Protect the President

Childlike wonder with real-world consequences

Hasbro’s NERF, most famous for sports balls in the ’90s, also has a toy line of blasters. As a teenager, I was rootin’ tootin’.

Back in high school my friend, Mike, and I both had rifles. A close-to-full scale carbine named, ‘Longshot CS-6’. It shot foam bullets, topped with either suction cups or hard plastic. It even had a detachable pistol when the magazine went dry. Best used in relatively close quarters. We’d simulate urban warfare, rolling around corners of our homes with made-up military call signs. Or, if there were more kids around, we’d head out to the backyard, using my dilapidated swing set as a base for short-range skirmishes. Despite many whizzing bullets grazing our hair and tapping our chests with absolute minimal injury, there was one game that put it all on the line.

It was called “Protect the President”. It was played by only two competitors. One kid was the shooter, hidden and stationary. The other, was a Secret Service Agent, standing within close proximity to the VIP. In this scenario, the VIP was a lamp in the basemant. An alabaster ceramic lamp that looked more like a tall vase. A matching, dusty lampshade added an extra hit zone. It stood atop a K-Mart table, foregrounding a baby blue wall in my basement.

After reloading all of the bullets, I took my position in a backcorner. My body was prone to scruffy carpet tiles, aiming down the iron (plastic) sights as I took the first shot. The clank of the gun made Mike spring into action—literally. Arms akimbo and eyes darting around the imaginary crowd. The bullet hit the one of the legs.

“Shots fired!” Mike yelled, as I cocked my rifle, aimed, and fired again. A successful save from Mike, and a confimred shot in the arm for me. “Man down!”

I unloaded another shot. This time, Mike was offbalance with his dive. I watched him jolt backward. His hips bump the table, which trigger the climax of this scenario. Tipping right to left, then right again. The lamp proceeded to tumble off. The carpet tile gave no protection as the room echoed with exploding ceramic. Mike gasped at the damage. His adrenaline-fueled agent persona reverted to his teenage self.

“Dude, no way,” I yelled, awestruck.

“I, I killed the president,” Mike chided. “You should’ve seen your face. Classic.” It makes me wonder how goofy I looked. I envy it. However, I possessed the sight of a theatric fumbling worthy of an Oscar nomination.

Instincts kick in when protecting the most powerful lamp in the world.

I set my weapon down and inspected the dead ‘president’. It was completely destroyed. Large chunks as big as my hand intermingled with indiscrimiate shards. Way too complex for a teenager to glue. Not a big deal, according to my dad who came home an hour later to inspect the damage.

“Strong glue isn’t worth it to a cheap lamp,” my dad said. “Hey, there’s no lightbulb!”