Going Lampostal

Well since fellow blog soldier Harford chose to emphasize the Cross in Crosswalk today, I thought I would pick up the slack and bring blogging back to the streets, as our "Capitalism Rules" friend has promised for days. Personally, Rob is very lucky to have a topic in reserve. Byt man, have I got some heightened expectations. You better have met someone cool while crossing the street, man. More than just a chicken.

So, like I said, back to the streets. Honestly, I have very little experience with the notion of crosswalks. I don't abide by them typically, using the rationale that my gangly legs can get me from Point A to Point B in a single (or perhaps double) bound. I'm sure one day the fuzz will get me for jaywalking due to my ignorance to the rules of the road, but if they do, well, that means I just get one more blog topic in reserve:

"So a cop pulled me over for jaywalking today. It's kind of humiliating when getting pulled over entails the ceasing of putting one foot in front of the other. Getting out of the car turns out to be a real pain as well..."

While my crosswork is limited, I can at least speak on behalf of several other items in the "Stuff you Find at your Local Intersection" Department. Benches? Yep, sat on 'em. Traffic Lights? Ran 'em, consecutively. (Hey, I let Brescia drive in Stone Harbor. It happens. Lampposts? Uh oh.

"Times rushing back. painful nostalgia attack..."

High school is an interesting time. See Mean Girls, if you don't believe me. Even if you avoid placing stereotypical names on your classmates, you still manage to define a role for yourself within said graduating class. I don't think I ever had a title or category, aside from being part of the Senior Slack Pack (Our motto: Take the Most Classes, Do the Least Work). But what I did leave SHS with, aside from a diploma and hurdle crossbar, was a defining moment.

I don't know what exactly this moment defined, but when people in college asked me what kind of kid I was in high school, I avoided giving a direct answer (because I really don't know), but rather relayed this story instead. That let them interpret it on their own, which kind of satisfied me (I love vexing people. Terribly.) Okay Condon, enough waxing pathetic, get to the story that everyone probably already knows.

I didn't ask to be remembered like this. But God is much funnier than me.

It made absolute sense. After four long, fun days in Walt Disneyworld, I and about 300 of my closest fellow seniors were drawing our trip to a close. I had sat little, slept less. So, sitting around the large courtyard at Disney's All-Star Sports Resort would seem like an ideal point in time to prop up against my suitcase (still with the game of Risk in the secret compartment) and catch a little shut-eye. Everyone else was, after all. But then, as often happens when hanging out with the Shawnee Group, someone did the completely expected.

"Anyone want to toss?"

Frisbee. Figures.

It started like any other throw and catch. Half of us (Lou, James, Josh) went down 40 yards, past the weird "tennis net" that went with the landscaping theme, while Tim, myself, and maybe another waited patiently for the disc to come our way. The 'bee was airborne, and everything proceeding as if this was to go really well for about ten minutes. Even the chaperones, equally sleep-deprived, did nothing to stop us. Hell, we were unexpected entertainment for the entire school. I was never in a musical, but it was center stage now, baby.

I should have waited in the wings.

James pulled, and my high school career was summed up instantly. As the disc left his hand, I knew that this catch was going to be the opportunity to present the spectacular to my graduating class. In my mind, it beats giving a speech at graduation. Just look cool. That's all. Is it that hard to make us look cool?

Knowing I was going to have to get on the proverbial horse to rundown James' toss (he's Herculean, I tell you), I took off like a shot. I could already picture it - this was going to be an Air Jordan catch. You know, like the logo. Arms outstretched, legs outstretched, ego outstretched. Mainly because I don't drop the disc. Period. Back then, I couldn't throw a forehand to save my life, but man, I could catch. And this wasn't going to be any exception.

Or...

Once my left foot left the ground, it was destiny or bust. This was the big play I wanted to be remembered for - running top speed, full extension, looking back over my shoulder with an absolute homing signal on the disc. Someone needed to take a picture of my gracefulness and send it to Sports Illustrated. I'm cover material. Here it comes...reach the fingers out for absolute full body extension. My hand briefly feels plastic, and then-

CLANG.

No one, out of the 300 onlookers, could muster the breath to tell me that as graceful and athletic as my heroic leap was going to end this way. I'm sure everyone wanted to, but apparently everyone left their tongues on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. And in that instant, I was lying flat on my back at the base of the meanest lamppost I have ever met. It seems my shoulder served as a pivot point that swung my legs out from under me up to a full horizontal, before gravity did his thing. The post itself? Swinging wildly back and forth as it plans to join me on the ground any second. (Somewhere in the distance, Mr. Williams yells, "If that falls, you're bringing home with you!")

Silence.

People wait to react in moments like this to see if the kid who just ran top speed into a lamp post still has a pulse.

But then I rose. Rose to 300 people, staring at me and me alone. And when the clapped (even though the disc was far from my hand), I bowed. End of story.

Thinking back, running into a crosswalk would have been much preferred. (Assuming, of course, that taxi intends to yield for pedestrians...")