Describing a not-so-proud moment in the history of a football star (Feb. 2 post, “Look Out, Here Comes Tony!”) reminded me of a similar exploit of my very own. It was not among my finest achievements, but at least I got a mild compliment when it was all over.
Years ago, son Lee and I made an evening trip to the hardware store to gather supplies for a home lighting improvement project. Among other things, we bought a six-foot length of conduit, and Lee hung onto it through the open passenger side window of our Honda during the short trip to our house.
When we arrived in our garage, and Lee was getting out, somehow my feet got tangled up and I hit the accelerator instead of the brake. I drove right through the back of the garage. When the little car came to rest, it sported a flat tire and was hung up teetering back and forth on the concrete wall base.
Sandy raced out to ask, "Did something explode?" The next question was, "How in the world did you do that?"
A wrecker was needed to extricate the car from the battered wall. When the tow truck operator arrived, he chuckled a bit after inspecting the damage and asked who had been driving. I confessed.
"Well, at least you're honest, " the towing man said, "The last six guys who did this told me their wives were driving."
