by austininva
What boy, at some time in his life, doesn’t dream of being Robin Hood?
I did—on an almost daily basis—from ages 13 to 15. That dream became a near-reality one glorious Christmas morning when my loving parents gifted me a real compound bow and a dozen arrows to go with it.
At that point, I may as well have been Hood incarnate.
My band of merry men (usually my younger brother, occasionally accompanied by a maid or two—“maids” being sisters who had nothing better to do than indulge in Robin Hood or other historical time-period games) was loosely assembled and fiercely loyal.
All young boys dream of these things, sure. But I was special.
I had the bow.
I had a leather pouch.
I had semi-devoted followers.
And, perhaps most importantly—I had a backyard.
Those three ingredients, when combined, formed the perfect childhood stew.
Until the day I had an idea.
(And let’s be clear: ideas tend to end horribly for me.)
My parents had gone out for the day, leaving the house—and the well-being of my younger siblings—under my capable command. For I was a responsible 16-year-old lad, and therefore completely trustworthy.
Schoolwork was finished. PBS had nothing but boring reruns. So, we headed outside to enjoy a beautiful spring day in Norfolk.
I don’t remember all the details of our outdoor escapades that afternoon. But I do vividly recall having a flash of inspiration:
“Let’s shoot my youngest sister with the airsoft gun.”
Off we all ran into the house to gather our weapons.
But somewhere in the mad dash, that idea mutated.
“What if… we shot her with the bow?”
Now, I know what you’re thinking:
“Bows are dangerous and lethal, you moron.”
And we were thinking the same thing. So, naturally, we took steps to make it safe.
Step one: a pillow, to absorb impact.
Step two: a wooden dowel—because without a sharp arrowhead, it obviously couldn’t do any damage.
(For legal reasons, I must disclose that our definition of “logic” was still developing.)
We tied the pillow to her head. We carefully selected the smoothest dowel. She was even offered one last chance to opt out of this brilliant experiment.
Her muffled “MHMMHMHMMM!” and frantic arm flailing were interpreted, in the spirit of youth, as enthusiastic consent.
So I pulled back the bowstring—only halfway, of course, to minimize injury—and released.
Thwip.
The dowel bounced harmlessly off the pillow! Success!
All was wonderful!
…until my sister collapsed like a brick.
Turns out, a single couch pillow isn’t quite enough to blunt a wooden dowel fired from even a half-pulled compound bow at point-blank range.
As I stood in horror, trying to comprehend what had just happened, I heard the most damning words possible drift in from downstairs:
“Hey! Can someone come help unload the van?”
My sisters vanished like ninjas.
The shot sister, red mark blooming on her forehead like a Hindu bindi, sprinted downstairs shouting accusations.
I was summoned shortly after.
My parents—possibly less understanding than I had anticipated—were not convinced by my detailed explanation of the safety measures we’d taken. Apparently, the pillow plan lacked scientific rigor.
Robin Hood was forcibly disarmed.
The sheriff (aka Dad) had zero regard for my interpretation of the 2nd Amendment.
In the end, no one died. No permanent damage was done (to my sister, anyway). Just another unforgettable chapter in the epic saga of my childhood.
Hope today’s a good one!
—austininva
