do you love me? (I can really move)
do you love me? (I’m in the groove)
ah do you love? (do you love me)
now that I can dance (dance)

when I was no more than 10-years old, I had a crush on this girl named Summer. she had a sister named Pepper, which always amused me – even to this day. but Summer, man… she was something. she was everything her name came to recall – laughs and water sprinklers, ice cream trucks and the florescent lights of soccer games. and I loved her. seriously loved her. but did I ever tell her this? no – no I didn’t. but it was love nonetheless. every Wednesday night was ‘Youth Group’ for the kids I Sunday-schooled with and, while she didn’t attend the same church, she was friends with a girl named Amy who did and so, she would show up. every Wednesday. with Amy. she was nice to everyone and that included the skinny mess of a child who fumbled for random facts about G.I. Joes whenever they shared space. she had a nice smile and sometimes I convinced myself it was for me. as the weeks past and I had no more action figure news to pass on to her, I began to feel like I needed to have something else. not to mention that Michael, my friend, had just come back from Texas and, being about the same height as me, posed a threat – what with his stories from lands-afar. he also had an impressive collection of Joe’s and was even rumored to be receiving the Holy Grail of all things Hasbro, the Hovercraft, for his up-coming birthday. I cannot impress upon you how amazing this piece of plastic marvel was – countless guns, hidden hatches and oh-my-gosh, it even floats. there was, simply, no way to compete with that. she’s hear my story, she’d see his hovercraft and there would go the Summer of 1986. something needed to change, to happen… but what would it be? what possibly could I produce to show her that I, not Michael, was the man she was meant to be with?

brother, I thought and I thought and I racked my brain to what could be done. it wasn’t easy, being a pastor’s kid, as we didn’t have a television and the snacks in our fridge were mere mimics of the entertainment not allowed to us. we didn’t have a pool and my grandpa’s mobile home parked illegally in the back erased all chance of a Slip-N-Slide.

things were not looking good for me. and by this time, Michael was probably taller.

the Iran-Contra Affair had nothing on the Summer of My Discontent.

and then, one night while watching my Dad offer his Kansas City Royal’s some pitching advice – it hit me.

I had no skills! and I had no accessories to show off those skills!  and after watching baseball with my Father, I knew exactly what it was I needed to do. I, Aric S. Queen, needed to become a catcher for the local baseball team!! see, catchers were cool, but in constant danger. they were able to sometimes bring the game to a halt and calmly walk up to the pitcher and have a rethink. they were respected. they were strong. they had amazing accessories… and they knew stuff. dirty stuff. they were the soldiers. the wiry pitcher with his clean pants, he was the pretty boy. the one who put a lot of work into his appearance. but the catcher, boy-oh-boy, he was filthy from the first pitch. people threw things at him. people ran into him.

he welcomed this.

because he was a man.

and this was the man I needed to be.

this was who Summer would fall in love with.

as it would turn out, I didn’t even make the team. Summer would only show up a few more times to youth group after that anyway, most likely having heard the fucking Lutheran kids around the corner had Lawn Darts. even Michael, my frienemy, was so wrapped up into the fact that the Hovercraft had a moving fan [see photo. bottom left] he was of no support to my loss either.

basically, it sucked. but I left that Summer realizing I needed to know things … about things.

and it happened again this morning – 24 years later. as Nick and I sawed and cursed, glued and fitted, she came down to ask us if we wanted a cup of tea. we both did and she went to make it. I timed her footsteps coming back with the exact moment I put a random piece of wood on the saw-horse and begin cutting. I wanted her to see me doing something, I wanted her to walk away going ‘that man sure does know things’.  I worked a little bit harder down there so when I stole up to the lounge, telling Nick something about ‘looking for a pencil’, she’d smell the things that I knew on me.

it’s a funny thing, this love business – it takes you from a good summer, to a bad Summer, all in one warm slap. it makes you want to know things, and it makes you realize you don’t know many things. you want to impress, but by doing so, end up clumsily sawing the expensive piece that Nick had already cut and making a mess of things. it makes you look into the mirror and ask that person if they’re worth it and then seeing someone smiling behind him and then finding solace that at least they do.

things… about things – it’s a strange thing to get hung-up on, but in the years since that fateful pop-up fly ball nailed me right in the face and I ran home crying harder about the loss of Summer than my retina, I’ve come to find that there simply is nothing, nothing, more of a turn-on than impressing someone.

and man… do I wish England had a shop that sold American sporting equipment.