As you grow older
the stakes get too high and the chasers have all the advantages. Harmless TV
bullets disappear and everything grows solid, concrete—only a fool could call
the chase a game now. As a kid, the chase was instinctive. It brought out the
animal, the drums, the emotion in you. The blood pumped, the adrenaline flowed,
and you felt alive and crazy, like a bird.
I had been
thinking about all this, growing sentimental, and was out for a walk on a day
that was too cold for spring and too bright for winter. Standing at the corner,
head down, I heard an object whistle by my ear. Then another. The third one hit
me in the shoulder, one of the season's last snowballs. I growled.
Across the street
were three laughing urchins, watching me, poised to take off. Naturally all the
thoughts I have just related went zinging through my head, and I looked at
myself. I had on leather-soled boots and a heavy winter coat. The boys smirked.
They were wearing Converse All Stars, blue jeans and sweat shirts.
Looking down the
sidewalk, I saw nothing but dirty puddles, black snowdrifts and mud. I started
to walk on, and then stopped. Jeez, what is wrong with you? I said to myself.
You aren't playing fair.
I looked across
the street at the brats. "Why you little snot-nosed runts!" I screamed
as I started in their direction. "I'll catch each one of you and tear you
limb from limb! You'll beg for mercy before I'm finished!"
like buckshot, shrieking. The chase was on.