Our neighborhood could have been a set from The Wonder Years. Every summer, my sister and I romped around until supper time with the boys from across the street. Matt was the oldest and therefore the coolest. Junior lived next door to him and loved all things basketball. Once we took him on a family vacation to one of my dad’s coaching clinics in Las Vegas. He reached brotherly status during that long car ride through the desert when he peed on me during a tickle fight with my dad. Dan was the youngest and had a crush on me. But I was more interested in timed bike rides around the block than I was in boys. One time Matt rigged up a wire from the roof of his house to a tree in his back yard and we took turns hanging onto a pair of handle bars and flying from end to end. I bit off more adventure than I could chew, lost my grip and fell flat on my back. I couldn’t move. Matt freaked out because he thought my parents would kill him for letting me Evel Knievel my way to paralysis at the tender age of under ten. He picked me up and carried me home. When my mom opened the door he handed me over to her, cried like a baby and begged forgiveness. I was doing my own stunts again in less than 24 hours.
This is where a bunch of my writing lives.