Most days, you could find my friends and I outside playing. Whatever season it was - football, basketball, baseball - we were playing it. And then throw in kickball, tag, building forts, chasing bad guys, fishing, swimming, you name it. We also had bikes to get us where we wanted to go. Or to jump ramps and play games.
One of our more dangerous games about this time was ramming the back tire of another person’s bike with your own bike. It took some balance and moxie to stay upright, but the last one standing was the champion. Our parents found out about our little game, and had instructed us to stop playing it - for obvious reasons.
A few days later, we were playing again. Judson hit my back tire with his front tire and I went down. A bloody knee and hand that needed a little hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, and a Band-aid or two. I went inside the house, quietly tiptoed into my mom and dad’s bathroom where the first aid stuff was kept. Startled when my mom walked in, I waxed eloquently about how I tripped and fell when I was running.
About that time, the doorbell rang. It was Judson, who sheepishly apologized for ramming my bike.
Let’s just say Judson wasn’t the one who got in trouble.
The truth always comes out. Eventually,
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