“Throwing Spirals”
“Throwing Spirals -A masterclass in childhood justice and why perfect spirals ruin friendships”
Jeffrey was a pretty good friend—at least, I thought so. It was 1975, and we were neighbors in an incredible new development in the southwest hills of Austin, Texas, back when Austin was still just Austin and not a carefully curated lifestyle brand. I say “pretty good friend” because he and I only got together when our best friends weren’t available, making us each other’s emotional insurance policy.
I had two best friends: George Dix and Teddy Adams. George lived at the bottom of a large hill where we spent entire days riding Big Wheels and Green Machines down the steep roadway into his cul-de-sac, yanking the e-brake to spin out in a shower of plastic shards, then trudging back up to repeat the process until dark. The Big Wheel was the cocaine of childhood toys—a hollowed plastic three-wheeled pedal-driven contraption that sat six inches from the ground, making you feel like a speed demon while traveling at the approximate velocity of continental drift. It came with a single plastic brake handle over the fat right wheel that guaranteed a spinout, because apparently teaching children vehicular control was less important than providing them with a reliable method of eating asphalt—a young boy’s preference, nonetheless.
The front wheel was enormous and controlled by pedals when your feet extended out to it—a design that seemed engineered by someone who’d never actually seen a child. The rear wheels were smaller and fat, and the seat was theoretically adjustable to accommodate up to three sizes of kids. In reality, by the time you’d grown enough to need the seat adjusted, you had literal holes in the plastic wheels and the dignity of a crash test dummy.
Teddy was a chill Black kid a few blocks down from George who wore what I called a locomotive engineer hat—a blue and white striped number with a tiny brim that sat on his head and sagged with the casual confidence of someone who’d found his signature look at age eight. It had personality, which is probably why I remember it better than most of my teachers’ names. Teddy and I would always hang out at his house and improvise. We played, sans a lick of drama, whatever came to mind without needing a plan—a best friend for any occasion.
My neighbor Jeffrey and I usually played sports in the vacant lot between our houses. Even nearly fifty years later, that same grassy area remains, albeit smaller than I remembered—probably because everything seems massive when you’re three feet tall and your biggest worry is whether your mom remembered to cut the crusts off your sandwich.
One day, Jeffrey came to my door asking if I wanted to throw the football around. My parents were on an errand, and I wasn’t supposed to go anywhere, but I figured the empty lot would still count as our property in the same way that international waters technically belong to everyone. I loved playing football, especially with my dad, who would first help me mow the grass sideways, making sure we created clear “yard markers” and an end zone to battle within. Then the real game began. My dad would always be the quarterback, and after hiking it to him, he’d throw balls destined for the corner of the end zone, so I’d have to dive for it while maintaining both feet “in bounds.” It was a 1970s-era NFL training camp equivalent, complete with grass stains but absent ‘roids.
I’d have to play a simple game of catch with Jeffrey, though, since neither of us was skilled enough to throw leading passes accurately enough to endure the kind of precision workout I did with my dad. Besides, a steep, heavily wooded drop bordered this lot, and chasing balls down there would involve advanced climbing, snakes, and poison ivy—basically, a choose-your-own-adventure book titled “How I Spent My Summer in the Emergency Room.”
Jeffrey threw a decent “long ball,” and I worked on throwing tight spirals for a good twenty minutes. We threw back and forth while engaging in the kind of deep philosophical discussions that only eight-year-olds can have—covering everything from Batman’s obvious superiority to Superman to whether Earl Campbell’s Texas Longhorns could ever beat the Dallas Cowboys in a real game. We weren’t wearing our uniforms that day, though I typically suited up in my plastic Cowboys helmet and knee pads procured from my soccer gear when we played, mostly because football is a tough man’s sport, and I was going to face serious physical demands. A little protection demonstrated a lot of toughness, or at least that’s what I told myself while looking like a miniature gladiator who’d raided a sporting goods store.
