Am I "Old"?

At age 30, I already feel like I'm getting old.

It's the middle of the summer, and the heat is hitting hard. Regardless, my 3-year-old son wants to play outside. I tell him, "It's too hot. Let's go outside when it cools down."

In my youth, the scorching sun might've attacked my brain and caused me to do some crazy things-things that I don't recommend, but it never stopped me from going outside to play. I can remember one really hot summer day when my friends and I transformed our neighborhood into a battleground. To this day, my friends and I claim that the heat made us do it.

Before we built the battleground, we needed to establish an enemy. That was easy. There were some G.I. Joe fanatics- neighborhood kids around our age-who would often hang our bikes in the high branches of a tree or ghost ride them down a hill only to crash at the bottom. We always wanted to get even with those guys.

On the day we were to declare war on the G.I. Joes, my friends and I anxiously waited for our parents to go to work. Then we built our army base. Bikes became motorcycles, go-carts became jeeps, and skateboards became stretchers for any wounded soldiers.

We converted my parents' garage into a hospital. My sister and some of her girlfriends became nurses. They each had nurse uniforms from previous Halloweens.

My best friend, who called himself Col. Matrix after the Arnold Schwarzenegger character in the movie "Commando," set up his garage as the weapons unit. This facility was complete with toy swords, trashcan lids to use as shields, stink bombs, slingshots-the usual 11-yearold's artillery.

James Bond, another friend on the block (not his real name), built his own tank. He installed a homemade canopy over his Radio Flyer wagon using wood, duct tape and a "Star Wars" bed sheet. Protruding from the inside of the vehicle out the front end was a Super Soaker water gun, which was to be used as the tank's cannon. James Bond mounted a Junior Astronomer telescope next to the Super Soaker so that he could spot his targets with better accuracy.

Cobra, a kid on our block named after the Sylvester Stallone character in the movie "Cobra," turned the tree fort at the end of the block into a prison. Cobra became the warden.

I took the name Rambo after another Sylvester Stallone character, the hero in the "Rambo" movies. I used my dad's extension ladder to gain access to the roof of my house so that I could serve as the neighborhood lookout. I was armed with soggy tomatoes, water balloons, artificial blood packs-the typical arsenal of an 11-year-old boy warrior.

So, let's talk about the enemy.

Aside from the fact that my friends and I wanted to get even with these kids for picking on us, we hated the fact that they worshiped G.I. Joe action figures. G.I. Joe made war look like a kid's game. My friends and I believed that playing army was a very serious matter.

In the late afternoon, after our army base was set up, I spotted the G.I. Joes walking home. I used my "Dukes of Hazzard" walkie-talkie to radio a warning to the others.

Our plan: I'd hit the G.I. Joes first, with a barrage of water bombs, tomatoes and fake blood.

Immediately following my attack, Col. Matrix, pushing James Bond in his tank, would head toward the G.I. Joes and blast them with the Super Soaker.

During all this action, Cobra would sneak up behind the G.I. Joes and imprison them in his big net.

If anyone got hurt during this battle, the nurses' station was nearby and the nurses, equipped with skateboard stretchers and Band-Aids, were prepared.

We never used our hospital. We never used our prison. We never even used most of the weapons we had in our weapons unit.

The enemy ran away at the sight of flying produce, water balloons and blood packets. The adults in the neighborhood got home from work just in time to see our big mess. The result: My friends and I lost our privileges to play outside for months, our toys were taken away, summer trips were canceled-the usual punishments for mischievous 11-year-olds.

The moral of this story is: Don't go outside when it's too hot. The sun attacks your brain and makes you do crazy things. At least that's how I justify telling my son we shouldn't go out to play when it's too hot.

Or maybe I'm just getting old.

E-mail Michael Picarella at pic@theacorn.com. Nice comments only. The author is very fragile.