#83 - Blame Me For The Hackey

The fog reached eastward from the coast and over the bay that Saturday morning, lifting outwardly to expose the heavens that exist beyond the sky in a mystical place where ideas manifest. Somehow that day--we may never understand how—a rogue portal channeled the inexplicable energy into a non-descript west coast suburb, unknowingly effecting popular culture with a rare quirk.

As the subject of this divine intervention, it should be noted, I was indubitably unaware of my affecting the course of history. But then, few visionaries have ever taken the clearest path.

Browsing the skate shop for a new set of polyurethane wheels, there, hanging from a particle board was a small leather ball packaged in the confines of a plastic bubble, obviously in desperate need of fresh air.

As was society itself, one could argue.

“What is that?” I called, intrigued to know the purpose of this palm fitting bean bag of stitched leather.

The owner responded favorably. “You wanna keep it in the air, kind of like a soccer ball. Brand new, just got them this morning, first store to have them according to the delivery guy.”

On campus, it became a hit in the quad during lunch and within a week my buddies became owners of their own. Taking the initiative to give this gem life, mine rested on the right shoulder for both the senior pic and driver’s license photo, which became legend. I then left for college in southern California and a guy on my dorm floor became fascinated with this conduit for exercise and his Hollywood film director Dad jumped on the new youth culture fad in one of his movies.

This footbag became a thing, and suddenly people fancied their own pocket pal in city parks and music festivals, utilized by hippies and backyard athletes everywhere.

I never intended to be the catalyst for this counter cultural movement.

I just thought it was cool because I was stoned