Ooooh, the tickle, that feeling at the edge of my mouth. I remember that sensation from when I was a kid. I've not lost it; at 51, I'm still as quick as a housefly.
My mouth shut, sliding my hand down, and the tickle stops; I can feel it balled up in the gap between my index and middle finger.
Now's the tricky part. I slide my thumb under, pulling sideways, catching it between my thumb and forefingers. I don't want to kill it. Killing it would mean failure.
The competition in those days was tough. I was up again, the 'walk' king of the classroom.
Conditions were perfect. The oppressive heat of the summer was all around. The ceiling fan wafting above is useless, so useless you can see the blowflies sitting on it as it spins.
The walks before us accumulate. From what I could count, Johnie has already caught and converted four.
I maneuver the critter, allowing a single wing to pop free. The next fun part is holding it by its wing. Releasing its body, it buzzes and vibrates against my fingertips, frantically trying to escape.
I grab its other wing and pull. One done, then the other, dropping the newly crated walk to the tabletop.
4:2
I let the flies buzz around my face again, not swatting them away, waiting, letting 1, then two, then three gather at the corner of my mouth.
SLAP!
Maybe today I'll beat Johnie.
