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Hudson Elliot's Habitball Massacre

Decent Essays

It’s late March, 1978, in Arcadia, California, and I’m gonna kick Hudson Elliot’s ass. Not for real, ‘cause there’s something wrong with this kid—he has these weird eyes, with one eye that’s a little off and a front tooth that looks like a fang, so my best friend Mike Peinado calls him Wolf Boy. During recess yesterday, I asked him to give me the punch ball he was holding. Peinado and I had to play a punch ball game of death before recess ended, so what did Hudson do? He threw the ball at my face and it smashed me in the nose. My eyes flashed, and I tasted that quick stab in my mouth that I’ve come to connect with pain or shame, but there wasn’t any blood. At least none that I could see. Still, I’ve read a bunch of Conan the Barbarian books, …show more content…

In the Southern California heat that starts in February or March, this makes for clouds of dust from stampeding kids. Why do we run? Why do kids do anything? I know one reason, though--starting in late December and going through early April, about a mile away every Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, we can clearly hear the early race calls at Santa Anita Park, the largest thoroughbred horse race track in the Western United States. Dave Johnson, the track announcer and a guy I’ll later find out was a legend in horse racing, always starts the races the same, and it lures us to the line: “The horses are approaching the starting gate for the first race of the day,” Johnson’s voice booms from a mile away, and we runners eye each other a bit, maybe do a little last stretching. A minute or two later, Johnson tells the crowd, “The horses are entering the starting gate.” We know we’re about a minute or two away at this point, depending on the amount of horses in the race and whether or not a horse freaks out before the race. By this time we’re all on the line, just like the horses in the starting gate, and this usually starts the crowd of observers’ own game of …show more content…

Beating Hudson would be a victory for everyone who rides in our parents’ station wagons each day. Roger and some of Hudson’s crew are trying to chant, “Frey sucks, Frey sucks!” There are even girls watching the race, including Kelly Maccaluso, who calls me a brain when Miss Sametanger hands back our quizzes, and Colleen Mullen, whose house I’ll constantly ride by on my bike a few years from now, hoping to run into her. There are a lot of girls in this starting rush, which feels kinda weird, and as Hunter and I run towards the backstop, I try not to think why. A lot of races are lost right in this first turn, as it’s super sharp; last week, Mark Robertshaw wiped out trying to take the turn too fast, and he still has a gnarly red and black scrape on his leg. My brother Doug’s first secret was to let Hudson take the turn first, but to swing wide before the turn to be able to pick up speed right after I make the

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