Johnny Wyman was a year older than the other kids on the block. He was taller and tougher and quite the Tyler Street tyrant. In spite of this, Jack Farrell, Susan Sanderson and me, the one and only Billy Pelletier, needed one more kid to play an after school game of kickball and it looked like Johnny was my only hope. Having a highly competitive nature and knowing that I was darn‘ good at it, I would enjoy playing kickball all afternoon if I could… whenever, wherever and with whomever. I would even skip supper if I had a chance to play. This was exactly one of those days. Of course, Susan liked to play because she had a crush on me and Jack liked to play because he had a crush on Susan. I just wanted to play kickball.

“Come on,” I hollered to Johnny and my friends. “Let’s play some kickball so I can kick your butts!”

“Oh yeah… ya’ won’t kick mine, ya’ little jerk” yelled Johnny with that wise mouth grin pasted across his face.

As the afternoon whizzed by and my kickball prowess shined triumphantly over Jack, Susan and the huge open, weed-infested lot at the end of Tyler Street, I could once again see the animosity toward me building in Johnny’s eyes and voice.

“Wait ’till I get up at home plate,” he admonished. “I’ll show ya’ who’s the best. I’ll kick that ball so far it will take ya’ the rest of the afternoon to chase it down,” he shouted through his taunting, malevolent bursts of laughter.

Ohhhhh… if only I had been a year older or a tad stronger or a smidge taller. I knew Johnny was going to beat me again as he always did so as he rolled the soft, rubber beach ball toward me, I dug my left foot into the dirt and sprang forward with a sudden burst of speed I had never felt before and made contact with the ball with a thunderous force.

The ball hit Johnny square in the chest and he fell to the ground with the wind apparently knocked out of him. Susan and Jack came running up beside me in defense should Johnny make a sudden charge in my direction.

“Ya little punk squirt,” Johnny said, coughing out the words as he gasped for breath.

“You’re mother wears army boots… and there’s no such thing as Santa Claus! Your mother and father buy and wrap all your Christmas gifts. There is no Santa, ya’ little pipsqueak!”

He struggled to his feet as I yelled, “Liar! Liar! Pants on fire! There is too a Santa… I’ve seen him!”

Without the skip of a beat, Susan screamed, “Let’s get him, Billy! Let’s get him, Jack! Come on… he’s picked on us long enough. I’d like to knock his teeth out!”

“Yeah, come on Bill,” said Jack. Looking now at Johnny he shouted, “Of course there’s a Santa, you stupid jerk!”

The three of us ran abreast and bolted as a unit toward Johnny. Even though we weren’t packing rifles, spears or bows and arrows, we must have appeared somewhat frightening as Johnny began running down the street in the direction of his house as we continued to chase after him. He was faster than we were and he had a head start and as we arrived at the back door of his house, he was just about to duck inside. Blinded by my rage and without thinking clearly, I reached down, grabbed a smooth, round rock the size of a golf ball, took aim and threw it at him as hard as I could. Luckily, Johnny the liar was by then safe inside and didn’t get hurt but when the rock hit the window in the middle of the back door, the glass shattered into a thousand pieces, scattering everywhere.

Even though I explained to my parents all about Johnny the liar, there wasn’t any Kickball, Giant Step or Red Light games for the next four weeks until my allowance paid to fix the window. I just hoped and prayed that my naughty and silly behavior wasn’t going to prevent Santa from visiting me on Tyler Street and bringing some toys and a new kickball to my house that Christmas of 1956... And guess what… it didn’t.

Santa came with my new kickball… Johnny the Liar moved away… and life marched on.