On the street that I lived, West
Fifth St., there was never a shortage of kids to play sports. We would flatten
a can and play street hockey, cut a pimple ball in half and play half ball,
line up on both sides of the street and play red rover red rover send “Jonny”
right over. When we wanted to play touch football we headed to Dorchester
Heights. The older boys would choose sides. Being the youngest and the shortest
I never was actually ever chosen but through a process of elimination ended on
one side or the other. One particular game after a long time the score was
even. Time was running out and we would soon have to return home. In the huddle
our captain and quarterback had a plan.
Everyone was to head left and draw
the defense there. To me he said I was to go right and stand one foot over the
goal line and wait. He knew that no one ever covered me. Everything went
according to plan. As I turned I saw the football spiraling at me at a 100
miles an hour. Please God don’t let me drop this. They will never let me play
again. I’ll be the laughing stock of the neighborhood.
The football hit me directly in the chest and it hurt like hell. But I held on and weathered the pain. My team mates cheered and triumphantly walked me home. Andy Warhol was right. Everyone is entitled to 15 minutes of fame.
