Crash: Chapters 1–11

I don’t really remember this happening, but they say that when my uncle Herm’s family came over to see our presents, as they were coming through the front door I got down into a four-point stance, growled, “Hut! Hut! Hut!” and charged ahead with my brand-new helmet.

He was walking like he owned the place, both hands in his pockets, sort of swaying lah-dee-dah with each step. Strollllll-ing. Strolling and gawking at the houses and whistling a happy little dorky tune like some Sneezy or Snoozy or whatever their names are.

I still couldn’t believe it. It was no bigger than a garage. In fact, I found out since then that it really was a garage once, until somebody changed it into the world’s dinkiest house.

I had him so bamboozled he didn’t know which way was up.

“That’s not it,” he said. He had on the glum monkey face again.

How pitiful could you get?

“You didn’t really forget, did you, son?” the father said.
Webb looked sheepish. “I guess not.”

“And we go places,” the father chimed in.

Along around third grade they finally stopped pestering me, so I could stop pestering my dad.

By now the whole place was in an uproar.

He looked at me. “I’m not surprised you’re the first one to show up here this year, Coogan. I hear you’re a loose cannon.” He leaned forward, his hand smacked the desk, we flinched, he smiled.

And then the quarterback, Brill, showed up with a football, and you know we had to get a scrimmage going right there in the hallway.