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places of any available sort. Koozo masterfully noticed that Dave’s sprint was a half-step slower than most and targeted him instantly. Koozo sped up, popped a wheelie, and slammed into Dave from behind, sending the boy hurtling head-first into a bush. We all watched in horror from our hiding places. Koozo laughed maniacally, circling Dave, who was trapped helplessly inside a piece of shrubbery on the Kostyak family’s front lawn. It was clear to us that Koozo wanted others to come forward to help Dave, so he could pick them off one by one. The headlight of the moped scanned other bushes for preteen prey. And though from our hiding places the light blinded us, we could hear him out there, laughing like the maniac that he was.
    Needless to say, none of us stepped out to help Dave.

    T he kids in my neighborhood played a game called “Caughtie,” a team-based and slightly more violent version of hide-and-seek. Koozo often joined in wearing an outfit that could have belonged to a covert operative for the CIA being sent deep into the jungle. This typically consisted of an all-black sweat suit, black combat boots, a black wool hat (even in the middle of summer), and, best of all, camouflage face paint.
    It was quickly learned that if we wanted the game to be any fun at all, Koozo’s team never hid first . Because Koozo was impossible to find . He hid in trees. In sewers. On rooftops. In places we obviously never even knew about, because, again, we could never find him. If Koozo’s team hid first, the game would be reduced to a group of bored kids wandering around looking for him in quiet frustration. And in the rare event someone did manage to catch a fleeting glimpse of Koozo, there was no chance in hell they could get close enough to him to tag him. Not only was he stronger and faster than the rest of us, he seemed mentally unstable in a way that made him willing to go to any lengths to avoid capture.
    I once saw Koozo being chased by a few kids who noticed him moving from one hiding spot to another. A crowd quickly grew, roused by the thought that this was their chance to catch the elusive Koozo—an act that, if accomplished, would cement their status as neighborhood legends. Koozo sprinted to a telephone pole and spun around with his back to it. In that moment, the faintest glimmer of fear flashed in the eyes of the Mighty Koozo. As the opposing team gathered, Koozo looked from side to side, but there was no escape. Or so we thought. There were a few hard-and-fast rules in our neighborhood: you didn’t go past Colgate Park at night, you never walked down the block of Elm Street where Gay George lives, and under no circumstances did you underestimate Koozo.

    â€œIt’s over, Koozo!” one of the kids shouted as Koozo frantically looked for an escape.
    â€œI can’t believe it,” I said to my brother as we both watched.
    â€œShut up,” he said. “I want to see this.” His desire to keep the experience unsullied by my talking was justified. We were watching history unfold.
    Then, to the surprise of everyone watching, Koozo turned and faced the pole. The rival team continued to approach, ready to claim their glory. But at the last possible moment victory was snatched from their hands when Koozo hugged the telephone pole and shimmied halfway up its length. The kids gathered at its base. Koozo may have found a short-term solution, but he had to come down sometime. All they had to do was wait.
    Koozo had other plans. He had no intention of coming down. Climbing with a dexterity seen exclusively in ninjas and chimpanzees, Koozo continued up the pole. What happened next can only be attributed to the wild, gutsy bravado of a kid willing to put his life on the line for a simple game.
    From his perch on the pole Koozo slowly stepped out onto the electrical wire that ran from telephone pole to telephone pole and proceeded to walk across it as if on a circus tightrope, gripping