First time we ever saw curling we thought it was cool. So my brothers and the neighbors kids and I went out to try it.

It was January and the streets were all icy after an ice storm. Problem was, we couldn't lift anything over about 15 pounds or so (6.5 kg) since none of us was older than 8 years. And none of our mothers would let us use their brooms ("You want to borrow the broom? How sweet, you're going to clean your room! You want it to sweep the ice??? NO!!")

Anyway, we chose teams and decided to use our breath to blow the ice clear in front of the stone, which of course we didn't have.

Not to worry, though. We decided to simply run like hell and slide on the ice, with the other team members blowing in front of the slider.

We drew straws and the other side went first. The team took their positions along the street and Billy went first.

He got a good run, or at least as good a run as someone can who's running on an inch of ice. At the mark he started to slide, and his team mates started blowin like mad.

Billy was rocketing along the ice-covered street, buffeted this way and that by his friends' breath, when he slid right over a downed power line. A live one.

Worse, he apparently saw it coming and was quite frightened. So much so that he must have "broken wind" just as he crossed it. Atlease, we surmised as much.

Anyway, an explosion sent him up instead of straight. He was passing five thousand feet (a whole bunch of centimeters) when he managed to grab the wing of a passing Cessna, which landed at the airport. His parents had to go get him.

We weren't allowed to do curling anymore, either, even though every kid in the neighborhood thought it looked like a really great sport.