When a boy, I had little tolerance for sitting still, as I believe I mentioned in previous posts, whereas brother and sister would immerse themselves between the covers of book. At that time, I had no interest in this worthy endeavor. Later in life I recognized value of reading and went at it with vigor, but in those years I wanted to keep moving until all energy was expended.

My favorite activities included excavating with miniature trucks in backyard dirt, climbing from lower to higher limb to see neighborhood from tree top, football played in lot beside local church, visiting swings at park, investigating the mysteries of nearby wood, riding my prized blue bike with buds, and participating in a good game of toss.

Once, my friends and I found a fresh sand pile in front of home under construction. The grains were perfectly damp, allowing us to form bridges, tunnels, buildings, and roads in our imaginary city. As we played the height of the original mound decreased and the diameter increased. If it were not for an angry mason who stopped by to ensure delivery of his materials, we would have continued our construction well into dusk, but the contractor was none too pleased and ran us off cursing. We were very young and didn’t understand the difficulties we had caused, but we learned our lesson as his wrath scared us all.

When summer was in full swing, the condition of one’s bicycle was of particular importance. We rode from block to block and walking didn’t cut it, as it was impossible to keep up. If bike was disabled, you were essentially grounded. Though not a Schwinn, which was the frame of choice, my Huffy generally held up, but there were times when broken chain or weak brake required professional attention. My dad would load two-wheeler in trunk and deliver her to the town shop. It could take days for owner to work through queue, and even when repairs were made, father wasn’t always able to retrieve my transportation immediately given his schedule. The latter impediment I found particularly galling. I couldn’t fathom why he didn’t understand life’s priorities. I mean I had no wheels. How many important adventures occurred without me? Somehow putting food on table ranked above my needs. Go figure.

But now to explain the title of this little piece.

When no one was available to catch and throw ball back, wall served as companion. I preferred using what we called a Super Ball. I believe this to be a trade name, though I’m not certain. The one I prized above others was the size of a baseball. It had nice weight and feel, but regardless of size, these balls had a unique characteristic: they would bounce erratically, and with sufficient velocity to leave bruise or broken lip. To add to the challenge of my private game, I would find walls with irregularities which made angle and speed of rebound more unpredictable. I’ve heard the saying, “pain is a good teacher”, to an extent it is, and it was true in this endeavor. Until reflexes and skills improved, many an impact with bone, muscle, and tissue occurred, but said reflexes and skills did improve and I would play until mitt was hot from impact.

On the fateful late summer eve, which I travel to in this story, the family was to see a performance by a sixties group called Up with People. I liked music and was looking forward to the event. Prior to coming inside to clean-up and ready, I was heaving ball against the rear of our brick-face home, backing further away with each successive hurl. My mom beckoned numerous times and I responded, “I’m coming…just one more throw”.   I could tell by mother’s tone she was becoming agitated. By this juncture I was against fence—the hindmost point of our property. This is when I let fly “one more throw”. I could see from the onset it was off intended course, fading toward plate glass window. I blinked not once as I continued to watch flight. Surely it will fall short, I thought. It was a slow motion moment I shall not forget. When projectile impacted glass, the shattering sound seemed to echo off houses in each direction. I so wanted to take back that pitch, but there was no button I could push, no Antiquity to change the event (yes this is a plug for my book). My mother and father were now standing in yard surveying the damage. I apologized with sincerity, but it was to no avail. I was to stay home with grandmother while the remainder of my family attended show—no matter case pled. Now a father, and possessing a bit more perspective, I am happy my mom and dad stood ground as I deserved to reap what I had sewn.

The entire affair taught me two valuable lessons: Listen to mom and “one more”, can be one too many.