A couple of weeks ago, Jamie was telling me about something that happened at work and it reminded me of a story from my childhood. I don't remember what the story was because it happens all the time but as usual, Jamie got quite a kick out of it. In her mind, my childhood looked exactly like a Norman Rockwell painting or The Sandlot. She may very well be right. I spent my summers running around barefoot, shooting pretend bad guys throughout the neighborhood, playing baseball with the local kids, and basically doing anything I could to make sure my bath water at the end of the day was as dark as possible. My winters had less variety but essentially mirrored my summers in that I would do anything to stay outside. After the day's sledding got boring I would sit in my snow fort for hours, planning how I was going to avoid talking to girls the next day at school.
So, at my wife's insistence, I'm starting a "Childhood Stories" series. These stories may not come across as well as they do in person but if nothing else, I'll have them written down and saved. That way, if my kids are ever wondering "Did dad ever think that spinning around 50 times and then trying to run across the yard, thereby running sideways into his friend's parents' fancy gazebo and breaking the railing was a good idea?", they can look back at this and see that yes, yes he did.
I grew up in the days when you could run around your neighborhood with fake weapons and not have the neighbors lock their doors, draw the shades, and call the cops. While other kids were inside playing F-Zero on their Super Nintendo, I was running shirtless from back yard to back yard, protecting the block from nebulous groups of pretend bad guys who for some reason wished us harm. My main instrument of defense was my trusty lever-action rifle. After watching my Davy Crockett tape, I would grab my rifle and head outside to bring what I had just seen to life. I was able to pick off bad guys hiding in trees from a long range. If the there was a greater number of bad guys than my single shot rifle could handle, my sub-machine gun was my tool of choice. I usually only used it near dusk because it was kind of a pinkish-purple color and no self-respecting defender of the people wants to be seen with that color of a gun. When the bad guys brought out the heavy machinery (usually disguised as cars passing in front of our house) I brought out my Desert Storm tripod-mounted machine gun. I called it "The Schwarzkopf" because I heard that name associated with the Gulf War all the time. I thought it was some weapon that was inflicting huge damage and helping us win the war. In reality, I guess I was right.
Now, my limited knowledge and imagination could only take me so far during these skirmishes. My enemies were usually faceless, nameless, and in retrospect, not very good at their job. I won every time. I was never even wounded and the bad guys were all eliminated in 15 minutes or so. It was when I started playing with my friend Grant that things started to get serious.
Grant had lots of guns. He could make the correct noises for each gun with his mouth. He had tactics and hand motions that we could use to communicate with each other on the battlefield. He even put a name to the nameless bad guys I had been fighting for so long on my own. Commies. We weren't totally sure who they were or what they were all about but we watched enough Chuck Norris movies to know that they needed to be dealt with, usually in sleeveless t-shirts and with a random strip of black cloth tied around our heads. We didn't win without struggle, either. Every half hour or so, one of us would take a bullet to the leg, go down, and need to be dragged back to the base (the garage). A kitchen towel tourniquet would be applied, strategy discussed, Capri Sun slammed, and then we'd be back at it because everybody knows that commies only take a break for vodka. And we didn't have any to offer.
As the years went by, sports eventually took the place of combat and it's a shame. If Uncle Sam is ever invaded and calls on me, how am I going to tell him that I let all of my combat skills atrophy? I mean, if the skills necessary to defeat the invaders is the ability to throw a ball into a hoop or throw a smaller ball over a white plate, I can definitely be a contributor to the defense of the motherland. But I doubt that will be the case. So consider this my apology. I should have never forsaken my training and duty for other activities just because girls like athletes. I pray we don't regret it.
Real Estate Note: I held an open house this weekend at one of my listings and there was a bottleneck at the door. Seriously. People were lined up outside waiting to get in. There are huge numbers of buyers out there and not enough homes for sale. If you're thinking about selling, now is a great time. I would love to help you out.
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