Lake George

Paul Tucker was a bully. A lanky kid who rode around all summer on a rusty BMX bike, shirtless, with scraped elbows and his back covered with mosquito bites. He’d ride to the park where we were playing baseball, and watch, his arms folded across the handlebars, a cigarette behind his ear.

His brother was a remote villain who drove a green and black GTO, blaring Bad Company and Zeppelin. He was the only person who could hit Paul. He would pull the car over, step out, shirtless himself, and knock Paul right off the bike. We’d see Paul scramble onto the sidewalk, his older brother shouting at him. Paul would turn out his pockets and his brother took anything that fell out, then he’d fake a one-two at his head and belly, get back into the car and tear off.

We went back to the game, tried to act like we’d never seen anything, and Paul would peddle over to the diamond and park behind the batting cage. Then he’d start walking around the edge toward the batter’s box, swinging his body along the chain link, raw, fresh scrapes red on his shoulders and chin. A pitch would come and he’d step across and grab the ball out of the air.

“Pussies.”

I had the bat. I just let it fall to the dirt.