Somebody’d yell, “Dog pile on Andrew!” I’d drop
my homework, and tear across the asphalt school yard,
trying to make it to the grass
as more and more boys joined the chase.
Somebody tackled me and slammed me to the hard top.
I gasped as each late boy flopped on the pile
and jarred my breath loose. Under the dog pile,
I was a little bruised, a little angry,
a little pleased they knew my name, which is just
one of the dangers of a name. “Get off me!”
I bellowed, and flailed at the slow ones. The boys
peeled off the pile and waited for me to choose.
I paused dramatically, looked around, and yelled,
“Dog pile on Hudgins!” First, everybody froze,
and then my brother started running.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 11 Number 5, on page 45
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