I remember running through his front yard when I was a kid, to retrieve a baseball or just on a dare, and he'd come out on his porch, waving a broom and yelling incoherently.

I think the turning point in my relationship with Mr. Barkis came about when I found out he had a daughter. She was my age, but we went to different schools and I never saw her playing outside.

Boy, was she a looker. Long, straight, almost silvery-white hair, enormous violet eyes and an elfin face of such delicacy, it looked as though it was constructed from fine china.

It was the day after I spotted her through a window that I formulated my plan. Stealthily, I collected my supplies, hid them carefully under my bed and waited for nightfall.

Night came like a fuzzy black blanket, and I slipped out of my Superman sheets and into the streets, where I assembled my apparatus. It was a piece of work, a feat of engineering to make Leonardo da Vinci swear and urinate down his leg.

Only one thing left to do. I pulled the lever marked 'go'.

The wheels spun. The elastic bands unwound. The main arm came around, and with the sound of a thousand angry motorcycles, the mechanism launched and activated.

I guess it could be said that not everyone in the neighbourhood would have heard it, because some pretty old people lived on our street and I don't think they could hear a damn thing.

The next day, running across the lawn to get yet another errant piece of sports paraphenalia, Mr. Barkis' daughter came to the door.

"Hey," she said, looking serious.

"Hi," I said.

"I can't believe you did what you did," she said.

I kind of smiled, blushing.

"My father," she said, "will spend the rest of his life sucking pap through a straw. Way to go, chotchbag."

And she closed the door.