Vicky and I played on the second grade basketball team together. I liked Vicky. She wasn’t much of a round-ball player, as I recall. But it didn’t matter. I was proud to have her as a teammate.

Her dad was coach of the team. A kind, handsome man with a red beard who was equitable with the distribution of playing time for all of us. It wasn’t win or lose; it was how we played and enjoyed the game, and we had a lot of fun.

Often times I would go over to Vicky’s house: we would play basketball, cards, we’d play with her various toys and dolls. Vicky and I were good friends. She was real sweet and pretty. She was my girlfriend, essentially.

One time after school visiting Vicky at her house, we stripped her naked and I impressed Vicky with how, using a safety pin, you could poke a hole in each of Barbie‘s breasts to make nipples. Vicky liked it. She thought of me as very clever.

Vicky showed her father the newly transformed Barbie and the three of us laughed with hardly a hint of discomfort.

Much like our second grade YMCA basketball team, Vicky and I were creative and unashamed of the results. We laughed and had fun.

Looking back, I appreciate the wisdom and kindness of her father.

And, of course, I remember how sweet and pretty Vicky was.