I don’t want to brag or anything, but there was a time when I was as proficient with a spoon as with a baseball bat. Yes indeed. It says so right here.
And I don’t want to brag or anything, but my grade 8 girlfriend was one of the top two or three hottest chicks in my class. That’s us dancing in the church basement.
I would walk Lynn Sinclair home and we’d make out on the sidewak outside her house, and her chest would rub against me, causing my hormones to do the mambo and give me pains below my belly button for hours afterward.
And I certainly don’t want to brag about the time my peewee baseball rode on a fire truck in a parade, celebrating the fact that we won a bunch of tournaments, with me being as proficient with a bat as I was with a spoon.
And I also don’t want to brag about playing in the NHL. Okay, it was called the Little NHL, and it was a pile of teams from Ontario going at it. But anyway.
John French would one day become property of the Habs, and enjoyed a fine career in the WHA. Ron Clarke became a successful heavy equipment salesman and I hear from him every so often. Myself, I never ever made it to third base with Lynn Sinclair.