Full disclosure—this post is not an apology to child-star, turned director Ron Howard. I have no reason to apologize to that scoundrel.
No, this post will serve as an opportunity for me to bring to light some of my past childhood transgressions against a former neighbor.
I don’t remember his name. But with the fiery mop, freckled cheeks, and gangly physique this kid was rocking, there was really no chance his given name was going to get much play anyway.
We knew him as Opie.
As a character in my life, Opie was one of those guys that you can’t root against (his plight is too heartbreaking,) but you also can’t really root for (he was quite the asshole.) Opie is one of those rare examples of someone getting pretty much exactly what they deserved. But even so, as the years have passed, I have begun to see the virtue of making amends. And being damn near the top of Opie’s list of tormentors, I’ve definitely got a few things to square up with him.
When I knew Opie, I couldn’t have been more than 9 or 10 years old, while Opie… well, Opie had to have been at least 14 or 15. You may be wondering, “How the hell does a 10 year old kid strike fear into the heart of a guy five years his senior?”
Here’s the thing—I never set out to be Opie’s bully. I was not the bullying type. I wore glasses and matching sweat suits. I participated in math competitions. In fact, if anything, Opie was trying to bully me. He just really sucked at it.
Like the time he tried to steal my backpack when we were walking to the bus stop. He raced past me and slipped his hand underneath the dangling shoulder strap (I might not have been that cool, but I knew well enough not to wear my backpack on both shoulders like some kind of NERD. Arghhh, hold on, my scoliosis is acting up again.)
Anyway, he thought he was going to make a clean getaway with my pencil box and tuna salad sandwich, but he wasn’t quite strong enough to rip the bag from my grasp. Instead, he spun around me like I had him on a leash. When he finally let go, he went careening down a hill, picking up speed as he cartoonishly tried to maintain his balance on veritable carpet of chestnuts on the hillside. An entire busload of children was witness to his crash landing.
Or the time he came over to play hide-and-seek with some of my classmates, confident in his belief that his junior-high intellect and physical prowess could show us young punks up. He certainly talked a big game before we started. For some reason, while trying to hide, he thought it was a great idea to attempt to climb through my basement window, one of those crank-and-fold contraptions that looks as if it can serve as a ramp, but I ASSURE YOU IT CANNOT.
The seek portion of the game became a lot easier when Opie greeted me at the front door, his leg bloodied, the glass shards still stuck in his knee a pretty good indicator that Opie could talk the talk, but not walk the walk—literally. He screamed at me, “Call 911!” Now, my mom had specifically told me not to have friends over when she wasn’t home. Also, I had the moral compass of a 10 year old… being 10 years old. So I didn’t even hesitate in saying, “No.”
Or, there was that time that I slept with his mom.
Oh… right. I knew there was some reason I was supposed to be apologizing to him.
Err, sorry, Opie.
