November 18, 2001

Of course, the playground of Cary Elementary (in North Carolina) seemed huge and expansive, like the green hills of Ireland portrayed in the The Quiet Man. I was a little kid. Five feet of dirt was a mountain then.

But I remember the girls, ah yes, the ladies hanging out on those wooden poles with old tires nailed to them. Remember those things? There would be a rusty nail in it, which you would cut yourself on. Then kids would tell you, "You're going to get lockjaw, and then YOU DIE!" But the next day you're fine, and with band-aids on your arm. And a nice little scar to pick at.

But enough gore, back to the girls. Cheering on those tires, telling all the boys that this is their spot, they got there first. And the boys would tell them to get off, it's their turn. But the girls stood (sat) their ground (in the air). Good for them.

Oh, but these were fair maidens, helpless and in need of...er...help, and so I found my calling. I would protect these beautiful and stick-shaped girls. I would be their knight in shining armor.

And so, I challenged the closest boy, a small blond kid with glasses (I wasn't practically blind like I am now), telling him to "Leave them alone!" I pushed him down and took the assault. They ganged up on me, and even my pride wasn't enough to keep me standing.

And the girls would jump in, telling the other boys not to pick on me, not being fair, one against so many, pushing the boys down and away.

And the bell would ring, we would run back to class, forgetting all that nonsense, until the next day, when the neverending fight would start anew.

Except I never forgot, I would always believe I was their knight in shining armor. That I could always do good, just by pushing some kid down onto the ground. That I would always be proud of myself.

Poor little boy.