
If you grew up in a place like our street called Pebble Lane, you already knew the rules.
You didn’t ask permission.
You stayed out until the streetlights blinked.
You learned to fight, prank, ride, and lie all before middle school.
Pebble Lane was the kind of street where everybody knew your name.
It was a tight knit, elbow to elbow block where families lived shoulder to shoulder, and kids from every house knew each other’s business.
Where your best friend could also be your worst enemy by lunchtime, and where the neighbor’s lawn was as much your battlefield as your backyard.
We didn’t have video games or cell phones.
We had bikes that barely worked.
Homemade ramps that nearly killed us.
Wiffle balls, footballs, and enough bad ideas to fill a thousand police reports that somehow never got written.
We weren’t tough guys.
We weren’t angels.
We were just kids who thought our block was the whole world.
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