Sperry Street

Mike and I stopped hanging out together the summer before 8th grade. We were best friends and had been finishing each other's sentences for almost 10 years; he was my adopted brother out of suburban thin air.

We lived across the street from each other in a neighborhood made up of cookie cutter houses filled with cracked-up house wives covered in terry cloth jumpers. Where Playboy magazine, The Wide World of Sports and Evel Knievel held more influence than sister, brother, parent or God.

The summer before 8th grade, Mike moved across town into a huge house his Dad built. The grand, majestic castle sat fat and happy, proudly on two lots of land overlooking the river.

The distance caused our friendship to fade away like a lumpy purple bruise. It's amazing how you can spend almost every second of your life with someone and then never really talk to them again.

When Mike moved away, I realized that growing up was going to kind of suck sometimes and that change was going to be my new best friend. I was going to have to be my own man someday.

I still carry the banner for our time when Saturday mornings were special and meant something. When we had our neighborhood, our friendship. When we felt the finish line ribbon break across our chest.