run.”

And so he ran, right in front of a car.

Time suddenly slowed. I screamed but nothing came out. I tried to stop the car with my arms but nothing moved. As my son flew through the air, I wanted to fly and catch him.

When he landed 20, 30, 40 feet away, time came crashing back. He rolled and crumpled like a doll, his face frozen in fear.

And so it was with sympathy and horror that I read about 8-year-old Brock McCann last week, struck and killed by a garbage truck in Newport Beach. He was just riding his bike home from school.

It was an early out, so Brock probably was eager to get home and play, which is what most 8-year-olds do. They have that enviable ability to dream about simple, cool, creative things in their own world.

But he never made it. The intersection where he was hit is now filled with flowers. What was once an anonymous residential corner on 15th Street is now a beacon of sorrow and grace.

His classmates wrote on colorful poster boards with heart-wrenching honesty. There are toys, pictures, stuffed animals and sidewalk chalk. The candles burn all day.

The details of what happened seem unimportant at this point, but they will help provide closure to the family at the right time.

It is a tough location. There is a house being remodeled, so there’s a dumpster out front. There’s a thick tree and a tall fence, perhaps obscuring the driver’s view.

Brock came from behind the fence. He was so little, doubtless hard to see.

The driver will never be able to shake it.

Tough, all the way around.

Moms come by regularly and place more flowers. With their hands on their hips, they stand and stare. Wanting to be helpful, they rearrange the flowers, propping them up and making them look better.

Invariably, they will break down and sob quietly.

It’s every parent’s worst nightmare. We tell them so many times: Be careful, be careful, be careful. Look both ways. Be careful.

It never goes away.

My son survived his accident, but it changed things.

I remember at the time, as I was cradling him on the ground, I blamed myself as a father. He was the youngest of three boys, which meant I let my guard down. So protective at first, the concern wanes with each child. You still worry, but you’re no longer a doting helicopter.

During his recovery, I told him I loved him countless times a day.

Even now, six years later, he still stiffens when he crosses the street. His face becomes flat and serious, his jaw tightens and he turns hyper-alert.

For the first couple years afterward, he would grab my hand and shadow me.

It made me feel less than, like I had permanently caused a fear in him, something that would permeate other areas of his life.

Would he cower when he needed to stand tall?

Would he second-guess himself and never truly reach his potential?

Would he have the confidence to love completely?

Comparatively speaking, I’m grateful I have these worries. My son survived. So many other children do not.

A spokeswoman for the McCann family sent out more details about the boy, describing his adventurous, sensitive nature. One line caught my eye: “Brock always wanted to hold his father’s hand, no matter what the two of them were doing.”

If only that tether could happen at will.

If only we could reach out and snatch them back.

If only we could stop time and grab that hand forever.

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DAVID HANSEN is a writer and Laguna Beach resident. He can be reached at hansen.dave@gmail.com.