Kickball

Do you remember kickball? You know, that cross between baseball and soccer but worlds better than both? When I was a little kid, around second grade I think, we played kickball every day. Sometimes twice and three times, depending on the recess schedule for the day. We all had those awesome pump-up shoes that had the little bubble on the tongue, and we KNEW that pumping that bubble a certain number of times would give us the best kick EVER. You know, a little extra cushion, er... something like that. I miss those days. One thing I used to fantasize about was if there ever were a "Kickball World Series," my friends and I would beat the living hell out of any other wannabe team that crossed our path. I thought it would be so awesome if we could ever find out where this mythical, magical world series would be. Then, we'd get in and win, with an incredibly tense last-minute grand slam by yours truly. Oh, it would be sweet. Elementary school was great for that reason. We could do whatever we could imagine. Sometimes, that wasn't such a good thing, like the time I kicked that one kid in the neck. He was pissing me off by, like, "looking at me funny," or something like that. So, I argued with him about whose dad could beat up whom for awhile, then I got fed up and kicked him in the neck. He cried, and I think he actually had to go home. I got sent to the principal's office, but I somehow (and nowadays I really wish I remembered how) talked my way out of it. I think I said something like, "He was tying his shoe, and I tripped over a rock and my foot hit his neck... (now, the magic words) ON ACCIDENT." Whatever it was, it was a terrible excuse, but it just might be that, if it weren't for the gullibility of the principal, I'd be one messed up guy today.