There have been a few events in my life (OK, my childhood) which could have led to unfortunate consequences for myself or others. All were avoidable and demonstrate the poor judgment of a child.

When I was in 4th grade, living in Fremont, California, I did what many other unsupervised 9 year-old kids did…my own thing. While exploring a large field across the street from our house, I chanced upon a hatchet. Naturally, I had to pick up this modern day Excalibur (as there are no famous hatchets for purposes of this story, I selected a famous sword as my metaphor), an instrument of potential destruction, to carry along as I resumed my exploration (come on, I was 9…of course I took it).

I knew there were railroad tracks in the field which must be relatively close because our house rattled several times each day, so I set out to find them. Upon reaching the tracks, hatchet still in hand, I stepped up on a rail and began to walk the iron balance beam as some young, chubby male version of Nadia Comaneci (a gymnast who actually didn’t perform in the Olympics for another two years, but whose reference is useful for this story).

While performing my 2.6 (out of 10) along the rail, I eyed a small junction box joined to the tracks by a steel cable. Intrigued by science (destruction?) at this young age, I had this brilliant idea to test which metal was stronger, rusty hatchet or steel cable. Or should I say, rusty hatchet swung viscously by a very determined youngster or steel cable. I don’t recall how long I hacked at it, but eventually I did cut through the cable.

Almost instantaneously, I was startled by the familiar ding of the railroad crossing a few hundred yards down the tracks where the road crossed. I quickly turned and saw the lights flashing and the crossing arms coming down. As I saw no train in the distance, I was terror-stricken, my heart leaping from 60 to 120 in one beat. I instinctively whirled, expecting to see a train about to pancake me from behind! Nothing. No train in either direction?

After a few minutes of watching a growing line of cars backing up at the now closed crossing gate, I noticed that some good Samaritan (the opposite of me that day) had gotten out of his car and was manually holding up the crossing arm to let motorists continue. Suddenly, I realized that I had caused this misfortune with my “hatchery.”

A year later, now living in Concord, CA, our house bordered a field (apparently, my mom really liked fields) below the approach path of Buchanan Field, the high-traffic airport serving that city. This particular field served as my official babysitter, similar to the role of Xbox for today’s youth.

The neighborhood kids used to congregate here, making up games such as “battle” (my uncreative title) using rocks and metal trash can lids. Unfortunately, my participation in this dangerous version of dodgeball (dodgerock?) was short-lived when one stealthy rock snuck past my shield and struck me just below the eye (this near miss is not even the point of this story, but does serve to reinforce the title of this blog).

Somebody told me a story of some kid who had once snagged the propeller of an approaching plane with a kite and was actually lifted off the ground in this very field. After hearing that, I almost couldn’t get my plastic bat kite out fast enough! My kite was tied to a grossly oversized roll of string after I had once tried to set some kite-flying world height record by tying spool after spool to it as it continued to climb (after about 8 spools of string, however, the kite was actually much farther downwind than it was high).

So on this particular day, I launched my kite about two spools high and started walking to get right under the flight path of the next Cessna on short final. Although I thought I was lined up, I actually had to sprint (as fast as a fat kid could sprint that is) to try to “catch” the plane, whose pilot evasively dipped its wing to avoid being snagged. He also must have radioed this in to the tower because…

About 15 minutes later as I was sizing up another “catch of the day” on final approach, I noticed a policeman walking through the field toward me. Even at 10, I knew this field was not the normal beat of a policeman, so I did what any well-behaved, law-abiding child would do…I ran…while still trying to reel in the kite. The officer shouted at me, “Stay right there, son.”

My next move was classic bravery. “Mommmmm!!!” I yelled in a high-pitched squeal (hey, I was in 5th grade). I don’t remember exactly what happened other than my mom came to my rescue and I didn’t get arrested (and no planes crashed at Buchanan Field that day).

When I was 15, now living in Springfield, Missouri, my brother and I couldn’t always afford to go to the golf course, so we would stand out in the front yard of our tract home and practice our short chip shots. As I have always opted for the more exciting pursuits, however, and this basic chipping was not scratching the itch, I decided I would pull out the ol’ driver and tee ’em up from the front yard as if we were at the local driving range.

Our “range,” in this case, ended at a cross street only about 500 feet away (this sounds far, but putting this into perspective, 500 feet is 167 yards, which would normally be a mid-iron shot for me, even at 15 years-old, or a pitching wedge for Tiger Woods…but we were opting for the driver). Always cursed with a horrible slice (a fade to you golf aficionados), my first and only attempt at a tee shot went straight through my neighbor’s garage window (probably better than the alternative).

Not learning from the golf mistake, however, we once took our bow and arrow out into this same front yard, aimed it high, and let it fly. The arrow was beautiful as it climbed through the air and gently rolled into an arching descent…right into the roof of a house on the cross street. As if shooting the arrow wasn’t dumb enough, because it had planted itself within about three feet from the roof’s edge (notice how I am blaming the arrow here), we actually carried a ladder down the street, set it up in front of their house and retrieved our arrow (I know some of you are marveling at how I could actually pass the CPA exam).

I am thankful that I have left most of the bad decision-making behind (and putting all of this into a blog is quite cathartic). I often wonder, however, if there is still a 1974 arrest warrant out in Fremont for the Union Pacific railroad vandal.