I think my first brush with greatness came at the early age of six when I reported a group of teenagers to my father for driving up to me as I played with chalk on the sidewalk and offering me candy; my father then informed the police. Maybe they were actually offering me candy, and if that happens to be the case I am indeed sorry, but I wrote their license plate number with a rock as they drove off. The police called my house a few hours later and comforted my parents with the news that the teenagers had been brought downtown. In the paper, no real mention of my name was made. I felt like I was ripped out of several well deserved city and county awards.

Let’s move forward to the time my third grade class planted a tree on Arbor Day. There was a newspaper photographer there snapping photos. A few days later I saw the back of my head in a photo in the paper. I tried to convince people that it was indeed truly me, but hey, that could be any kid wearing a striped shirt picking his nose.

At the age of 12 or 13 I had been riding my bike on a summer’s afternoon in the foothills with some friends. It was quite a strenuous workout because I had this junky yellow ten-speed that weighed more than I did. We had picked it up for three bucks at a yard sale. I had worked on the brakes myself, and never had the right tools for the job. I was wearing a rollerblading helmet that was a bit too big and couldn’t really see well. As we traversed along a busy street I was suddenly laying on my side, not knowing what had violently jarred me right off my bike. I slid the helmet up and out of my eyesight to see an older gentleman, still on his bicycle after our collision, looking at me with an angry yet bewildered glare. Things took a turn for the worse as I noticed that this man was leading a large group of probably 20 bikers of all ages. As I pulled myself up they continued on their way. Several of them slid snide remarks in my direction under their breath. My bike didn’t work quite right after that, but I forced my way home just in time to catch the evening news. Hmmm, that was odd. The man on TV looked very familiar. “Hey, that is the guy I just hit with my bike!” I said out loud. My mom instantly yelled “You’re grounded!” before I could even blink. I had rudely interrupted some kind of memorial for the man’s grandson who had been hit and killed by a car. If I had timed it just slightly different, I could have hit that man while he was being interviewed on TV. So close.

I have so many instances of how I am almost famous that I will continue to grace this blog with. It might be must too much to throw them all into one place at one time.