The World Cup. Sorry, I just didn't get into it. You see, I grew up a child of the '60s. We had no idea soccer, excuse me,
futbol, existed. There was no wimpy youth soccer. Our version of soccer consisted of a ball and was played on a grass field. That is where the similarity ended. There were no teams, no rules. I don't think there was even a score. We would swarm in mass, wind up, kick the ball. As hard as an seven year old leg could muster. Direction did not matter. Sometimes you hit ball, but most of the time you caught your buddy's shin. My friend Billy wielded his pointy black wingtips leaving many a kid clutching their bloody ankles after recess. One morning, Billy double dog dared me to kick the ball and hit Kimmy, who was quietly picking her nose on the other side of the playground. How could I refuse? My kick was effortless. The ball arched high over the swings and monkey bars and caught Kimmy flush on the ol' melon. Kimmy ran off crying like..., well like a little girl, to the teacher. I was sent to the principal for my little stunt, but it was well worth it. I became a playground legend and my feat was recounted by many for years to come.