We had to have been on our last few throws when I launched a beautiful ball. It was one of those spirals so perfect it seemed to part the sky like warm butter, rotating with the precision of a Swiss watch and the grace of a ballet dancer. It wasn’t a hard-thrown ball, but it didn’t need to be—sometimes perfection whispers rather than screams. I hit Jeffrey “on the numbers.”
“Heaaaaaaghghgh,” I heard Jeffrey proclaim as he received my perfect spiral directly into his gut.
I was proud of that throw. Suddenly, he began gasping for air like a fish who’d just washed ashore. He fell to his knees, whimpering and wheezing, and I stood there confused, wondering if this was some elaborate prank or if Jeffrey had suddenly developed a flair for the dramatic. He looked up at me, red-faced and crying.
“Are you okay?” I asked, genuinely concerned.
“You did that on purpose!” he exclaimed through his tears.
“Did what?”
“You know what!”
I was genuinely confused. What the hell did I know about the diaphragm spasming that occurs when the nerves behind the stomach experience trauma? I was seven. My understanding of human anatomy was gained through my recent mastery of the anxiety-promoting “Operation” game. I’d knocked the wind right out of him with that fantastic spiral, and apparently, Jeffrey thought this was some kind of calculated assault rather than an accidental masterpiece of childhood athletics.
Jeffrey charged me, screaming like a crazed chimp who’d just discovered I was wearing his bananas. “Raaaaaaaaaaaarrrrr!” He commenced his grade school battle cry and raised his fists at me, still charging with the determination of a tiny, angry linebacker.
I grabbed his hands, fended him off, and did only what I thought necessary for my survival. Swinging him round and round, faster and faster by his hands until his feet left the ground like some demented carnival ride, I let go—launching him several feet into a belly slide across the grass and over the ledge into the trees. I remember taking a mental snapshot of his terrified face as he looked at me before plunging into the brush, careening down the sheer wooded descent like a human pinball with a bowl cut.
Now things had gotten serious.
I collected myself, knowing I had to remain calm and act to right this dire emergency. So naturally, I turned and hauled ass back to my house, locked the door, and hid like a mob snitch in witness protection.
A few minutes later, I heard the doorbell ring. I snuck to a window to see who it was: a still-crying, bleeding Jeffrey in a homemade sling accompanied by his mother, who looked like she was ready to file a formal complaint with the Austin police department. They yelled for me (and my conveniently absent parents) to come to the door. His mother proclaimed, “Do you see what you’ve done to him? He’s bleeding and injured! This is not acceptable behavior!”
At that point, I retreated deeper into my house and hid, but I was suddenly pissed. What was she talking about—what did I do to him? Jeffrey was the one who charged at me and started this fight for no good reason! I’d thrown a professional-grade spiral that his amateur skillset just couldn’t handle, and he’d attacked me like a rabid badger, yet somehow, I was the villain in this story?
When my parents finally came home, I explained what happened, but apparently, Jeffrey’s mother had already shared her dramatically revised version of events. I was made to go to his house with my parents and apologize to him and his mom. I was humiliated. Jeffrey stood there, looking me in the eye while I foolishly apologized for something he had done, probably already composing his victim narrative for the next neighborhood gathering.
I never saw or played with Jeffrey again.
I was deeply affected by his betrayal, but over the years, this incident kept popping back into my mind as more people—most with far fewer excuses than a second-grade Jeffrey—would betray me in various ways. I’ve learned that some people are so delusionally self-motivated that even when they have an opportunity to leave well enough alone, they’ll still pursue you to the bitter end despite their own culpability—earning them PhDs in Liberal Arts & Science with a Victim of Jackassery emphasis.
However, I have managed to restore my faith in people. The key, for me, has been discernment. My circle of friends is small because I have calculatedly ousted egotistical, greedy, short-sighted, and attention-driven people, regardless of their position in my life. I am fully aware that even my closest friends may still betray me one day. But I am now wiser, stronger, and more resilient from my betrayal experiences over many years.
So, if they do betray me, I won’t stress about it like I used to. I’ll know it’s only because I throw a damn good spiral.