Growing up in the 90s, we used to hang outside. Not organized, structured, supervised play — just kids running around the block making things up as we went. No phones, no screens, just whatever trouble we could find and whatever games we could invent.
One afternoon I was outside running around, apparently having done something to possibly deserve what came next. I don’t even remember what I did to one of my buddies, but whatever it was, it earned me a cane to the back of the head. He threw it at me as I ran, it connected, and I nearly went down. I’m not sure what hurt more — my head or my pride.
That was just how it went sometimes. Nobody called a parent. Nobody filed a report. We laughed it off, shook it out, threw punches and were probably back to messing around ten minutes later. Those kinds of moments were just part of the experience of being a kid outside in New York in the 90s. Bumps, bruises, and the occasional airborne object were all part of the deal.
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