The Big Dick Award

I'm not sure exactly how old I was. It was that golden time of youth that Wes Anderson calls ten and a half. In my neighborhood there were several boys at that age, all of us armed with bicycles and too much free time. We would sometimes congregate at my house where the storm drain cut through the backyard. There was an old fence that had long ago lost its footing and now created a suburban lean-to in cooperation with the trees and the ivy. We discovered this structure with its spiders and its assorted trash and quickly hollowed it out to facilitate future play. On one side was the large, leaning fence with the hole through the middle, through which the smaller and more nimble of us could crawl towards the top of the structure. On either side was an opening covered by trees and overhanging vegetation. Opposite the fence was the storm drain; a square river made of concrete, ten feet deep with a thin film of water and slime running down it at all times. It was there that I won the pissing contest. All of us lined up along the fence and let fly, and my stream reached the opposite wall at a point higher than anybody else's, at which point I was granted the Big Dick Award. This was, of course, before having a big dick had any meaning deeper than having a big car, a big cheeseburger, or a big balloon. Being that I was one of the smaller and younger of the group, I most likely would not have won this contest if our system of measurement was any more more scientific.