go.Jimmy.go

I got into a conversation over drinks last night with a bunch of friends from high school—guys I hadn’t seen in years. Between stories about old girlfriends, football glory days, and near misses in life, the topic somehow turned to greatness.

One friend swore he would’ve been drafted by a local minor league baseball team if not for a bad knee. According to him, the New York Yankees had narrowly missed out on a legend.

Glasses were raised. Half-drunken chants of “Yankees! Yankees! Yankees!” echoed from our corner of the bar.

Another friend talked about the treasure he’d almost found on a beach. Someone else recalled the time he nearly landed a spot as an extra in a Tom Hanks movie.

Then everyone looked at me.

“I don’t like to brag,” I said, “but there was a day I almost became a superhero.”

Naturally, they laughed.

I explained that I never rescued a cat from a tree or saved someone tied to railroad tracks. But I did once try to stop something moving at full speed.

It just happened to be a car.

It was the summer of 1985. I was sixteen, had my learner’s permit, and couldn’t wait to get my driver’s license. I didn’t care whether I was behind the wheel of my mom’s 1985 Chevy Spectrum or my dad’s 1965 Mustang. I just wanted to drive.

Growing up in a car family meant there was always some broken-down vehicle sitting on our property waiting to be repaired—or hauled away. That summer it was my brother Bones’ old 1976 Chevrolet Vega.Growing up in a car family meant there was always some broken-down vehicle sitting on our property waiting to be repaired—or hauled away. That summer it was my brother Bones’ old 1976 Chevrolet Vega.

It was white with red and blue pinstripes that looked straight out of the Bicentennial. It was a stick shift, which I had absolutely no idea how to drive, but that didn’t matter. I was convinced it would make the perfect first car.

Bones told me all it needed was a new carburetor, and every day I’d stare out the window imagining myself cruising the streets in dark sunglasses with some pretty girl riding shotgun. The Vega wasn’t just a broken car—it was freedom waiting for one missing part.

One afternoon, with nothing to do except drive my grandmother crazy, I decided the least I could do was roll the Vega down the hill to a better spot so it’d be easier to work on when we finally got the carburetor.

I climbed inside, put it in neutral, and rocked back and forth.

Nothing.

Then that little voice in my head spoke up.

“Bones is going to be furious if he finds out you moved this car.”

Ignoring good advice has never been one of my strengths.

I climbed out to investigate and found the problem: a large brick chocking the front tire.

So I did what every sixteen-year-old future genius would do.

I stood directly in front of the car, grabbed the fender, and gave it a tug.

The Vega rolled over the brick.

Success.

For about half a second….. Then I realized one small detail.

I was standing in front of the moving car instead of behind the steering wheel.

People always talk about life flashing before their eyes.

Mine didn’t.

I was too busy thinking:

Gotta stop this car…

I can stop this car…

…This is not going to end well.

CRASH!

The Vega pinned me between itself, a metal swing set on the porch, and the side of our house.

I lay there afraid to move, convinced I’d broken every bone I owned.

From inside the house came my grandmother’s voice:

“JIMMY! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?”

A second later her tone changed.

“Oh my God… JIMMY!”

Somehow, I escaped with little more than a nasty gash across my lower abdomen, a healthy dose of embarrassment, and a swing set that had definitely seen better days.

Nan called Bones, who luckily was up the block at the bar having a drink. He’d need it.

As I sat on the porch shaking, I wasn’t nearly as worried about my injuries as I was about what my brother was about to do to me. Bones belonged to that special breed of older brothers who considered physical violence a perfectly reasonable teaching tool.

Thankfully, he settled for a verbal beating.

After listening to my story, he just stared at me and asked one question.

“Who did you think you were… Superman?”

Maybe, for a few seconds, I did.

It didn’t work out quite the way I’d imagined.

But I still think my story beats a baseball career that never happened—or almost being an extra in a Tom Hanks movie.

And forty years later…

I still have the scar to prove it.