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" We called it sword fighting, but in truth we just beat each other with Wiffle Ball bats while saying things like &amp;quot;Taste this cold steel&amp;quot; and &amp;quot;You like that? Huh?&amp;quot; When my mother saw the welts at dinner, she asked, &amp;quot;Were you playing with Jimmy today?&amp;quot; She tried to discourage our friendship.  In preschool, I hit him in the face with a toy fire truck, held it by the white ladder and swung it like a hammer. It took a divot out of his forehead that now looks like a chicken-pox scar.  When we were seven, he hit me in the back of the head with his father&amp;#039;s 3-wood. I can&amp;#039;t cut my hair short because my hair stopped growing where the club struck.In tenth grade, I drove over his legs with a go-kart while he was sunbathing with Lisa Genardi.  On our class trip senior year, he pushed me off a trestle bridge into a river. After that, I developed an inner-ear problem.  At our class of &amp;#039;92 basketball game, I took his legs out when he went in for a layup. I drove him to the hospital and waited with him for the doctor to put his shoulder back in its socket. When his wife arrived, he said, &amp;quot;Tell this underhanded fuck he can go home now.&amp;quot; But she wasn&amp;#039;t speaking to me, either.  Last Thursday, he called and asked me to help him split a cord of wood. I got there around eleven-thirty. He was already working. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/entertainment/books/a3009/cake-napkin/>