Chapter 1 FireBall
It was the middle of July, and the summer heat had us all hating to be indoors. Seeking adventure was our obvious refuge. It was close to sunset, and I was on my way to meet up with the fellas: Chris, Robert, and Adam. It was right before the beginning of our sophomore year in high school, and we all wanted one last, final night out—one our parents would never let us forget. We wouldn't have had it any other way.
To pull it off, everyone told their parents they were staying the night at my place. Were we really gonna stay there? Hell to the no. The boys were back in town tonight, and we had one night to make it count before they all got grounded and couldn't hang out with me for a couple of weeks.
We met up in the back of my apartments to come up with a game plan. The mission? Go to the park and play a game that was well known to us as "Fireball." I know what you’re thinking: what the hell am I about to hear? Well, let me tell you. Fireball was a game we created. You take a ball of some sort—our ball of choice was a tennis ball, the smallest of the sports balls, but packed with a nice density. Next, you require gasoline. That’s right, I said gasoline.
There were two ways to play, but both required generously pouring gas over the tennis balls. Next, you had options on how to make contact with it. The main option was a hockey stick. If there weren't enough hockey sticks, you better have brought boots, because next, we were lighting those tennis balls on fire and shooting them at each other—testing our reflexes and finding out how much of *The Matrix* was actually true and not some candy-ass fictional movie. And no, just in case you’re wondering, the tennis ball absorbed the gasoline, so if it hit you, you wouldn’t burst into flames; you just got burned. That's all. No fatalities.
Anyway, there we were, breaking into the baseball field's sports closet. THEY SHOULD HAVE DONE A BETTER JOB LOCKING THINGS UP THAT THEY DIDNT WANT LIT ON FIRE. THEIR FAULT. While me and Robert were doing that, Adam and Chris were getting the gas can and riding their bikes back from the gas station. Why a gas attendant would even sell gasoline to some minors on bikes is beyond me.
We all met up at the basketball court and began lighting up those soon-to-be fireballs, triggering the future trauma we’ll tell our own kids about one day. One after another, we kicked and smacked those burning balls toward each other. I ended up getting hit in the arm, leaving a nice burn on the back of my forearm. Trying to remember which arm it was nowadays just reminds me of how not-so-young I am anymore. I still got it, though—no worries, people. Anyway, let’s move on from the first event. In the end, I was the only one burned. Lesson learned: next time, wear a sweater.
