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and it worked just fine. Three miles!) Because it was Arizona, and it was scorching during normal recess time, we played kickball for our first hour of the day. (Trivia!) So I took a breather leaning against the backstop and I was like, “Wassup, gals, what’s happening, ladies? How was your weekend?” Ya know, just kicking back with some small talk, the normal daily drill, little flirting, a little gossip. And in a flash, everyone was back to playing kickball. By the way, I’m actually pretty good at kickball. (I don’t want to talk about that right this second but just FYI, I’m a little bit of an athlete . . . I mean you roll it down I’m going to kick it pretty hard, that’s all I’m saying. Seriously, some guys bounce it, which is illegal, but either way I’m going to whack it. So if you’re the pitcher, might as well roll it so you can sleep at night because you won’t be a cheater and either way you’re going to get shelled. But that’s neither here nor there.) So here I am, I’m kicking back, taking five, and now it was time to make my move. I was ready to unveil the little Spade face on my shirt. This is such a true story it scares the shit out of me because as I write it, I feel the pain. It feels like I’m having flashbacks to Operation Desert Storm. These were the last happy thirty seconds of my life. So I went to (sound effects of unbuttoning shirt) open it just a little bit, maybe one button, just so a tiny piece of my happening Farrah Fawcett feathered bangs were visible. I took a beat. There was no trouble yet, everybody was still playing the game, doing hopscotch, whatever. So I go, hey, everything’s cool. I popped one more button and started to take my shirt off. When it was about halfway off my shoulder, the entire school yelled, in unison, “QUEER!” And I freaked out, having no confusion over who they were yelling at. I buttoned that shirt back up so fucking fast my hands were a blur. I sprinted to my homeroom, dove under the desk, and had a full-blown panic attack. “OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, ABORT MISSION!! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!” My heart was racing in my tiny bird chest. My BP was like 10,000 over 50 million. Then, the entire school came pouring in, screaming “Holy shit! Spade’s got a picture of himself on his shirt! This is unbelievable!!” “No I don’t! No I don’t!” I screamed. “I promise I don’t!” And then I added this to make sure I was going to hell: “I SWEAR TO GOD I DON’T!”
    I was totally up against a wall. “Yes, you do!” everyone screamed back, and then came my second horseshit defense. “They can’t even do that! They can’t even put a picture on a T-shirt. Did you hear what he said? That’s crazy, he’s saying crazy things!”
    Meanwhile that’s all they can do to T-shirts, is put pictures on them. I would have gotten killed in cross-examination.
    I was out of my mind. So I sat there and they go, “We should put it in the time capsule . . . so in 2020 they can know what a fruitcake you were . . . for posterity.”
    Sad. But, I might dig that up. We should go dig that up.

CHAPTER THREE
    LOSING MY VIRGINITY
    I t was my senior year of high school. Class of ’82 (’82 drinks more brew!). (By the way, I wouldn’t mention the exact ancient year that I graduated but with Google it’s just a matter of time before girls figure out my age. For a while I tried to only date girls who didn’t have the Internet but that was too small a pool.) I wish I had gotten laid sooner, believe me. I had enough boners that went to waste to fill Cardinals Stadium. From roughly the sixth grade on I had a bone-anza of boners. (Side note to self: Copyright the word bone-anza for movies, books, T-shirts, and television. [Side side note: not to be confused with TV show Bonanza .]) I had probably upwards of hmmm , let me do the math (thinking out loud) 25 rods a day on school days, so times 5, and maybe 10 a day on weekends, hmm, bop bop bop . . . carry the 4