to
Main StoragePatrick Wolf
June 13, 2002
Back in 1981, after my mom married my stepdad, I attended the Fifth Grade in a new school district. This particular elementary school happened to consist of grades K – 5. I’m sure this phenomenon still exists today in the schoolyards of America, but at the time, being a Big & Bad Fifth Grader, one had to prove how cool one was on the playground. Since I was new to that school, I had to go the extra mile in order to prove how cool I was.
There were three sets of swings sitting like islands in the middle of the vast ocean, all of which were located in different distinct areas of the playground. The small ones on the south end of the playground were the kiddie swings, and that’s where all the Kindergarteners and First Graders would hang out wishing they were big enough to play on the other pieces of equipment. The medium-sized swings were the Third and Fourth Grader’s area. The timid Second Graders would hover between these two. And finally, at the north end, the last of these swing sets were the big, gonzo-sized ones reserved exclusively for the Fifth Graders. Actually, it wasn’t really exclusively for the Fifth Graders, but we would intimidate all others who dared enter our sacred dominion of chain linked high adventure. We would mark our territory like a wolf and defend it until a bloody, violent death, or at least until the second recess bell rang.
Amongst ourselves, we would compete in the equivalent of the 1980’s version of the “X-Games.” After just having Music class a couple hours earlier, in which we would occasionally listen to the radio, we would be pumped up and ready to go. Some of the songs at the time that would get the adrenaline coursing through our ten-year-old veins would be those timeless masterpieces; “Pac Man Fever” by Buckner & Garcia, or “Centerfold” by The J. Geils Band. We would eagerly gobble up our 90¢ lunch, consisting of a Pizza Slice, Mixed Vegetables, Fruit Cup and Milk, in anticipation of who will be the day’s champion.
When lunch was over, we would dump our minimal leftovers and quietly walk down the hallway that led to the playground in an orderly and proficient manner. The minute we hit the door, it was like the start of the Indy 500, and everybody was fighting for pole position to be the first one to the Red Beast. That’s what we would liken our swing-set to. It was comprised of giant, red, metal tubes ascending to the sky and had eight swings, four sections with two swings each. Each swing hung from the top bar like stalactites. Encompassing the swings was a layer of woodchips on top of the dirt and beyond the woodchips in front was the sidewalk, which bordered lengthwise the back of the Fourth Grade classroom windows. Even as massive as it seemed, we had no time to stare in awe. It was time to get down to business.
One of the many competitions was to see how far we could jump from the swings. In reality, it was more like flying, because we would swing back to maximum height and on the forward motion of the swing, we would let go and soar like a balsa wood glider in a good tailwind. I would practice my form and technique after school was over, so that I could have the Red Beast all by myself. I would test different swings to see which ones could shoot me out over the landscape, and I finally found the perfect one. It came my turn during recess, and after a couple minutes of getting my best swing in, I let loose and flew with the angels. That experience of hanging out with celestial beings lasted maybe two seconds, until I overshot the woodchips, crashed landed into the hard, packed dirt, rolled onto the concrete sidewalk and came to rest against the brick wall. I bet that was a sight for the Fourth Graders studying in their classroom, who were inevitably gazing out the window. Needless to say, I held the new unofficial school record in that event.
Another event was the “Dare Devil” portion. I chose to do a flip on the swings. At the forward apex of swinging, I would grab onto both chains, flip my legs back through the center of them, and let go as the swing came back down, subsequently landing on my feet in perfect Nadia Comaneche style. I encountered a minor problem though. One of my legs didn’t go through the center, and as the swing was returning to its center of gravity, I was still upside down. I landed on my head and also hit my right shoulder on a buried rock sticking out of the ground. That rock had a purpose, and that was to wait for me to plunge headlong into it. I hope it’s happy. I got up from the ground a little stunned and I had a nice cut which was slowly unleashing my crimson life. Even though I landed on my head, and put a nice gash on my shoulder, there was no permanent damage; although some friends will argue that point. To this day, my only memento is a small scar on my shoulder to remind me of this dumbass stunt.
Boy, were we ignorant back then, but at the time, it was just one of those things that young boys do to impress other people. Of course hindsight is always 20/20, so the question remains: “Was it wise?” Probably not. But it was fun, and when I asked the Magic 8 Ball if I’ll be flipping from a swing set anytime soon, it simply responded, “Signs point to No.”
to
Main Storage