Growing up in a small Texas town in the 60’s and 70’s, I experienced that idyllic childhood that older folks remember, and younger folks doubt ever really existed. Well, it did exist, folks. I was lucky enough to live it. I could go out and play all day with my friends, ride our bikes – Stingray bikes with the banana seats! – all over town and its outskirts, and only show up at home around noontime for lunch, and then around six or seven when it started getting dark. When it was dark enough for the street lights to come on, it was time for me to get home.

I was not particularly athletic as a kid. I rode my bike with my childhood pals, and of course I played football. Not because I wanted to, but because it was expected of me. You see, I was born in a state where football is considered a religion, stadiums are cathedrals, Pro players are Gods, and the worship starts at a young age. So I knew the object of the game, basic routes, how to pass, how to catch.

But I did receive multiple benefits from participating in team sports. I learned to follow directions. Do what I was told to do. I learned teamwork, sportsmanship. And I learned how to exercise, how to stay in shape. This was particularly beneficial because my natural tendencies were to be sedentary and chubby.

While not what one might call a “gifted” or a “natural” athlete, I excelled in academics. I do not know why. English, History, even mathematics. It all just came easy to me. Sure I had to work at it, concentrate (“Pay attention, young man!”), do my homework and study (somewhat), but school work simply did not faze me the way it did some of my classmates. All I had to do was read it once or twice, do it once or twice, and I had it well enough to pass the exams with flying colors and actually retain some of it.

The point to all this? When I was in fourth grade, Miss Richards gave us an English assignment. Over the weekend, we had to write a short story at least three pages long, and on Monday, we would read our stories to the rest of the class. The story could be about anything we wanted. Wow. An entire weekend to come up with three measly pages?  No problem, I thought. After all, a weekend is a long time, right? Three whole days!

So what did I do? I rode my bike home as soon as school let out, unlocked the door, dashed down the hallway to my room, tossed my books across the bed, and dove for the TV set. WFAA-TV Dallas/Ft. Worth had monster movies on Friday afternoon! That particular Friday? Why, a Godzilla movie, of course! What else would they be broadcasting on a Friday afternoon, right?

So, Saturday comes and goes, and now it’s Sunday and we’re home from church. After lunch, I have to sit down and do my homework before I can go out to play. No problem. The only thing I need to do is bang out the aforementioned short story, right? So I sit down with a pencil and paper because we were taught to write rough drafts in pencil so we could erase stuff we misspelled, got wrong, or decided later we didn’t like. Then we wrote the “smooth draft”, the one turned in for a grade, in ink.

So what did I do?

I completely plagiarized the Godzilla movie I had seen Friday afternoon. Of course, I did not understand anything about plagiarism or copyright laws or trademark infringement in fourth grade. I just wrote a cool little story about Godzilla attacking Tokyo for reasons unknown (because they were unknown and unimportant to the author!), and then getting promptly killed somewhere on page three when a building fell on him after he hit it with his radioactive fire breath. Hey, it ate up three pages and got me an “A” for the assignment, all right?

But it did something else, too. Something far more important. It got me praise both at school and at home, that particular combination being a Holy Grail of sorts; and it got the creative juices flowing in that 10-year old kid. If I could write and score with a completely derivative three-page Godzilla story that I just churned out like literary butter (okay, margarine!), what would I be capable of accomplishing when I really sat down and put my mind to it?

I wasn’t sure. At 10 years old, you’re not sure about many things.

But I was sure  of one thing: I was going to apply myself and see where it might lead.