Once I was eighteen.
I know well enough that I look silly. What do you expect? We were about to perform, for the third year consecutively, what we figured as the greatest feat of our young lives.
The photographer told us, "look mean," so I tried. Instead I look silly, which is just the way it is. At least it's not unusual.
We were in Mexico on a "mission," visiting an orphanage where we had ties from past years, playing football (that's soccer, gringo) and losing, painting a church, working on this or that home, dining with laughing Mexican families, laughing.
We were so young, and so silly, that we brought this watermelon with one single purpose. To bomb the banyos.
So when the time was right, we opened the door, took careful aim, and tossed the fruit through the hole in the plywood.
Then we ran like hell.
It was always anticlimactic, bombing the banyos. The preparation was the real fun: planning our attack, carefully picking our ammunition, posing for photographs.
