"Indiana Boardslides" from Maybe He'll Grow Out Of It by Christopher Gutierrez


     In the backyard, we sat in plastic chairs and watched a 3-year-old open her birthday presents. I tire easily watching people receive gifts that I will never have the opportunity to enjoy. So I got up and walked over to shoot a small ball in a plastic child-sized basketball hoop. The dudes sidled up to me and we shot baskets until the heat got to us. I walked inside and promptly fell asleep while watching one of the dudes play the new maps for Call Of Duty as the other coached him along.
     I woke up in a groggy daze and looked around to see many random family members I hadn't been introduced to say their goodbyes. Since we didn't formally know each other, I didn't consider it rude to turn and pick up watching what I fell asleep to.
     After the match, the dudes turned to me and asked if I would walk with them to their favorite skate spot by a local grocery store. I didn't need much coaxing to get moving, so I followed them out the screen door. They walked to the street and put their skateboards down. I was in for a long walk. That was until three scruffy neighbors approached me. I knew who they were from neighborhood gossip, but I never came face-to-face with them. The tallest knew who I was from the Internet and read my books. As he put in his many e-mails, "they got him through some tough times."
     "Heeeey maaaan, I saw you over here and wanted to say hey."
     "Oh, you're that dude."
     "Yeah man. Thanks for the books."
     "Yep."
     "OK man, I don't want to keep you guys… wait, do you have a skateboard?"
     "Nope. I was just going to walk."
     "Oh, wait here, I'll go get mine."
     He turned and started walking away.
     "No, it's cool, I don't…"
     He returned a few minutes later and handed me a beat-up '90s-era Jamie Thomas model. I knew of Jamie Thomas. He was one of the last skaters I was familiar with before I stopped skateboarding in the '90s. He had a huge lower back tattoo I modeled my own after. His looked rad. Mine looked like it was done at midnight by a drunken juggalo in a smoky kitchen with a homemade tattoo gun. Because it was.
     I thanked him and assured him that I would return his board when we came back. The dudes and I pushed off.
     Remember when you could do the splits, or run a fast mile, or solve a Rubik's Cube or ice skate backwards? But then you stopped because "adult life" got too hectic and your job or aching lower back or nagging girlfriend started taking up years of your life? At some point, you refer to those activities as "things I did when I was young." And now, as an adult, you're as cool as a newborn deer sliding across ice. That was me, pushing toward the setting sun.
     As a teen, I could ollie over garbage cans and three of my friends if they lay in the street like sardines. Now, as a 34-year-old man, I found myself stumbling while trying to ollie over the smallest of sidewalk cracks. I was embarrassed because I knew the dudes judged me. All of my stories of the great and amazing feats I regaled them with were quickly evaporating into "hmm, sureee" side glances.
     We rolled up to a bank where I attempted the most basic of tricks. One that I openly mocked children as young as 10 for doing improperly. Now, at life's middle point, I stood like a doughy, once-great former champ, sweating and dying to show the crowd that he could do it just one more time.
     I shook my head and sweat flew to the left and the right like a dog or a crack head with a foamy mouth. I needed water and I had barely pushed my way up the street. The dudes and I rolled across the parking lot, picked up our boards and walked into the large grocery store where I immediately was overcome with the feeling of getting kicked out because "you kids can't come in here with those things," followed by the inevitable "it's an insurance liability" excuse.
     I remembered that I was a grown ass man and was armed with the greatest weapon that teens rarely attempt to train and develop: an ability to articulate, reason and debate.
     "So bring it on now, you cigarette-voiced single moms standing behind the counter. Just try it. I ain't no little kid no more." I said to myself, as I wished they would.
     I bought water and candles to wax a potential curb out front. I slid my card at the register and thought about how cool it was that I could have anything I wanted in that store. It's a little something that me with a skateboard under his arm would've thought was the coolest thing ever 20 years ago. In a small way, I felt I "made it." Whatever "making it" meant at age 14.
     The dudes and I walked through the automatic doors, put down our boards and pushed toward our new destination. We pulled out the small purple candles and rubbed them along the length of the highest point. We knew the curb was a popular skate spot, which in "skate-speak" means that the probability of waxed up curbs was high. But, the curb was neglected and the wax that was once slick and smooth along the rough concrete was worn away by the elements. It was our job to "pay it forward."
     We dropped to our hands and knees and scrubbed. More sweat dripped from my nose and chin. Bad day to wear tight black jeans and a black long-sleeve shirt.
     I stood, put my board down and pushed away to gain some ground between me and my intended target. I felt more confident as I rolled. In the last 30 minutes, I gained a slight ability to ollie and even added a little style with my four and two wheel slides. I stepped off the curb, told myself that this was what I was good at. This was the feeling I had most when reminiscing about skateboarding: the feeling of a good, clean and long boardslide.
     I pushed off, put my front foot slightly backward to ensure good control, popped a small ollie on the curb, and was met with a loud "EEERCH." I flailed my arms forward like a broken helicopter, all while stomping my feet to keep from running too fast for my body.
     Any style or confidence I gained that afternoon was lost as my heart raced and my mind said repeatedly, "Do not fall. As a former teen, you know how it looks when adults fall. You feel embarrassed for them even attempting to do something so clearly outside their realm of dexterity. YOU WILL NOT FALL."
     Style or no style, I didn’t fall. Nor did I the next 715 times I attempted the same trick. Because anyone who ever watched children skateboard will know that the frequency of actually landing a trick when people are watching is about 17 percent.
     I picked up the board and slowly rolled back to the same starting point in the shade. I stood and analyzed the imposing curb, then my borrowed skateboard. Adorned with many bite marks from what I could only assume was a large dog, it mocked me.
     It said, "You don't have it in you anymore, old man."
     It said, "It's not 1989 and you're not 30 pounds lighter."
     It said, "Give up."
     I motioned to the dudes who sat off to the side, taking a water break. "I will land this one," I said.
     I breathed in deep, closed my eyes and let it out slowly. I opened my eyes, stared at the skateboard and said, "I don't care if you have to break your ankle, you will land this before you leave."
     And I pushed. I pushed four times. I approached the curb at a 45-degree angle, popped a small ollie and landed. I slid. I was sliding far. Three, four, five feet, oh shit, it’s too good to last. Get off, get off. And with that, I popped out of it. My board landed on the street with my two feet on top of it as I rolled away, ankles intact. I landed my trick.
     I punched the air and yelled, "I told you! I told your ass I would land that shit! Yeah!"
     A simple, small and basic trick. One that most kids learn within the first few months of ever stepping on a skateboard. It felt amazing. Like surfing a wave, hitting a home run and circling the bases or running a four-minute mile, it's something that no matter how well you describe it, you will never truly know how good it feels until you actually experience the sights, smells and the elation that makes you lose your shit.
     It was a hot afternoon in a rural Indiana town with a waxed up curb. Just three sweaty dudes with a handful of purple candles. An insignificant moment to every soul in that town. But for one grown ass man, it was a few magic seconds of proof. Proof that he still had it.