When You Need to be Brave

I’m sure you know of acts bold and brave,
battlefield and ballfield,
but I will tell you of an act of bravery
and bold action without equal.
It happened when

I was one of four twelve-year-old boys running wild
in a suburban neighborhood – the old kind – the kind
where developers left some trees, and pine needles
collected on shaded concrete driveways in September.

One of four boys left unsupervised, hanging
out at Glenn’s house for a few hours
on a late-May afternoon, flush
with almost-summer excitement. We
made prank phone calls to the town drunks,
perused shoplifted Playboy magazines,
and played the Rolling Stones loud on the
big console stereo, the way our older brothers did.

Then we dared crazy Michael to run a lap around
the house – outside – naked – which
he did, and we crowned him ruler of our kingdom.
But only for about five minutes, until
Glenn stripped down,
went strolling out the front door at 4:00 PM.

We pushed the curtain back, watched
wide-eyed through the big picture window. Watched
Glenn ease down that driveway cool and collected
as a safecracker, across the road, into
the Hunnicutt’s front yard.
He picked up a football,
punted it over their house,
sauntered back across the road,
took the newspaper from the box,
and pretended to read it as he
strolled back to the house.
These day’s I don’t do much that requires
bravery, but when I do need to summon it,
like when I ask for a raise, or need to
take the car keys from an aging parent,
I think of Glenn and that May afternoon
in 1972 when we were twelve years old,
when he sent a football sailing
over the Hunnicutt’s house,
and brought the newspaper in
before his parents got home.