I would like to see more of your shorts. Please answer with an essay or extended prose...?

2 Answers

  • Anonymous
    1 decade ago
    Favorite Answer

    aww... shucks... did not know you want to see my shorts,

    Major English, thank you, anyway...

  • Anonymous
    1 decade ago


    Max Chandler was a big, strong, redheaded kid who lived up the street from us on Jackson. By fourteen he had the size and speed of an athlete. Everybody loved him. He was going to be a great sports star in Liberty, Missouri.

    We played rough on the sandlots. His teams always won whatever game was in season, so I was proud that he picked me most of the time. The little kid picked next-to-last does not suffer the same disgrace as the one picked last.

    I worshiped him because he honored our friendship. I was his trusty sidekick. The three or four years we hung around together I never said “no” to Max Chandler.

    In 1968 Max’s dad was transferred across the state to St. Louis. We were crushed, the football coaches and me.

    Max and I decided to do all the stuff that we hadn’t done yet, before they moved away. I was twelve and ready for action. We thought about it long and hard.

    Here we were living in the town made famous by Jesse James and we’d never robbed any mercantile or trading post. Some of the older kids had already been before the Judge and we hadn’t done any crime at all. The shame was unbearable.

    A bank job was too risky. We decided to stick-up C & C Sporting Goods down at Liberty Landing instead. We rode our stingray bikes over there to case the joint.

    We were new to high crime and didn’t have much of a plan. We just walked up and down each isle while Max stuffed my shirt and pants with gear. Jerseys, shoes, a football, a catcher’s mitt, a kicking tee. I was a Spalding Piñata.

    After a few minutes I realized how obvious this was, overflowing from every buttonhole and belt loop, so I started to panic. Max saw that I getting nervous so he began rushing me toward the door.

    We were at a full run when we broke into daylight and stumbled across the sidewalk. I spun like a top, slinging jock straps and ping-pong balls out onto the parking lot. I was so sure we’d been caught that I just started laughing.

    I sat there and waited for the Sheriff to come and take us away to the very same jailhouse Jesse James and Cole Younger had spent their misguided youths in.

    After a minute or two we started to figure out that nobody was coming. We shushed each other and began gathering up the booty. We tried to act calm, but we must have looked like The Three Stooges minus one as we walked around to the back of the building where our getaway bikes were stashed.

    I was still sure we’d been seen so I started dropping all the hot property. I must have dumped twenty or thirty things out behind their dumpster.

    There was no way we could have carried it all back or explained where we got it, so we just left it there. Everything except one item each. He took a pair of cleats and I swiped the kicking tee.

    As the weeks faded away and the movers drove off with the Chandler’s things I began to feel less and less proud of what we had done. By the end of the summer I’d decided to cut an extra yard so I could pay them back for the kicking tee.

    I didn’t want to be a thief after all. Besides, I was going to Ridgeview Junior High that year and we were finally going to suit-up in pads. I didn’t want a blemish.

    A few days before school started my dad came home with a tear in his eye. We sat on the couch and he showed me the Liberty Tribune article describing how the former standout athlete Max Chandler had died during high school football practice in St. Louis.

    My dad was so worried. He thought this would scare me away from the game we love most.

    I was scared alright, but not of Football. I was afraid of God!

    I was instantly convinced that Max had been punished for stealing. I knew that I was next. I was terrified. I knew for a fact that a rain of fire and brimstone was set and I was the target.

    The old saying “No zealot like a convert” puts it mildly. That was the day I started to grow up. I would stray from the narrow path a time or two over the next forty years, but I can tell you that once you learn to hate thievery you will watch for it, and you will be amazed at all the different places to find it.

    In the end you will hate it, and you will do whatever you can to stop it.


    Source(s): This was published during a time when I hated commas. It probably needs a few. RB
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