20 Years Old And Still Kickin'

It was just before midnight. She had spent so much time in this room, and all of a sudden, through the pain, sweat, and tears, it was all over. A baby was crying nearby. Could it possibly be her fourth child? She held him in her arms, smiling down on what was her third son and what would one day grow into a tall, energetic 20-year-old with many gifts, even more problems, and a preference of no pickle, please.

Yes. Twenty years ago, on this exact day, I came into this world. The place? Olney, Illinois. The time? A couple of minutes before midnight. Of course I can't say that I remember anything about that night, but I'm told that I was quite a hassle. It seems that I did not want to abandon my warm, comfortable home for a world full of evil, deceit, and Cardinal fans. Can you blame me?

As anyone in my family will tell you, I spent the first ten years of my life crying. I was as much of an emotional nutcase as I am today, but back then, tears came with my everyday routine. There was always something that set me off. I wouldn't like how my older brothers would look at me. I didn't appreciate the way my older sister was talking to me. I didn't enjoy hearing my younger siblings fuss when they were babies and would join in with their cries of pain, fright, anger, and exhaustion. I was never very strong, and it showed. I was never the strongest guy on the team, the biggest guy in the lineup, or the roughest player on the field. Size and strength were not characteristics of mine.

But what I lacked in brute force I more than made up for with the power of imagination. Paired with my speed and intellect, I could be a pretty tough customer if the situation called for it. I would spend hours on end every day wandering around the yard, changing the grass into lava or the trees into evil soldiers that had to be defeated at any cost. The tree that I climbed every day became an irreplaceable monument in my life, and when I wasn't on the ground fighting off battalions of goblins, I was in the heights of the seemingly limitless world of branches, leaves, moss, and insects. That tree became my second home. I would spend my days climbing in all directions: up, down, backwards, diagonally... well you get the picture. It was quite a universe that I created, and every day brought new challenges, friends, enemies, and adventures.

But as history has taught us, all great empires eventually crumble. Not even my industrious kingdom, with all its power and glory, could survive the shattering explosion brought by the Great Move of the year 2000. This was the year my family decided to take a call to a little town called Galva in the northwest corner of Iowa. This was the time my parents decided to take me away from all that I had ever known. This was the fateful ending of an age that had seen me mature into a great warrior: an unstoppable hero whose power was boundless, his potential infinite. Yes, this is when I was forced to leave my world - a world of warmth, comfort, and hope - for something foreign, something unknown to me.

And yet through more tears, many fits of anger and frustration, countless fights, slammed doors, and hoarse voices, we all made it out the other side. Some of us were bruised and bloody, but we survived. The first few months were simply torture for me. I had never known what it was like to not have friends because I had been blessed with some really great ones back in Flora. Walking into that fourth grade classroom the day after Christmas break, I still remember all of those eyes staring at me, looking me up and down as if checking for weak spots. I still remember those awkward moments at recess, those many days spent alone at home, and those countless emotional battles that were constantly waging war inside and out.

But then came middle school, confirmation, my first crush, my first handful of friends, and sports. I was one of the most awkward kids in school, but I was no longer the "new kid." That label fled from me almost the second I stepped through those doors to start my fifth grade year. I had grown accustomed, somewhat, to how things were done in those parts. I was invited to a birthday party. I spent the night at some really amazing houses. I played some wicked dodgeball at recess. I was there for the birth of our first-class basketball team and was a key player as it grew stronger and more sure of itself.

And then came high school. Awkward freshman year, stupid sophomore year, but then glorious junior and senior years. Oh boy: two of the best years of my life, easily. I had the time of my life in concert band and somehow enjoyed myself even more in jazz band. I enjoyed playing an important role on our fantastic basketball team and powered through many tough moments to complete a successful career as a Pirate. I then shed my peg leg and hook for feathers and arrows to become a Brave for a Cherokee tennis team that added the terms "sub-state" and "state" to their vocabulary every year for three consecutive years.

Yet none of this compared to the group of friends I gained while winding my way through the maze of Galva-Holstein High School. The real reason the last two years of high school were so unforgettable for me was simply because of the time I spent with my amazing friends and the memories we created together. I became a runaway bandit for a night. I transformed into an unseen assassin when darkness fell and completed only the most daring missions (kidnapping, murder, and thievery were just a few of my successes). I climbed to the highest heights and gazed at the stars with the wisest of beings. I had rebuilt my shattered world, healing its wounds while adding a few new quirks along the way.

But yet again, my "untouchable" world was ruptured by another rite of passage: graduation. All of a sudden, it was over: the times spent discussing where we would meet the next night; the car rides spent talking about that girl who seemed just barely out of reach; those epic tennis matches that would last until the wee hours of the morning - all gone. Gone. Nothing but memories. Nothing but a tantalizing picture engraved on my mind that would always remind me of what had been. We all drove our separate ways, leaving the warmth and comfort of a world we knew for the fear and doubt of something we'd not yet experienced.

But did we allow this situation to pull us apart? Did we fall prey to the disadvantages of that word which strikes fear in the hearts of even the bravest, the most dedicated of souls: distance? No. I guess the world underestimated our ability to stay connected with each other. Where are we now? We're in Sioux City. We're in Decorah. We're in Ames, Spirit Lake, Indianola. Heck, I'm not even in Iowa anymore! We are Mustangs, Vikings, Cyclones, Lakers, Bulldogs. We're still united, and only getting stronger! Are we separated? Yes. But do we have the ability to overlook that separation and fight for those relationships that will benefit us for the rest of our lives? You better believe we do. And from that inspiration, we'll never waver.

So here I sit, twenty years old, and still an emotional nutjob that doesn't like pickles. I've withstood illness, maniacal drama, defeat, rejection, and salt poisoning. I've now entered my third decade of life. I'm stronger, faster, smarter, and more mature than ever, but at the same time, I'm still that awkward 10-year-old who wore the same sweatshirt every day of the week. A part of me thinks that I'll never get rid of that kid. Why? Because that was my first world - my first creation - and that small boy inside of me refuses to let that creation die. Will things ever go back to the way they were? Absolutely not. Time machines, while great in corny action movies, will never really exist on this earth. Yet what still exists, and something that will always remain, is the world that we live in right now. What we put into it is what makes it our own creation, and now that I have the knowledge that no world is untouchable, maybe I'll go about constructing this one a little differently. You know what they say: the third time's the charm.