The average person's life is a bit of a roller coaster ride, with varying degrees of highs and lows and you really never know what is coming next. One second your favorite song comes on the radio, you're singing along tapping the steering wheal to the beat of the music, then you pull into the driveway, open up your mail box and BAM! fourteen bills all due the same week. There went that good feeling.
Some of the hills and valleys are bigger. You ask the girl you love to marry you, she says yes, the bank approves the loan for that perfect little bungalow the two of you found togehter, and then BAM! she runs off with Carlos your favorite waiter from the little Mexican restaurant that has always been the two of y'alls spot.
No, none of that happened to me today. I had no earth shattering news to deflate my good news yesterday, but I do know how fast a fella's fortune can turn, and since I have poked fun at a lot of other people on this blog(old bosses, former friends, the general public) I thought it only right for me to occasionally take my turn in the barrel and tell you about a the times when I got a little cocky, or a bit too wrapped up in my own good fortune.
I think I will make this a regular feature every Tuesday kind of like I have done with the Feedstore Chronicles on Sundays. What I want is for y'all, my loyal readers, to help come up with a catchy name for these segments. I'll compile a little homemade CD of some good Ol' Texas music and mail it to the person that comes up with the best name by ... let's say Saturday.
I grew up on a pretty average middle class street. There were a dozen or so kids close to my own age within a block or two radius. Most days we congregated at the vacant lot that was catty-corner to my house. Sometimes we stayed there and played baseball, or raced our bikes, or tortured toads, others we took off for someone's backyard, or the park, or whatever. Occasionally, we fought.
There was this one kid named Robert Whitlow, he was a year younger than me and most of the time we got along but at least once a month we grated on each others nerves until we came to blows. In his defense I did have a habit of calling him Slobert Spitlow. Robert if you ever google your name and find this post consider it my apology. Like I said he was younger and smaller so I whooped him on a regular basis.(Nothing that I am proud of looking back.)
So there we were one day rolling around in the dirt. I had the upper edge as usual, which meant I was on top of him smacking him around or rubbing his face in the dirt or something. I was probably about twelve at the time.
Now I have said before that as a kid I got into the show and theatrics of Pro Wrestling. SO this one day I get the bright idea to throw the world famous Figure Four Leg Lock on Robert. I already had him whooped and now I could humiliate him, make him beg for mercy. After all, Ric Flair had recently won the NWA World Title with that very move and my older brother put me in it all the time so I knew it hurt like hell.
Robert was flat on his back on the ground so I stood up, held my chin up high, grinned at he crowd of other boys watching, just like Ric Flair would have done. I might have even let out his patent WHOOOO! as I grabbed Roberts right leg and spun around, when BAM! Robert reared back with his free left leg and kicked me square in the chest. Hard as a steel-shod mule.
Let me tell it is mighty damn hard to maintain that Ric Flair-esque swagger when you can't draw in so much as a single breath. And while you are struggling to breath it is outright impossible to remember how to finish applying the world famous Figure Four Leg Lock. And it doesn't take a kid very long to recognize his opponent is in a weakened state.
Yep, I'm here to admit Robert Whitlow walked away that day as the undisputed champion of the vacant lot. That was also the day the glory of Pro Wrestling faded and I had to admit it was all fake.