"The Stories We Tell"

Introducing a new fiction project I spent the summer writing. It’s "The Wonder Years" meets "The Sandlot" with sprinklings of "Friday Night Lights." New stories will be published weekly.

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Thirty years ago, I broke the remote control to the big-backed television in my parents’ bedroom. I then hid it from them in a series of rotating, ever more creative spots. Mom and Dad would look for the remote all over the house, and I’d help.

“Not in my desk under all the old Michigan programs,” I’d call.

“Just checked the couches downstairs. Can’t find it anywhere.”

One time, I carried it in my pocket while remote hunting with Dad. “You think it could be under the mattress?” Dad asked. “I don’t know, but we better check,” I said.

Mom found the remote after two months of me lying, I confessed, and Mom and Dad laid all the guilt on me about lying and needing to be a better person. I felt pretty terrible about the remote ordeal for several days. I’m still glad, though, I never told them the truth about what really happened the year before when I broke the VCR.

This all happened in 1993. Soon, I’m going to share more stories set in that year. Before I do, I just wanted you all to know the type of person with whom you were dealing.

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I’d like you to take a moment, now, and slow down.

Slow down and remember your feelings when you hear this song or watch this video:

Stay with me another second and remember any memories when you see this:

A lot comes to my mind.

Summer days swinging at wiffle balls with friends, a backyard tree standing between us and a home run. Games played for what felt like entire days but were really squeezed into an hour before lunch.

Nighttime swims at Grandma and Grandpa’s pool. We’d want to stay in the water forever, the air outside cold enough to make us shiver. Grandma would smoke a cigarette while Grandpa drank a Stroh’s. Both would be smiling.

The elated anticipation of late May, when school became all movies and laughs, and endless summer adventures called from just around the calendar’s corner.

The nervousness of mid-August, when each morning brought school one day closer, with the youthful freedom we felt would last forever turning out to be over before we blinked.

Nervous Friday nights under bright lights. Maybe because of a game. Maybe because of the girl sitting nearby in the bleachers. Cleats tapping against blacktop. Young heroes in Nike high-tops stepping to battle.

Saturdays when shots of yellow burst into the green in the trees, the new colors announcing a new season. It’s sweatshirt weather, and time for football.

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I felt nostalgic one night in late May and bought a six pack of Stroh’s because that’s what Grandpa kept on tap in the kegerator in his basement when I was young. The sun burned up in the sky, but it wasn’t too hot down below. I had the dogs with me, and all I wanted was to sit on our front porch, listen to 90’s music, and drink average beer.

I took a sip and winced. D**n, the beer tasted good.

I finished a medley of songs from The Bodyguard and moved on to Jodeci. One of the dogs flipped on her back, stretching to reach the last of the sun. I closed my eyes and pictured my friends and me pretending to be Ken Griffey Jr. in the summer and Barry Sanders in the fall. We’d argue blue raspberry vs. cherry slushies, and they’d need to cheat to win in putt-putt.

I thought about this point in life, a time as fleeting as it turned out to be delicate, when the world around me still felt small and when it was easy to be certain of myself and my place in it. When everything I could ever want—family, friends, sports, books—lived less than five blocks away.

As the night wore on—after SWV and the Gin Blossoms, Silk and UB40—I started writing. I kept writing the next day. And most days after that. Story after story, all set in 1992 or 1993.

The stories I wrote are all fiction.

Some are a combination of memories and tales heard elsewhere. Some from just my imagination. Stories help us remember the things that matter, and sometimes the fictional ones created are closer to the truth than the real ones lived.

I turn forty-one soon. A big part of me enjoyed traveling back in time, remembering things as I would as a kid. Memories with no beginning and no end, where lines blur between what’s real and what’s remembered. Stories made up of fragments of moments, like long summer days blurring from one to the next.

The stories are about four friends who live in a small, Ohio town. They’re leaving fourth grade and heading into fifth. They’re stories about times spent sneaking into movies and arguing over baseball games. About chasing after ghosts, both the real ones we live with and those we only imagine.

Stories about summer days turning into fall nights. About a flag football season, the chance for redemption in a must-win end-of-season tournament, and the hopes young kids hold of becoming heroes under the gray skies of November Saturdays in the Midwest.

The stories are nostalgic and sentimental. They’re kids coming-of-age with the longing to become legends on fields of play. It’s The Wonder Years meets The Sandlot with some Friday Night Lights sprinkled in.

Starting on September 6, I’m going to serialize the stories online. I’ll publish 1-2 per week on Wednesday nights and/or Saturday mornings. Most will be a little longer than what I normally write. None will take more than a few minutes to read. If you miss one, the whole collection will live online so they’ll be easy to find.

I hope you enjoy.

My friends, we love you. And we’ll see you when we see you.