"make a muscle, son." A sunny summertime vision out of the Norman Rockwell past. Dad, middleaged, healthy and proud, wears the smile of a successful Little League coach. Bobby or Timmy or Pete, a freckle-faced 9 or 10, crooks his slim arm and strains to pop that first bicep. To the side is a Betty Crocker mom, beaming at her new young man. And off in the back, pug nose sniffing in disdain, is Kid Sis. "Boys' games!" her elfin derision seems to say. "Showing you're strong. Proving yourself....
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