Peggy read a lot of books. Martha played with dolls and sang into the vacuum cleaner as if it was her microphone. Michael, well, I am not sure what Michael was always doing, but it usually involved quietly eating many cookies. Besides, he was mom’s favorite, so there was no touching him.

Finding someone to engage with outside on a physical level always boiled down to the same solution: Jerry. He was a dirtball, like me. We were barefoot and sticky-handed from yesterday’s peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We did not make our beds or comb our hair, and we both had a deep love for anything that could be thrown like a missile—footballs, Frisbees, hardballs, snowballs, rocks, sticks, sand, and fists. Projectiles were one of the cornerstones of our youthful encounters.

Our poor mother could not figure out where things went sideways with Jerry and me and made it clear with her daily rant of “What is WRONG with you!?” After all, she had three other perfectly well-mannered and reasonable children who did not feel the need to beat on each other constantly.

Periodically, Jerry would tease Martha enough to get her engaged, but often she cried pitifully. It would be over in a heartbeat, as mom descended on Jerry like a grizzly bear protecting her baby.

Less often, one of us would “poke the tiger,” and Peggy would unleash her mighty fury and power upon us. Small but prickly, Peggy was a rabid wolverine when antagonized. We were all afraid of her, but sometimes it was just too enticing. We were always sorry for that decision.

With our raggedy clothes, unkempt hair, and filthy fingernails, we embraced our simian heritage and our wild childhood, climbed trees, jumped off rooftops, dug holes in the dirt, rolled around in the grass, and stayed out most of the day until the street lights went on. Then we would reluctantly go inside, go to bed amidst the rubble of our respective bedrooms, and wake up and do it all again.

Until we grew up.

Then for some reason, we had to behave. It was hard. It still is hard.

But I will never forget my sparring partner Jerry, when the bottoms of our feet were a beautiful shade of black, and there always seemed to be a little gritty dirt in my mouth.