Keeping Society Safe

IN A dark, deserted sandlot behind the elementary school, I fumbled with a match, burning my fingers on the first try, dropping it on the second. I finally connected flame to fuse, trembling in anticipation of a blow-up in my face. BOOM. A flaming pink ball shot out. I could feel the explosive force as I clenched the "Thunder Buster" roman candle tube, and I began to aim thundering blasts of white, green and pink at the battalion of surrounding trees--my own sandlot Star Wars.

It was dangerous. It was daring. It was illegal. It was definitely worth it.

I'D NEVER been in a state where backyard fireworks were legal. This summer I visited one long enough to fill my rental car trunk with three grocery bags full of explosives, only to drive back to one of the 13 states with a ban on all amateur pyrotechnics. More than just another brightly colored toy, fireworks from the first-line of defense against teenage terror.

In high school, though, I was so busy with extracurricular activities and classes that I missed out on some of youth's simple pleasures--lawbreaking and endangering life and limb. I feared lighters, loaded guns, and Confederate flags, all best sellers at Southern fireworks outlets. When I got to college I couldn't even afford the reckless abandon of the rich kid--who discovers his parent's credit ceiling and breaks it buying drugs.

But by not flouting the law I had missed out on a crucial part of growing up. Breaking the law is bucking authority--parents, school and society. Youths don't pay the penalties adults do for crimes--for a reason.

You can't make the transition from living under authority to becoming authority yourself without breaking loose for a while, as Joe Biden knew. And besides, danger is fun.

SO THIS summer, long after I should have, I joined up with a friend, John, in a Bonnie-Clyde duo of danger. And by the end of the summer, I could hold a lighter onto a fuse until the sparks flew, savor the smell of burnt-out shells and take cover from an oncoming patrol car.

Racing past ivy-covered, $300,000 homes with a handful of explosives was pure excitement, and as close to Eddie Murphy action as I'll ever get.

There was something instinctively satisfying about the resounding blast of a bottle rocket in a neighbor's mailbox. And nothing compares to the devilish glee of aiming a bottle rocket at a nosy dog and watching it tail him down the street. (Naturally, we made sure he could scamper off unharmed, but we weren't as concerned for the welfare of the ants we rolled exploding tanks over.)

MOST fireworks I bought were named for odd sayings translated from Chinese, like "Screeming Meemies", or for the Civil War fantasies of their buyers, like the "General Lee Assortment Pack" and "Screaming Rebel."

I had always revelled in the destruction of Atlanta in "Gone with the Wind" but now I'm partial to the "Battle of New Orleans"--90 shots of the most dazzling bursts and bangs since American fights blew away Khaddafi's tent. The Cub Scouts gathering in a shack nearby gave it a standing ovation.

We set off "Planes Flying at Night" that zipped into the sky like UFOs and always seemed to hover above our heads no matter how far we ran away. "Opening Flower and Happy Bird" no longer reminds me of a Sierra Club calender, but instead a frenzy of white sparks and screeching howls.

Now all that's left of these summer adventures is a trail of spent fireworks rotting on the school sandlot. From the ceiling of my dorm room hangs a cardboard and wax paper Chinese lantern, tilted and burnt from swirling so quickly as the fireworks cascaded out. A burnt-out "Happiness Fountain" adorns my shelf.

I got something out of my system. And now I know Littauer Hall couldn't sustain a barrage of 6000 "Cones of Shining Pearls Fountains".